#it's about LaGuardia

[legobiwan]

Whumptober Salvage: Episode 3

Well, I'm back. Finally. More life happened in the past week-and-a-half than I had planned for, but here we are!

Today's theme: Restraints

Today's author commentary: The concept of Luigi [redacted due to story spoilers] is something I got from a fic I read a while ago on fanfiction.net whose name I absolutely cannot recall at the moment. But I love fallout fics like this and it's not an impossible consequence of the events of SPM if things had gone in a certain direction.

Warnings: No real warnings here, I'm just excited about this one :D

Index: Episode 1; Episode 2

~~~~~~

It’s good hardware. Great hardware, even. 

Tensile strength? Check. Double check that, he corrects himself with a grimace, pulling at the twin sets of heavy shackles around his wrists and ankles.

The yield strength was high. High enough, he couldn’t even begin to calculate an exact number. (Liar, the voice in the back of his mind corrects. You can’t concentrate on calculating an exact number.)

To reach the malleability threshold must have required something beyond simple fire. Lava would have been his first guess, but he doubts these restraints are a product of the Darklands. Use of an electric current was a feasible concept - maybe - but it would have necessitated one hell of a resistor to produce the heat required to bend this kind of metal into a proper restraint. 

This leaves a few less palatable options. 

The temperature inside a star would certainly get the job done. But he only knew of one person with even the slightest hope of developing a technology to harness the cosmos in that manner, and Luigi has to believe, for his own sanity, that E. Gadd has no involvement with his current predicament. 

Unfortunately, this leaves magic as the only other viable option.

Luigi grits his teeth, absently running his fingers over the cool, smooth surface of the heavy cuffs. No. They couldn’t. They wouldn’t. It had been outlawed years ago, far before he had landed in this strange world. They would have had to strike some kind of deal with the enemy, or spend more coins than he could imagine to acquire this level of restraint. And why did they even have these on hand in the first place? How could they have possibly known - 

After everything. Everything he’s done for them. 

He’s been kidnapped. Tied up and thrown in a dungeon. Has been bruised, burned, cut, and broken in seventeen different ways. Has been manacled, trussed, bound, caged, buried, boxed, restrained, surrounded.

And it was supposed to be that way, alright? It was all part of being a hero.

Luigi plays at the long chains falling from his wrists, a line of solid, squarish links extending back to a thick, leather belt secured around his waist. 

He hadn’t wanted to be a hero. Swooping in and saving the day, getting the pretty girl, marching in parades and receive=ing accolades from a grateful population. It wasn't...him.

No, he had never wanted to be that person.

But was it so wrong to want to be seen as an equal?

He sags against a cold, stone wall with a hoarse sigh, rubbing at the bridge of his nose, his fingers digging into the soft collagen of his eyeballs. The movement produces a percussive, dullen ripple as the chains linked to his wrists fall over another, doubled lines of looping metal drooping from his midline to his shackled ankles.

I guess it was. He huffs out a hollow laugh at the thought, picking up one of the chains, inspecting the dense links at eye level.

There was an art to welding. Not the same kind of art those kids over at LaGuardia used to pump out at all hours of the night - weird, insectile sculptures whose disjointed end result of legs and limbs and tentacles mashed onto a misshapen thorax resembled a creature out of Dr. Frankenstein’s laboratory. 

No, the art in welding came from the marriage of form and purpose, in the perfectly rounded curve of a plate face, in the smooth aerodynamics that resulted from a nearly seamless, but unbreakable fusion of two disparate materials.

The art was in the flight of a machine never meant to fly, in a silohoutte never meant to be replicated in such vicious form.

Luigi pulls at either end of the metal links. Whoever had forged these chains knew what they were doing.

The only thing he can’t quite wrap his head around is the belt. Not that a belt in itself was a confusing item. He’s worn belts almost his entire life, a constant war with drooping pants and scolding family. You should eat more. You’re too skinny. You look like a girl. You’re going to get your ass kicked one of these days if you’re not careful.

Sure, he knows about belts. He’s a plumber, right?

And there's nothing too odd about the one he wears now, save the enormous engraved buckle sitting right below his belly button, the nexus point of the chained tentacles unfurling to the four endpoints of his wrists and ankles.

He was told it was meant to bind his magic.

A dark chuckle vibrates beneath his sternum.

Magic. A ludicrous thought.

Magic isn't real. 

And I couldn’t pull a rabbit out of a hat if I tried.

A heavy door squeals open on the opposite side of the dark chamber. A short, robed figure enters first, followed by two familiar beings of similar height. The guards, who he’s nicknamed “Click and Clack,” (a memory of slow, sultry summer days, his too-long legs dangling off the rusted metal of a fire escape, the crackling static of his little radio fighting against the tortured grumbles of the nearby D train) take their usual places on either side of him, their domed heads only reaching as far as his mid-tricep, their pointed, well-honed spears towering tall above Luigi’s own head.

The third visitor is one he’s not seen before, his long, embroidered robes pooling in eddies of velvet at his feet. He spares a single, disgusted look in Luigi’s direction as he pushes a pair of little, round glasses up his nose.

“It’s time,” he says.

Click and Clack take him roughly by either arm, their odd little entourage an awkward three-legged race in slow motion, the trio limping behind the robed being, who has turned back towards the open door, his steps solemn, measured.

This is it, Luigi thinks, his gut churning.

There will be an audience, for certain. Beings who will be all but salivating to witness him dragged into the light, shackled and accused. 

He used to think he knew where the line was, that unshakable boundary between enemy and ally. 

He realizes now that perhaps that line never existed at all, or if it did, it only served to separate him from everyone else.

The light of the interior chamber is harsh, too bright to be natural. Luigi squints his eyes, letting his head drop towards the floor as he’s led through a deluge of camera shutter clicks that sound like the wings of a thousand frenetic cicadas, past the murmuring tributaries of whispered accusation and barely-shrouded invective. 

He can feel their eyes on him, all of them. As Luigi approaches a bare, wooden seat, he senses his gaze, a thousand unspoken words in an unmet, silent question. Luigi tenses his shoulders, making for the stripped down chair that is both the source of his salvation and damnation. There’s no threat, no promise in this universe or any other which could convince him to answer back, to meet that too-familiar pair of azure eyes.

You let this happen.

The next moments pass in a blur. He sits, then stands again at the prompting of Clack (or is it Click?), who remains steadfast at his flank. Finally, he sits one last time as a low, sonorous voice to his left produces a slurry river of speech.

“...your duty today…”

“...beyond a reasonable doubt…”

“...the defendant must be found…”

Reality crystallizes around him in one horrifying, frozen moment.

This is really happening.

“Ms. Shiitake, what is today’s case?” the severe-looking Toad judge asks.

A stout, female Toad in a drab olive uniform steps forward, clipboard in hand. For a brief moment, her image is overlaid by another, beige skin darkening into a periwinkle shadow crowned in a bun-topped fuschia. 

Luigi shakes his head, trying to bring his focus back to the room. 

“Your Honor,” she begins in a bored monotone, “today’s case is The Mushroom Kingdom versus Luigi Marionetti.”

“And what are the charges?”

Nothing. I didn’t do anything!

“High treason and crimes against the state as they relate to the events of the appearance of the Void, the Chaos Heart, and Mr. Marionetti’s actions taken against representatives of the Mushroom Kingdom, which include, but are not limited to, attempted murder of our head of state.”

A wave of discontented grumbling washes over the packed courtroom, a young Toad in the back climbing onto his chair, pointing at Luigi with a fiery gesture.

“Traitor!” he yells before being pulled back into his seat by a small gang of nearby onlookers.

“Order!” The judge raps his gavel three times in sharp succession. 

Luigi swallows over a swollen lump in his throat. Please. I didn’t do it. It wasn’t me. I didn’t want to hurt anybody.

“Is the prosecution ready?” the judge asks. 

“Yes, your Honor,” a sharp-suited Toad in red replies as she stands.

Are you so sure of that, the other gravelly voice in his head retorts, an inverted mirror of his own.

The judge turns to the other side of the room. “And is the defense ready?”

Another Toad in a black suit and purple tie stands, fixing Luigi with an inscrutable look before answering, “Yes, your Honor.”

I don’t…I can’t…I don’t know what happened.

“Then the prosecution may proceed.”

Yes, the dark voice chuckles. Yes, you do.

[claitea]

a little personal project i'm slowly chipping away at, thought it would be fun to make it into a chart that i add a doodle to every time i finish a new character so i can track how i'm going with it!

by project i just mean i want an oc of each type. i'm not making a game or anything the positions listed are purely for fun HDJBFJFKE

[unproduciblesmackdown]

minneapolis, so far…(and a little Chicago)!!!

from erica durham (chiffon)

[maggotwithanf]

Sorry fuckers you got me AIRPORT POSTING NOW

My favorite airports are Boston Logan, Changi, and the old HK airport YES THE OLD ONE also I really like the non customs parts of Heathrow international the food court is so good. Fight me

Changi is a no brainier cuz like duh it's the best airport on earth but consider the merits of the best airport ever, Boston Logan International Airport:

It has never taken me more than 45 minutes to get from checkin to gate, EVER, at Logan. Sometimes it takes 20 minutes (????????????)

Legal Seafood right there in like 4 of the 5 terminals

Uber rolls right up to you like it's 2010 again

Dunkin

900000 flights a day to NYC dc and LA for like $100

Incredibly boring

[whiskeyswifty]

Sorry for being a piece of shit New Yorker for a second but my favorite collective experience this past year was every New Yorker eventually going to the new Laguardia airport and being totally gagged at the top of those escalators or by the new fountain. We truly live in squalor. we’re gagged over a decent airport, love us.

[munson-blurbs]

Living After Midnight (Failed Rockstar!Eddie x Motel Worker!Reader)

♫ Summary: Eddie's rejection made you question your own hopes and dreams, but the consequences were even more dire for him. (3.6k words)

♫ CW: slowburn, strangers-to-lovers, angst, drug use, parental conflict, poverty, homelessness, depiction of alcoholism, eventual smut (18+ only, minors DNI)

♫ Divider credit to @hellfire--cult

chapter three: turn the lights back on

Eddie left during Dad’s shift on Friday. Over the years, there were more than a handful of guests who’d put up a fight when check out day arrived, but he wasn’t one of them. 

When you’d inquired about his departure, as nonchalantly as you could, Dad only said that Eddie had signed the log and walked off without any formal goodbye. 

“What time?”

“Six-thirty, or thereabouts. No later than seven.”

Almost as if he’d waited for you to clock out. Purposely avoiding you.

You shrugged off the thought, chastising yourself for taking a harmless coincidence so personally. Maybe he had to be somewhere early or wanted to beat the rush hour traffic. Maybe he didn’t even take your presence—or lack thereof—into consideration. 

He did, however, swipe the blanket from his bed, leaving behind just the pillow and a rumpled sheet. Disappointment wove its way through your veins at its finality. He was simply another guest, another face stored in the depths of your memory with some many other one-timers. 

Making a mental note to replace the blanket before the summer crowd arrived, you stripped the remaining sheet and pillowcase and made the bed with clean ones. The fabric was so worn that it was nearly transparent, barely concealing the litany of stains that decorated the old mattress. 

Eddie didn’t appear to have added any to the collection. That was something, you supposed. 

Your Friday and Saturday evenings were always spent the same way: watching groups of friends traipse up and down the boulevard, laughing at jokes that were only funny because everyone was on the right side of tipsy. Rain or shine, teenagers could always be counted on to frequent the local bars and liquor stores that didn't bother to check for identification.

Sundays brought the usual sense of existential dread; the week ahead was daunting and the week prior was a blur of exhaustion. A new guest checked in, an older woman who’d missed her flight out of LaGuardia and needed a place to stay until the next plane took off in the morning. You almost put her in room four, the key temptingly dangling from its hook, but you plucked the one for room three instead. 

And then Monday arrived, baring its ugly teeth in a menacing grimace. It exhaled a rancid puff of morning breath, the same smell that belched from the bus’s tailpipe. 

Backpack sagging low with the weight of overpriced textbooks, you dragged yourself towards the bus stop. Your only reprieve is that today marked the last week of classes. All that remained after that was finals week, and then you were done. 

The typical small collection of commuters greeted you in traditional New York City fashion: tired half-smiles with a respectful lack of eye contact that you reflexively reciprocated. One of the older men sat on the bench, but the normally empty spot next to him was occupied by none other than Eddie Munson. He kept his guitar case safely clenched between his thighs, his garbage bag suitcase leaning against his left leg. 

Curiosity nudged you and wormed its way into your thoughts. Where was he going? Was he staying at a different motel, one that had cable so he could watch MTV whenever he needed? 

Or maybe he was en route to Port Authority so he could high-tail it back to not-New York, to his hometown where people considered it polite to strike up conversations with strangers.

Wherever his destination was, it was no longer your problem.

If he noticed you, he gave no indication. His vacant stare never left the ground, vaguely looking up one time to light a cigarette. He cupped a hand around the flame, blocking his view of you. 

It was probably better that way.

The bus hissed as it pulled up to the stop and the doors hinged open to let passengers board. Would he sit next to you? Would he position himself as far away as possible? Or was he wholly indifferent, regarding the exchange as out of sight and out of mind?

Taking a seat towards the back, you searched for him in the sea of faces. You could apologize, explain you were only trying to help and never meant to embarrass him, and the two of you could part ways knowing that you didn’t look down on him. 

But there was no sign of the frizzy curls that he wore like a crown, no guitar case inching into the aisle. For all intents and purposes, this bus was an Eddie Munson-free zone.

A disappointed ache settled in your chest and you massaged your sternum in hopes of alleviating it. When the driver turned the wheel away from the curb, you caught a glimpse of Eddie through the fingerprint-smudged window, sitting on the bench just as he had since you’d arrived. 

Except this time, he was looking directly at you. It was intentional; he’d seen you waiting at the stop and waited until conversation was an impossibility before daring to glance your way. 

He averted his gaze the moment your eyes locked onto his. It was so fast that you worried that you’d imagined it. A sleep-deprived hallucination, even. 

You didn’t stop looking even as the bus left the stop. You watched him toss his cigarette butt to the ground and crush it with the sole of his sneaker. You watched him take another one and place it between his lips. You watched trembling fingers dig into his jacket pocket and take out the lighter once again. 

He was out of sight before you could see a spark. 

Excitement hummed through campus, a live wire that electrified even you. It was hard to ignore the end-of-semester buzz, especially with the sun warming the air in a soft spotlight. 

Other students sat on the quad, blankets tucked underneath them as they ate lunch with friends. Their mouths moved in conversations about exam cramming and upcoming parties and post-graduation plans. You wanted to bottle their lightheartedness and carry it around with you, dipping into it when life got too serious and dabbing it on your pulse points like perfume. 

Fluorescent bulbs replaced the natural light as you walked the hall towards the classroom. You slid into your usual spot and placed your bag on the adjacent chair to reserve it for Nora. Until she arrived, you’d be left alone with only your thoughts to keep you company. 

Great. 

The memory of the other night, of Eddie’s sullen expression and the way his lips hardened into a frown, was a stone in your stomach.

How could he think that you pitied him, looked down on him for his circumstances? Wasn’t it obvious from the motel’s disrepair that you weren’t exactly living in the lap of luxury either? And yet, he’d perceived your attempt at an alliance as some sort of enemy threat. You wanted to shake his shoulders and yell, “we’re on the same team!” but it would probably just bounce off of his MTV-obsessed brain without him ever processing it. 

Eddie’s reaction wasn’t the only part of the confrontation that bothered you. No, what really drove you to the brink of insanity was that the confrontation bothered you at all. 

How many guests were snippy or even downright mean to you over the years? How many had raised their voice over the most trivial matter? You had lost count of the number of times someone had spat the word ‘bitch’ in your direction because of low water pressure or a lightbulb that needed replacing. 

And yet, this is the instance that grated at you, had you wondering if he’d looked away from you this afternoon out of disdain, guilt, embarrassment, or some combination of the three.  

It shouldn’t have even mattered. So what if he hated you? He was out of the motel, which meant that his problems were no longer your concern. 

The click of the door being wrenched open forced you out of your thoughts and back to reality. 

“Last week of classes!” Nora trilled with a wide grin. She practically skipped to your side, slinging her backpack over the wooden chair back. “Then we have finals,” she contorted her face in disgust before resuming her excited disposition, “and then we graduate!”

She plopped down in her seat, adjusting her body to face you. “That reminds me; we should probably figure out where we’re going to meet before the ceremony, because I am not sitting through that alo—what?” She frowned when you flinched, the realization setting in. “Nonono, don’t tell me you’re not going.”

“Sorry,” you offered half-heartedly. The pen markings on your desk suddenly became incredibly interesting, and you rubbed your forefinger over them in a feeble attempt to end the conversation.

As usual, Nora refused to accept defeat. “Still haven’t told your parents?”

“Not yet.”

“Well, you’ve got two weeks.” She clapped you on the back a bit too harshly, her lips pinched with an edge of impatience. “Time to put on those big-girl panties.”

She meant well–she always did, doing everything in her power to encourage you to pursue the career you wanted. But she just didn’t understand the mounting pressure to be what your family needed, or how you were constantly towing the line between selfishness and dignity. One step in the wrong direction and you would either crush your parents’ dreams or your own. And while there had to be some gray area there, it was overshadowed by the polarizing categories.

“I’ll try.” 

You won’t.

You spent the class forcing yourself to listen to the professor, jotting down notes every so often when you could remember to do so. 

Paying attention to lectures, final papers and exams, the graduation ceremony–it all seemed asinine when you considered your failure to help people on the most basic level. Like with Eddie: as hard as you tried to emphasize the mutual benefits of him working at the motel, you’d still inadvertently offended him.

When were you going to learn to stop extending help to people who weren’t asking for any? In these situations, you tossed logic aside to make room for emotion. It had been that way since you first began to understand that answers to life’s problems were seldom clear-cut. 

There was one day in particular, where rain fell in sheets and your only option was to play indoors. You were jumping rope in the lobby, excitedly counting along with each skip.  

“Twenty-two, twenty-three, twenty—”

The rope smacked against your ankles, but you were too distracted to feel the sting. Your eyes were glued to a man who was stumbling towards the front desk. He wobbled in his whiskey-drenched cloud, mumbling something incoherent under his breath before collapsing to the ground in sudden hysterical sobs.

“Everything okay, sir?” Dad asked. His inconspicuous hand motioned you towards your room, but you froze in place. It wasn’t fear so much as shock that a grown-up was having a temper tantrum. 

The man didn’t answer; instead, he took a swig from the brown paper bag clutched in his hand. Amber liquid trickled out from between his lips as he cried, and he slowly pushed himself up and out the front door without acknowledging anyone else’s presence. Raindrops pelted down on his head and matted whatever hair was left on his head

“Why was he crying?” You’d asked Dad, the jump rope now all but forgotten. “And what was in the bag?”

Dad gave you a small smile and did his best to explain the adult situation to a child. Even now, you remembered him talking about how drinking alcohol can make people feel happy, sad, or angry. He omitted the fact that all three emotions could occur in the same person, in the same moment, but your eight-year-old mind wouldn’t have comprehended that anyway.

Ever inquisitive, you continued asking questions. “But if it makes him sad, why doesn’t he just stop?”

“It’s not that easy,” Dad said with a tight grimace. 

You’d considered his response for a moment, eyes lighting up when you conjured up a brilliant idea. “What if we go in his room and throw out all of his alcohol!” You tugged on Dad’s hand, expecting him to reciprocate your enthusiasm, but he’d stayed where he was and shook his head. 

“Afraid it doesn’t work that way, kiddo. He’s gotta want to stop drinking first.”

It hadn’t made sense to you then, and though you’d learned about the nuances of addiction as the years crept by, it didn’t do much to quell your frustration. Any solution being beyond your control was a piranha ripping into your ambitions with its razor-sharp teeth.

The Eddie situation gave you that same helpless feeling. If you could turn back the clock, you would have done something different. You weren’t sure exactly what would be different, but it would almost certainly be better than your spur-of-the-moment offer last Wednesday. 

But since time travel was out of the question and Eddie was no longer one of your guests, both he and his problems were out of your hands.

If only your heart could accept that.

A reel of your shortcomings played in your mind on a continuous loop; it still gnawed at you as class was dismissed, the professor calling out a reminder about final paper submission while you and Nora walked out the door. 

“Are you okay?” She frowned and put out a gentle hand to bring you to a stop. 

“I’m fine. Just tired.”

She wasn’t falling for that lame excuse, not when something heavier than sleep marred your face. “Seriously. Tell me what’s going on.”

“Do you ever feel like you’ll never actually help anyone?” 

The words came out in a rush before you could curtail them. Wincing, you allowed yourself a peek at your friend’s expression. Confusion knitted her brows together, but her arms stayed at her sides. 

“What do you mean?” Her words were soft and careful, distinctly absent of judgment or condescension. 

A monologue of response was lodged in your throat. It was a thought you held inside, silently rehearsed but never dared to speak aloud:

Are we really going to make a difference? Or enough of a difference that it even matters? Like when you see a homeless person and you give them some money, or buy them something to eat. And you feel good for a split second, because now that person isn’t going to be hungry for a little while, right? But then you pass by another homeless person. And another. And you realize that, to them, it doesn’t matter that you helped someone else. Because those other people are still hungry.

You said none of it, swallowing the words and replacing them with a, “never mind, I’m too in my own head today.”

Nora nodded, not wanting to push too hard, but you knew she was teeming with questions. She offered a small smile that told you the conversation wasn’t over, just paused temporarily. 

A nod of your own sealed the compromise. 

The rest of the afternoon played out without a hiccup. Lunch was your usual greasy sandwich from Niko with a side of his irritated banter, this time about the price of gas. 

“You girls think it won’t affect you because you take the bus,” he warned, finger wagging between you and Nora, “but just watch them hike up the fare. It’s only a matter of time. Especially with those new card things you gotta use.”

His fears were unfounded, at least for the moment, and you and Nora each dropped $1.25 into the coin slot. 

“About what you said earlier,” she started, finding space to wrap her hands on the pole, “we don’t have to talk about it—”

“Please.”

“–but I need to tell you one thing.” Her eyes held firmly onto yours. “If anyone’s gonna make a difference in this shitty world, it’s you.”

The compliment should have illuminated you from the inside out; instead, it was a firefly’s light, barely bright enough to cast a shadow with its pathetic flickering. You ached to believe her, but it was impossible to imagine that the same person who wouldn’t tell her parents a simple truth could also change the world. 

“Thanks.” One word compounded with a forced smile, and the truce snapped back in place. Weighing potential conversation topics, you settled on the most neutral–the final paper for your class–and launched yourself into it with as much enthusiasm as you could summon for the remainder of the ride home.

There was no overt sign of Eddie when your bus pulled up to the stop. Not at first. The only indication of him was a familiar mint-colored blanket tightly wrapped around a lump laying across the bench. 

It wasn’t until you stepped off of the bus and got closer that you could make out the curly brunette tendrils peeking out from the top, the blanket rising and falling with each breath he took. His face was hidden and his eyelids were screwed shut in fitful sleep, allowing you to hold onto the false hope that it wasn’t him, just someone with a similar build and hair texture. Even the frayed hems of his jeans and his scuffed sneakers sticking out from the other end of the blanket could have been a coincidence. 

But there was no denying the truth once you caught a glimpse of the guitar case being hugged to his chest.

Just keep walking. Stop trying to fix things that you didn’t break. Things that didn’t ask to be fixed.

Your conscience trumped logic once again as two fingertips gently pressed against his blanket-wrapped shoulder.

“Eddie?”

His eyes flew open in an instant, revealing the delicate red lines that scarred the whites and meandered towards his brown irises. He clenched the guitar case even tighter as he jolted upright, protecting it like it was his child, and the sudden movement sent a handful of empty beef jerky wrappers floating to the ground. 

Sunlight streamed through the glass panes, fragmented where it had been shattered by a rogue baseball or perhaps the crown of someone’s head, though you would have heard about it if it was the latter. It backlit him in an angelic glow, a halo comically contradicting his bitter expression.  

“Fuckin’ shit–don’t scare me like that!” 

The gentle, rhythmic inhales and exhales were long gone, replaced by a frantic fight-or-flight panting that flared out his nostrils. His hardened jawline softened a bit once he’d fully clawed himself out of his sleepy haze and realized that the person in front of him wasn’t a threat, just a nuisance. 

“I told you; I don’t need your charity.” His lips set into a scowl and he laid back down on the bench, tugging the blanket back up to his chin.

That’s it. Conversation over. Go home. 

“You certainly need my blanket, though.” Raising one eyebrow, you thumbed at the thin material to make your point.

Eddie only doubled down, sitting up once more to ball up the blanket and toss it in your direction. “Here ya go. It’s all yours.”

You caught it with one hand, the loose threads tickling your forearm. 

“That’s not what I meant.” A hiss of air passed through your teeth. This was the perfect opportunity to leave him behind, to go somewhere you were needed and wanted. He had been making it abundantly clear that he’d rather live outside than spend another second with you. 

And yet.

“I’m not just gonna let you sleep out here.” Tone thick with insistence, you mustered up all of your determination. The blanket was now tucked beneath your underarm and sopping up the pooling perspiration. “And it’s only a matter of time before you get mugged. With that thing,” you gesture to the instrument still in his grasp, “I’m surprised it hasn’t already happened. So you can either stay at the motel and re-wallpaper the lobby or you can kiss your precious guitar goodbye.”

Fire burned behind your eyes as you spoke, each word adding kindling. You couldn’t tell if you were doing this for his safety or your own pride, but both led to the same outcome.

He didn’t say anything for a few seconds, just scraped his top teeth over the dead skin on his lower lip, drawing a speck of blood that went unnoticed. You stayed silent, too, the weight of his impending decision anchoring your tongue.

Finally he nodded, slowly at first, then faster as desperation seeped in, but he remained steadfast in his refusal to meet your eyes. 

“Fine.” Eddie’s breath was shaky, teetering on the brink of tears, but none fell. “Just until I find a paying gig.” 

He grabbed the neck of his guitar with one hand and pressed on his knee with the other. Fixing his posture, he stood tall in hopes that no one walking by would equate him with the pitiful mess who had been sleeping at a bus stop in a stolen blanket.

“Okay,” you agreed with a quiet breath, a cautious smile playing on your lips as the two of you walked back to the motel. You stayed two steps in front of him, leading the way. 

He could turn heel and run. He could back out at any moment and you’d never see him again. But when you unlocked the door to room four–Eddie’s room–he was still behind you.

“I can take the blanket back,” he said, motioning to the bundle under your arm as he stepped over the threshold and into the room.

Like a phantom appendage, you’d forgotten it was there. “No. I’ll get you a fresh one.” You shook your head, finalizing the matter. 

“Okay.”

No hesitation. No argument.

Maybe there was a chance you could actually help him. Maybe you didn’t ruin everything you touched.

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[afreakingdork]

Spring Break

RotTMNT Donatello x Reader One-Shot

Rating: General Audiences

Warnings: Aged-Up Mutant Ninja Turtles, POV Second Person, Friends to Lovers, Human/Turtle Relationships (TMNT), Yearning, Romance, Fluff, Romantic Fluff, One-Shot

Synopsis: You're on your first spring break of college and returning back home to NYC. Donnie has agreed to pick you up from the airport and the season of change is ready to exercise its rights upon your friendship with him.

Also available on Ao3

I cannot thank @tmntxthings enough! She took my half formed plot bunny and helped me finish it up and embellish it with the cutest ideas!! This fic would not exist without her and she gets my endless affection! 💞

Plane descent, it was the one part of flying that really felt like a roller coaster. With its little dips and adjustments, your stomach would rise in turn. It made some sick, but you found it exciting. It was a manifestation of coming home. With each drop in altitude you were a little bit closer and, no matter how people felt about plane rides, the excitement was palpable. Even those tired and exhausted, ready for their changeovers, were glad for a moment on the ground.

This was your stop and you were especially excited for what waited for you.

Clinging to your phone, there was a final announcement and you looked out the window. Watching fields and houses grow closer and closer, your heart alternatively soared. Ants took on definition and eventually you were doing the careful careen through buildings to land in LaGuardia. With a squeaky landing that jarred your body, people stood through the taxiing process which prompted fights with flight attendants.

You were back in New York City.

A fervor running throughout the plane, there was still the docking process and each second ticked by through syrup until you got a text.

Donatello, not to be confused with the famous Italian Sculptor: I am at the appropriate baggage claim.

It was a new entry in a sea of others that had you momentarily closing your eyes. You then typed out a response about what you’d endured since landing and Donnie kept you occupied with messages right up until it was time to deboard. Bumping and jostling and giving appropriate glares back, you were soon just shy of running down a tunnel. Just like descent, you were closing in by the moment and once you broke free from a certain pair of doors, you paused only to take stock. It was fate, you thought, that people parted and there he was.

Donatello stood bundled up both for some kind of anonymity and the early spring weather. A balmy cool outside, trees were clinging for a bit more warmth before they burst with color. You were going to miss the blossoms this time around, but you had a lifetime of watching the petals dot the otherwise dirty streets before. You always liked this season. There was a sense of change in the air. A metamorphosis, you saw not just the growth between your youth and now, but everything from the last half year. 

You were offered a full ride to a school all the way across the country. 

You accepted and left behind everything. 

The long days of your first semester would have been lonely if not for a certain purple coded turtle offering to marathon shows with you online.

You texted in the cafeteria until you found your crowd.

You continued to message him because he had to know the latest gossip.

A webcam was sent to you as a gift so you could better work on projects together across multiple state lines.

You clung to Donnie as a virtual lifeline through your first set of finals.

The Christmas holdover in California due to a lab opportunity had been a daunting choice. 

It was made all the better as you were given a digital spot at the Hamato family table during Thanksgiving and Christmas.

Then came another bout of studying for midterms. 

All to now, where he’d offered to pick you up after something had come up with your parents and you had complained of the taxi fare on your spring break budget.

You were in motion.

In fact, you were barreling towards him. He heard the footsteps, but didn’t connect them to your person as he looked up. Now knowing the source, he jammed his phone in his pocket and took on a sort of prepared alarm. Then, at the last second, he pivoted a foot out. A careful rotation, he lowered his stance into a readied one. It was all the confirmation you needed as you leapt.

He caught you at the same time for the hug and you crushed yourself to him. Momentum should have knocked the air out of you, but he swung. Your body twirled up with your heart and, by the time you were set down, you were groping to get more of him. This was new, you remembered. His scent wasn’t like coming home. You’d never been close enough to really get a whiff. Clinging to his worn hoodie didn’t crop up memories of softness because you had at most brushed it in passing.

You’d known this mutant for seven months and this was your first hug.

You wanted more.

Your only saving grace was he appeared to feel the same. For each tug, to get your arms tighter around his neck, he gave equal pressure around your waist. As you butted your head to his, he clawed into your own jacket, trying to get you that much closer.

It was warm.

It was overwhelming.

You didn’t want to let go.

“Hey.” You murmured against him.

“Greetings.” His voice responded. “How was your flight?”

“Good. Boring. Long.” You nuzzled closer.

“A full work day’s flight.” Donnie hummed, amused.

“Thanks for picking me up. It’s good to see you.”

Finally, after what must have been too long, Donnie pulled back enough to view you with a chide. “You as well.”

A little shy, your arms slipped to rest against his plastron and an announcement interrupted citing luggage. A quick check found you were at the right carousel and you sent Donnie a wry look. “We’re in the right place.”

“I was clear about my location.” He playfully rolled his eyes and reluctantly relinquished you to approach the long luggage circle.

You followed close behind and bumped arms with him. “Oh, there was this lady who would not stop yaking about the toast squares she got in that plane snack mix.”

“Ah, yes, the snack gacha.” Donnie chuckled and bags began to drift down the line.

He explained the odds and you walked him backwards through your trip. There was a gap from when you’d set off for your flight until arrival. He’d been on a video call when you’d packed your suitcase so when said luggage came winding down the metal slide, you didn’t need to say a thing. He knew it and hoisted it up where you shouldered your backpack. You’d returned with mostly things to wash, but you figured that was part of coming home.

You soon drifted away from the building. Working through the bustling drop offs zone, you headed to where Donnie had sequestered one of his vehicles. Parking cost too much for the tank, he settled on something visually low key though the interior was just as technologically stacked as the others. It was a resistance in temptation to press buttons on the dash you had never seen. They felt familiar as he’d taken you on a phone tour when he completed retrofitting the van, but it felt different in person.

Conversation took you home and, before you realized it, you were idling on the street.

Time had slipped through your fingers like water and you hadn’t cupped enough to drink. There’d even been traffic, you’d sat through it, but it hadn’t prolonged the journey. You were due inside. Your parents were waiting. You also would need to leave Donnie. He’d only ever been here to give you this ride. Heart sinking regardless, you moved to give Donnie your regards with a forlorn tilt of your head.

“Let me help you with your bag.” He rushed the statement.

Your eyes met.

You were both a little too eager to delay the inevitable.

“Thank you, I’d appreciate it.” You told him though your heart wanted to ask him over for dinner.

You’d already skipped coming home for winter break and there was no way your parents would allow an interloper to impede on catching up with their child.

You were required to spend time with them first, then friends.

Duty was a strange thing. It brought you home to mom even though you were an adult with a supposed choice. It had your friend hoisting your stuffed suitcase out of the back of a van where you had created the burden of the heft. You clicked up stairs, your luggage wheels hopping steps and Donnie felt the need to fill the space as if he were required to keep from giving you a moment of quiet.

You were thankful.

You didn’t want to think of how you’d miss him.

Again, he’d felt the same. 

You liked that about him.

Reaching your door, you knew you hadn’t messaged your parents for this same reason.

It was your own coveted surprise amongst what you had to do.

Donnie was careful in carting your suitcase up silently.

It felt like a stolen moment. “We still on for Wednesday?”

“Yes.” He nodded and pulled up a ninpo calendar for the sake of it. “Mikey has forewarned Señor Hueso and if you make April wait a moment more, I think she will strangle whoever is closest.”

“Of course.” You bobbed your head and felt the reminder of the knob.

You needed to go home.

You needed to see your parents.

You hadn’t seen them in so long.

You hugged Donnie.

Slower this time, you still moved quick enough that you avoided the awkward shuffle. It was an instant threading of bodies where you had to stave off a sigh. You fit so well without practice and his toned arms slung so comfortably around your waist. You bumped your head to his for the sake of closeness. He stilled and you thought it too much until he turned his beak to nuzzle the side of your head. From his inhale, he was catching your smell so you openly breathed him in the same.

Then you came apart, heads down, unable to bear to see the other leave as you mumbled out promises of seeing each other soon.

Donnie left by the sound of stairs and you unearthed your key to head inside.

Wednesday couldn’t come soon enough.

The rest of your Saturday had been a flurry of catching up with your folks. You were pelted with every question under the sun and the few phone calls with them you’d had throughout the school year seemed to have never happened. Your parents remembered none of the details no matter how much you whined about how you’d already told them about your class load. You were struck with backhanded comments about missing the holidays and how this cousin had proposed and that nephew had gone skiing and would you believe the tan your aunt got?

Then came sleeping in your old bed which was now a foreign one.

You called Donnie with your headphones on and he answered after only one ring.

Unable to stand the odd sheets, you curled up beside your window for faint outdoor light and watched Donnie on screen eat snacks as you unloaded about how annoying it all was. You loved your parents, but it was always something. He took his time in the conversation after your most heated complaints were air cooled and then subjected you to his own. His family’s separation anxiety was on another level, but he never made it a competition. You instead felt commiseration, even if the comparisons were outlandish.

Exhaustion took you to bed and the old smell of you drifted up like one you didn’t recognize. You were just tired enough to mention the discrepancy and Donnie made a comment on how you’d changed. You weren’t sure you had as you hadn’t felt like it, but you guessed of anyone, he would know best.

How had that come to be?

Your best friend was here and someone you’d known since elementary school. You still loved them, but they’d fallen to a certain wayside once Donnie appeared. Meeting him had been an accident at best. From senior year finals, you’d picked up a local coffee shop as your own. During summer, you switched to drinks for fun instead of necessity and a new barista started that you liked. She was great at conversation and better at upsizing drinks with a wink so you always made sure to tip. There came a day when you forgot to have cash on hand and you promised to come back by to fork it over. Now on a first name basis, April had scoffed it off, but you still returned after making change at a nearby bodega. It hadn’t been more than 20 minutes and yet she had disappeared. You waited for her to return from break only to notice a mutant was similarly off to the side and one you’d come to find was waiting for the same April. 

That was early August.

You’d gone to UC Berkeley in early September.

That was less than a month knowing the turtle in person.

Now you were drifting off to Donnie complaining about how he’d been found sneaking into East Laird’s lab yet again.

He just needed access to one chemical.

They wouldn’t miss it.

He’d doctored the supply sheets himself.

The janitor was paranoid.

You giggled and it must have come too late because he ordered you to sleep.

You told him you missed him.

In truth, you did.

He murmured the same along with a mention of Wednesday.

It wasn’t here yet.

Texting helped as Sunday led straight to a family meal with whoever was in town. You rehashed the exact same stories about school more times than you could count. Your scholarship was both held up like a heavyweight champ’s belt while others spoke to you like you were some Hollywood convert. It didn’t matter that there were six driving hours between the two places. You’d betrayed some inane state pride by going to a far flung college and whether that was a success or pompous choice was your family’s to debate.

You went to bed so angry afterward that you broke your 125 day streak of saying goodnight to Donnie.

You woke up under your old ceiling.

Breakfast reminded you of high school.

Dad had work.

Mom had lunch.

She talked and you listened.

You saw your best friend in the 3 o’clock doldrums.

It was awkward until it wasn’t.

It took about an hour, but you fell in line to your old pattern.

You meant to message your bestie more, but college had taken both of you in different directions.

Who’s this guy you keep mentioning? 

Donatello, was it?

Did you meet someone?

What a story that was and it came with a growing smile from your best friend. Each passing word felt like guilt off your lips and you were teased mercilessly.

No, stop that! We aren’t dating!

Why would you ask?

It’s perfectly normal to help a friend out like he did.

Yes, we’re close.

Not that close.

He’s a nice guy.

Yes, really nice, what are you insinuating?

It wasn’t like that.

You wanted to call Donnie on your way home.

Your best friend’s words kept you from it.

Tuesday your dad had off from work and, though they took you, you ended up showing your parents around Prospect Park. Where they’d only heard it was nice, you had seen enough from social media to actually maneuver it. You picked a restaurant they hated and then a bakery they loved. You were nagged incessantly and then pestered.

Tell us about your new college friends!

You don’t sound like you have many, what happened?

Oh, whos’ that?

Tell me more!

Are they nice?

Go to any crazy parties? We won’t judge.

They did.

They judged everything.

You kept Donatello’s name out of your mouth, though he appeared with each question.

He kept you sane.

He had been there for you.

He made things better.

You texted him as you ran to a bathroom stall for a moment of peace.

Donatello, not to be confused with the famous Italian Sculptor: Hard to go back after your taste of freedom?

It was such a him response. 

Donatello, not to be confused with the famous Italian Sculptor: Tomorrow, you’ll have us.

Donatello, not to be confused with the famous Italian Sculptor: Don’t worry.

Donatello, not to be confused with the famous Italian Sculptor: Until then, say the word and I can call you away with a lab emergency.

Donatello, not to be confused with the famous Italian Sculptor: I know the codes for several. Do not ask why.

It helped as you rejoined your parents.

One more day.

Wednesday morning and afternoon were tedious affairs with little to do outside of the dreaded laundry. You aired and disinfected your suitcase and ended up cleaning for the sake of it. It made your mom happy and you prepped ingredients for your parent’s dinner even though you wouldn’t be partaking. It would be another nicety in hopes that they wouldn’t say a word when you stayed out late.

It wasn’t like you had a curfew, but you knew the biting remark would be there.

You left just before your parents got home so you sent messages to both of them to cover your bases. Their sent confirmation was like a final school bell and you were running down stairs at an alarming pace. Donnie’s text window appeared next and you shot out a message about your imminent arrival. You felt a buzz in response and wound an oddly familiar path to the necessary sewer grate. One prepped for access to the turtle’s tunnel, you climbed down and only then brought up a map. Above was one thing as you knew your local streets, but the journey below was one you’d never had time to memorize. Donnie’s map was clear and as you switched from sewer to subway lines, you soon came to the brighter lights of the lair.

The Hamato were piled in the living room and you saw Donnie amongst the bale.

He smiled, but it was Mikey who wrapped around you.

Your name was shouted and it summoned the others who hadn’t been paying as much attention. You got friendly pats, several more squeezes from Mikey, one bear hug from April, and a litany of pelted words from the others. Leo’s Hollywood comment didn’t sting as much because he pulled it out in a reference to Son in Law. He did a pretty good Pauly Shore impression and your praise had him pulling out more impersonations. As the chides and jokes flew, you thought about how they hadn’t pelted you with a million and one questions about your college life. They cared little about class and only if you’d had time to catch any local movies or shows.

You nearly wept at not having to talk about only the studious side of your life and you got to share a movie you recently streamed with Donnie. The others hadn’t known either of you watched it and you both excitedly regaled them on reasons not to without spoiling anything. You laughed about a plot line of having been plucked from their environment and joked about red squirrels. Donnie responded in kind about grey and you both laughed until you realized you were the only ones.

“What’s that about?” April asked where she was folded over a couch beside Raph.

“O-oh, it’s-!” You choked on giggles and held onto Donnie’s arm since he was close.

“You see, there was this inane test question that kept coming up.” Donnie filled in for you.

“Non-native grey squirrels have basically put native red ones on the endangered list!” You spoke with too much levity for the topic.

“Now this is a known ecological issue, but the way the professor framed the question…?” Donnie shook his head with a smile.

“He made it out to be like a gang war! So-so Donnie made this joke because they always, freaking always run out of breakfast in the caf when I get out of my morning class about my territory being disrupted!” You giggled.

Donnie bumped you to chastise. “Wait, you’re leaving out your classmate who runs to beat you there, your grey squirrel!”

“Omigosh! I don’t even know her name!” You cracked up.  

“You’ve yet to mention the actual campus grey squirrel!” Donnie pressed.

You laughed harder. “Omigosh, he hates me and anyone that goes near his door on South Hall!!”

You both hurled more examples that fit into your branching squirrel joke and you thought everyone was having a good time until Raph’s voice cut through. “Sounds like a good inside joke.”

You weren’t immediately sobered, but your giggles grew strange.

“Yeah, I’m not getting it, but hey that happens.” Leo shrugged. “Squirrels aren’t my first comedy punching bag.”

“They’re cute! What do you mean they kill each other!?” Mikey had a watery expression. “To extinction!? How could they!?”

April patted his back. “It’s a dog eat dog world.”

“Is that why we were the Mad Dogz?” Leo looked to Raph.

“No, but I’m going to say yes.” Raph shined back a snaggletoothed grin.

With that the others moved on.

Suddenly feeling painfully self-conscious, you shirked and felt that Donnie’s hand behind your back.  

You looked up at him and he had a grin and whisper waiting for you. “These dum-dums don’t know good comedy.”

“You are the funny one.” You softened up and, in an instant, felt reassured.

He pressed lightly for you to join the room and you jumped back into the conversation which had moved onto pigeons. A hotly debated topic, you took sides and spouted facts you had learned in class. Memes were then shared and eventually you went to Hueso’s. The rowdiest table for what was a comical argument about whether they were his favorite customers, the skeleton yokai refused to answer and only spoke of cash spent and tabs to be paid. Leo chased the man into the kitchen to be his usual intrusive self and you stayed present in table conversation the best you could.

It was difficult when Donnie kept sending you reaction images based on said speech and you found it impossible not to reach right for your phone so each joke would land fresh. It eventually meant both of you were side by side texting on another and it was only when the food came did you jar out of it.

“Can’t leave your significant others for even a second?” Mikey jeered before he tapered off. “Though I kind of thought it was you that Donnie was texting… But that’d be weird right!? You’re literally sitting together, why text?” He laughed. 

Others laughed.  

You and Donnie didn’t. 

It spurned April to steal Donnie’s phone.

Some kind of betrayal, Donnie nearly flipped the table to get it back, but the flash of screen April had seen was enough.

You two were outed and ruthlessly drilled.

This was supposed to be fun, you thought to yourself as you tried to field lobs. They weren’t supposed to be rude like your family and yet you were back to fending vultures off. 

Yes, you spent hours talking.

No, you weren’t dating.

Yes, you texted.

No, it wasn’t because it was a secret conversation.

Yes, you were just friends.

No, you weren’t more.

It was only when Leo reappeared and saw the distress mounting on you and Donnie did he step up in his leader position and caught the table’s attention by the throat. He laid out a new topic in the form of recent battles and that conversation took the heat off. You sighed into the booth, feeling particularly drained and when Leo shoved in to have more seat, it bumped you right into Donnie.

Donnie made room, but his hand stayed on the seat, close to yours.

You tapped a questioning finger to his. 

Your heart was heavy.

Were you wrong?

Was your friendship weird?

Donnie had gotten you through moving across the country.

Donnie had done so much.

You really, really liked him.

His finger curled around yours for reassurance.

You’d asked once hadn’t you?

Something about if you bothered him early on since you talked just about constantly.

Donnie had scoffed by saying the word itself and told you that he put forth as much effort as he cared to.

You’d be the first to know if he was displeased.

He’d been honest.

When you complained about a science he liked, he didn’t care how hard the class was, you got an earful.

One of the few times you’d tried to use him as an excuse not to study, he’d hung right up and temporarily blocked you so you’d be forced to.

Your hands moved and, with a rush of your pulse, you tucked your other fingers up and over his.

He held your hand with one and ate pizza with his other as if nothing strange had occurred.

You did the same and spoke more normality by responding to something Mikey said.

It was taken with its own retort and everything felt right.

“I’m stuffed!” April flopped back and her jacket slunk down lazily on her shoulders.

“Can’t… move…” Raph groaned.

“That’s what happens when you are here for four hours and thirty seven minutes ordering non-stop.” Hueso commented as he picked up several empty pizza trays.

“One for the road?” Leo burped.

“Depends…” Hueso cracked a brow and slid over the check.

Leo flicked his eyes down once and then over to his tablemates where everyone dodged the question.

“Maybe next time.” Leo spoke guilt and Hueso hummed knowingly as he departed. “Split time! Cough it up!”

Complaints were loud as all sorts of money was deposited on the table.

“I love and hate catching up!” Leo crooned once an appropriate amount was placed. 

“We were literally here four days ago.” Raph didn’t have the energy to eye his brother.

“Bah!” Leo swung a lethargic arm and it flopped on the table.

“No more pizza for… four more days…” Mikey grunted.

“Heh, you guys’s diet sucks.” April chuckled and fell over into Mikey on purpose.

The youngest squeaked and dominoed into Raph who shouldered the weight without moving.

“We’ll see you again, what? Friday, right?” Leo craned his head toward you.

Leo was dismissing you. 

It was late. 

This had been the plan. 

Two days.

Donnie squeezed your hand.

You had never let go.

“Well…” You tried to respond.

“You know!” Donnie cut through conversation as if he hadn’t heard how it was coming to a close. “Remember how we weren’t able to find Jupiter Jim and His Majesty Cromslor anywhere online?”

The table quieted and you looked to Donnie curiously. “Oh yeah… We missed it in our marathon.”

“I purchased a copy then, but it only came in a few days ago.”

“That took…” You flicked up a few fingers to count. “Months!?”

“Oversees. Probably a boot leg, but it does indeed work.” Donnie smiled at you.

You felt a flutter in your gut. “We should-”

“Watch it now?” His brows bobbed. “Well everyone?” Donnie looked out, carefree to his inebriated brethren. “Movie night?”

“I’m sleeping!” Raph announced. “Don’t wake me and we’re good.”

“But Don…!” Leo’s head fell onto where his arm was still on the table.

“I could watch.” Mikey’s shoulders bobbed beneath April.

“I’m out. Got work.” April yawned.

“Then it’s settled.” Donnie turned back to you. “Not that we needed permission.”

You chewed on a giggle. “Can’t wait.”

Everyone else dragged themselves back to the lair, but you and Donnie took up the rear as you discussed some lab work. Delving into the study you’d monitored over winter break and what came of it, you were soon sat around the projector where Splinter was asleep in his chair. Raph used the last of his energy carting his dad off to bed and Mikey settled into a bean bag with commands to turn his head towards the screen. Leo helped in that matter and set himself up with his phone in hand to hang out more than watch. You and April said your goodbyes and then Donnie joined you on the couch. Raph didn’t return until well past the first quarter of the movie, but didn’t seem to mind as he flopped down to watch a film presumably the family had seen many times before.

The room was filled with the quiet sounds of the movie until Donnie leaned into you. Your shoulders brushing, he whispered to you a fun fact about the movie that gave way to more. With your head turned against the cushion, you eventually stopped watching the film to instead stare at him. He was enthralling. His lips moved with specific enunciation that you knew came from his love of pizzazz. He topped it off with eloquence from IQ and his flair was infectious no matter how emotionless he tried to present himself.

You adored him.

The credits rolled and there was light after movie discussion where you all found Raph had fallen asleep as promised. Donnie regaled you in his theories on how this movie affected the larger Jupiter Jim universe while he threw a blanket over his older brother. Leo pitched in a few notes about his comic knowledge, but no matter how obsessed the Hamatos’ were in this film series, there was still a limit of how much conversation could be shared.

“Welp!” Leo announced, coming down from a stretch.

That was the second final call of the night.

You had already overstayed your welcome.

You pulled out your phone to text your parents.

Donnie touched your wrist. “Before I forget, I finished my latest project. That targeted hearing device.”

You slowed. “Oh yeah, were you able to work out that model on how it decides what to filter?”

“Yes, in fact, I had a breakthrough-!”

“You finished that two nights ago right? When you were pacing in that fit?” Leo interrupted.

Mikey perked up. “Oh yeah, you were so upset, but you wouldn’t say why! If it was just because you were doing your usual tech walk things, then why not tell us?”

Donnie had obvious guilt and raised his hands.

You stared. 

Two nights ago was when you hadn’t been able to text him goodnight.

You were in motion and interjected yourself with force into the fray. “Show us!”

Leo and Mikey looked at you curiously.

You tried not to balk. “It was for you guys too! It will help you gather intel on missions!”

“I thought it was just for your goggles or business people who never take their Bluetooth out, even at dinner parties?” Leo quizzed Donnie.

“The applications are wide ranging! Why do you think I patented it?” Donnie held his head haughtily and headed toward his lab.

The line there went first Donnie and Leo paired where Donie was putting his all into convincing Leo of his inventions use and then you and Mikey who trailed behind in a conversation of your own. 

You weren’t sure, but you thought the blue brother glanced at you twice.

Mikey regaled you on a video game he had recently beat and, by the time you entered the lab, Donnie was in full presentation mode. A space you had only been in virtually, Donnie walked everyone to where the buds were and tried them on Leo first since he was the naysayer. They proved to work nicely as you and Mikey played examples by moving around the lab to make noise for the technology to hone in on.

You remembered locations from your guided tour, but definition had been sparse over the phone. Now here and moving about, gadgets kept catching your eye. Donnie explained them with quips from his brothers about use or malfunction. You heard all manner of stories and saw a part of Donnie you had yet to see. Donnie was quick to hang up if his brothers tried to intervene, but he was no stranger to complaining about them. You felt like you knew them better than you did because of it, but seeing the brothers in action was something else entirely.

They carried through, soon fatiguing of reminiscing and giving space for Donnie to show off his more successful tech. He shined, putting his best foot forward in a way you assumed he prepared for investor meetings. He eventually let you examine his bo staff and demonstrated how it could be reformed within his ninpo. He was detailing how his schematics process had changed since acquiring his mystic powers when Leo suddenly yelled up to the ceiling.

“Nope! Beep, beep, beep! Hear that? That’s my brain at full capacity! No more! No more science for Leon! Honk-shoo! Bedtime alarm.” Leo threw his arms up and seemed ready to spin around to leave before he caught sight of you. “Great seeing you, by the way. We’ll be seeing you, but not again tonight! Later, losers!”

You all watched Leo walk out.

Mikey saw his own chance to pull away.

The youngest did nothing distinctly, but you could tell he was ready to head to bed himself.

You had been together for hours now and it was definitely the AM of the next day.

You needed to text your parents.

You needed to go home.

You’d see Donnie again.

You had one last time before you flew back across the country.

You got your phone in hand and messaged your parents to check in.

“Michael.” Donnie held his own anxiety. 

That meant both remaining brothers were ready for you to go. 

Having already proved to your parents you were alive, you moved to next pen a message about how you’d be home soon.  

“Huh?” A bubble popped on Mikey’s attention.

“Have you checked the time?” Donnie moved away from you. 

Looking up your screen found the time at 2:47am.

“Oh ho!” Mikey sang with scandalous purpose. 

You paused and looked up to see him sporting a huge grin. 

“I get what you’re putting down, brotha! It is the one and only reserved time for my most exclusive dish!” Mikey moved fluidly through a few poses. 

“Yes.” Donnie looked pointedly at you. “You might have heard of it.” 

You blinked a few times not realizing some kind of ploy was in motion. “Special time…?” 

Sliding to the right, Mikey’s whole body dipped below his raised arms. “It is time for my unmatched, out of control, unparalleled 3am dump nachos!” 

A memory slapped you across the hippocampus. 

You did remember. 

Mikey had sprung them on Donnie when he was helping you study for finals last year. 

The Mikey of the present then snapped to attention in a business-like manner. “Proprietary reserved and guaranteed to eradicate night munchies.”   

Your phone buzzed and beckoned with annoyed responses from your mom. 

You’d thankfully never sent that message about heading back. 

She knew you were doing alright, that was enough. 

You closed your phone. “Who am I to say no to the clock!?” 

“Nacho time!?” Mikey turned to confirm with the last party. “That was what you wanted, right?” 

“Yes.” Donnie tried to stave off a certain amount of joy. “Nacho time.”

“Woo!” Mikey started to holler but caught himself off to whisper. “Quieter woo because people are sleeping!”

You all filed down to the kitchen where Mikey took point in commanding his own cooking show. Talking about all his past chip and cheese related mishaps, he walked through pantry staples  and what wasn’t for good nachos. Donnie settled in by your side and eventually grabbed a few drinks. The pair of you mingled together, sharing little glances amongst Mikey’s display until the nachos were in the oven for a quick melt session.

“Oh man, this was a great idea.” Mikey looked at Donnie approvingly. “I can’t remember the last time we did 3am nachos.”

You did, but you kept quiet. 

“Probably after April’s midnight launch at that movie theater.” There was an air to Donnie that said he was purposefully making something up.

“Eugh, was it one of those ones where they watch like six movies back to back?” Mikey made a face.

“Are those marathons bad?” You asked.

“They are when you can’t pause and do stuff like this.” Mikey gestured around the kitchen.

“Helps to be allowed an oven.” Donnie cocked a brow at you.

“It’s not my fault someone started a fire in the dorms a few years ago.” You shot a smarmy look back.

“Finesse.” Donnie’s fingers came up to floss the word.

“This again!” You rolled your eyes.

“The rules are in place to protect! As long as you don’t violate them obviously, then I don’t see the problem.”

“Your homemade oven thing was way sketchier!”

“You could make it out of all the materials you had on hand! It’s completely safe!”

“Just because one can, doesn’t mean one should!”

“Look! I can recreate it now! You never tried.” Donnie went for a junk drawing and came back with supplies. “The most you needed was wire, then a containment unit, easy enough to build…”

Donnie nearly pressed to your side as he cut and created a wire and then spliced it with a battery. Showing you how to then encase the coils, he asked for your help holding something in place. You did so and he eventually came around with electrical tape to bind his creation. He complained about how soldering should be allowed if hot glue guns were. You spoke against that point and your hands brushed. He scoffed at live flames and slipped his arm through yours in lieu of reaching for a piece of plastic that had rolled away. You pressed into him and told him that with that logic you could simply weld.

“Couldn’t you?” Donnie’s face was near yours.

“I’d need…” You reached up and his cheek tipped into your hand as you activated the release on his goggles as you’d seen him do on video.

His lenses came down and you were close enough to see through them to his eyes beneath.

“… something like this.”

“I see… Safety first…” Donnie murmured, leaning in.

“Mhm…” You mirrored him.

A timer dinged and you jolted apart.

“3am nachos!” Mikey came around with oven mitts as if oblivious. “After hearing both your arguments, I’m gonna go with no homebrewing ovens in the dorms. It looks like you’re building a bomb.” He set the tray down and the smell was undeniably delicious.

You might have enjoyed it more had your heart not been pounding out your ears.

“To the uneducated, perhaps!” Donnie grumbled and looked over the spread.

You moved to better reach and heard Mikey talk about the best constructed bite.

What were you doing?

You had almost kissed Donnie.

If that was what just happened.

Donnie.

You had a nacho in hand.

Donnie.

What you had to label as your newest best friend.

Donnie.

Not a replacement, but an embellishment.

Donnie.

Next to you, the man in question said something about guacamole.

He helped you through your semesters.

You still had 10 more after the current one.

Four total years.

That didn’t include masters which you aimed on getting.

On the other side of the states.

As far as possible in the continental US.

That was only the grand scale. 

On a minor one, you’d be back there in only four days time. 

You’d barely seen Donnie.

You’d also arguably spent more time with him in just seven months then you had lifetimes with some of the people you still happily called friends, but 90% of that time had been through an internet connection.

Donnie.

A chip entered your mouth and it tasted so good you wanted to weep.

It certainly wasn’t for any other reason.

Mikey’s cooking was that good.

Eating.

Eating was happening.

You tried to tune into what Donnie and Mikey were discussing.

Donnie had put his goggles back up on his head.

His eyes looked pretty as he talked to his brother.

They always seemed lazy in expression, but they caught so much.

They also took in nothing if he didn’t care to look.

He’d been looking at you.

Right through that red and blue glass.

The make-up of purple.

Mikey hummed an exhausted note. “Oh man… 5am already? Sun’s gonna be up soon…”

“That late?” Donnie asked absently.

At least your parents had gone to bed and wouldn’t hassle you.

They might because you were absolutely going to get home after they woke up for the day.

That was less than ideal.

You also had lunch plans.

What were you doing?

“I’m hitting the hay!” Mikey announced even though you were sure he’d said other things. “Hug for the road!”

Mikey hugged you and you were sure you hugged back.

“Finish those off or whatever. They don’t keep so toss ‘em! Night, D!”

“Night.” Donnie spoke.

Alone.

You were alone with Donnie.

You’d been avoiding this hadn’t you?

Both of you had. 

“Still hungry?” Donnie spoke timidly.

“Sure.” You had barely had any.

You worked through building that perfect bite Mikey talked about and then went for some salsa Mikey had whipped up.

Donnie was right there with his own chip and your knuckles brushed.

You both froze and looked at each other.

You saw it all there.

The budding feelings.

The long distance.

The fear.

The longing.

“It’s too soon…?” Donnie broke away to look at the sheet pan. “Don’t you think?”

You did.

You know you did.

You were weepy as you nodded and ate more than necessary just because the taste helped abate the sadness.

Donnie offered to take you home in his own melancholy.

You’d barely experienced college.  

You were so young.

In spite of knowing him so well, it wasn’t enough.

When he pulled over on the empty morning curb outside your apartment, sunlight was peering in on your exchange.

What would you do?

How would you say goodbye?

“Walk me to the door?” You asked.

“Of course.” He put the van into park and turned it off.

You walked side by side in silence up the stoop.

The moment you were both on the same level, you hugged him. Hard into his middle you squeezed him for all he was worth. Not to be outshined, you were similarly scooped. Donnie created a protective outer layer where his face buried down into the top of your head. You both siphoned as much of each other off as you could feeling like it would be the last.

Was that right?

It didn’t feel like it, but for right now it was hard to parse anything.

It was exciting to be close to him.

You hadn’t known when he offered to give you a ride that you’d tackle him right out of your airport gate.

You’d never hugged before that. 

You’d never touched at all as far as you could remember. 

All of this was sudden.

Too soon.

You rooted your face into Donnie’s plastron. “I’ll still see you Friday?”

“You’ll see me tomorrow if available.”

You blinked up wide right out of his chest.

“You’re on break. I want to make the most of it.”

This time you threw your arms around his neck and he hoisted you up into the hug. You laughed into it until he set you back down and your heads bumped together. Sting moving to cradle, you lingered against one another. You felt more then, how you were rushing. You were jumping to conclusions. You were deciding years down the line before being present in your own moment.

Too soon.

“Dinner.”

“It’s a date.”

You entered your apartment on a cloud nine bubble that even your parents couldn’t pop. It prevailed through your mother’s nagging and you finally catching blissful shut eye. You barely made your lunch appointment with your friend and were disheveled for it. They laughed at you and joked about a rough night. The unsuspecting victim who just happened to ask the wrong question at the right time, you unloaded on them. Not usually the type of friend for long talks, they took it in stride and came out like an MVP.

They gave you advice on how to proceed and shared how they themselves were doing long distance.

It wasn’t for everyone.

You were young.

You needed to prioritize you.

There was also a certain amount of trusting your gut.

All a tricky balance, you came away feeling optimistic and closer to your friend than before.

You also crashed as soon as you got home and had a screaming match with your mom when she returned from work to find you in bed. It was enhanced by you not telling her about your dinner plans, but it all felt like a certain amount of stride. It was par for the course with growing pains of your adulthood and you got yourself gussied up amongst it. Donnie came to get you and you felt whisked away where your dad sent you off in good humor.

You wished he fielded your mom, but you guessed you could only ask so much.

Your date was a romantic one. Dictated by closeness, you counted in touch. There were brushes to the hands that morphed to holds. He’d pressed your back to indicate he wanted to pull your chair out and would eventually pull you to his side when some drunk adults stormed by on the sidewalk. You snuggled close to him during a concession selection and later would rest your head on his shoulder during a movie. Afterwards when you lingered for a walk in twinkling night lights you spoke your feelings into reality and what to do.

You’d wait.

It was too soon.

There was so much more to see.

You didn’t feel sad about anything other than not being able to kiss him when he brought you home.

Those hugs were hard enough to break apart from.

Friday then came and went and this time you felt fully present amongst the Hamato. Sunita and Casey joined for a rowdy bunch and you felt strong enough to take over the entire city. You also were always placed by Donnie’s side whether it be by both your conscious choices or simply your draw to one another which earned some ire. Unlike the last hang out, you were validated and both breezily brushed it off with knowing smiles. That brought more confusion, but any and all were left guessing what your relationship was.

Your family and a huge friend group hangout took Saturday.

Then you packed with Donnie on a video call.

It was just like a week ago, but wholly new.

You wished him a somber goodnight and right before hanging up he asked to drop you off.

You would have to fend off your parents, but you decided you could oblige.

There was little complaint as the next morning your mom asked you point blank who the boy was. You admitted to them the events of the last seven months, mutation and all, which they took in various stages. What your dad heard mostly was your loneliness and how this guy had gone above and beyond to make you feel less so. That was enough for him and in a stern decision, he refused to be moved. It left your mom high and dry outside the marriage unit and she eventually sighed to dreamily say that was why she loved your father.

Comparisons were then made between them and your relationship with Donnie and you shut that down as quickly as you could.

Donnie was then there and in an impromptu parents meeting.

He was surprisingly adept at it and you had a feeling he was aware this would happen. You ended up drilling him on the way to the airport where he admitted he prepared for at least seven possible scenarios regarding him butting in on the airport drop off. He regaled you in them all until you were sick of his preparations and you were at the airport.

He walked you as far as he could.

You hugged.

It should have been scented with desperation, you thought.

Instead, it felt like a promise.

With the same clingy digging, he gave equal pressure to your waist as you gave his head. He clawed your back and you pulled at his mask tails. It caught puffs of laughter from both of you as you drank each other in. You knew his scent now, a specific one you wished to curl up in. You’d remember prolonging time together even when you talked to him on the phone, presumably as soon as you landed. You’d be exhausted and want to shower, but you’d make time. You liked to give it just as he’d do the same.

You parted.

With smiles that were plump with tears unshed, you waved to him and he lingered as long as he could. You thought he even might have continued past that and used his goggles for some x-ray business. In case he did, you metered your steps and kept looking back to send him more grins to log. He probably had a thousand already from the calls or even this week, but you’d give more. You boarded a plane and spring break ended.

Across the country you flew.

Back to school.

Back to work.

Through summer and an internship.

Opportunity and papers.

Talk of job and studies galore.

Late night calls and walls of text.

A flurry of messages.

Arguments.

Cold shoulders.

Apologies.

Fall Semester.

Winter break.

Spring Semester.

Spring break.

Rinse and repeat. 

Donnie became your only airport ride. No matter when you came, everyone knew he was designated. It became common knowledge as much as anything else. As much as your friendship, everyone knew that was to be expected.

You grew.

Four years passed.

You found yourself yet again coming into LaGuardia on the cusp of spring. You had plans for furthering education on this side of the country. California had been nice, but Donnie had mentioned a study once that stuck with you. Eight in ten adults lived within 100 miles of where they grew up. It seemed like such a silly statistic four years ago when you’d made your college choice. You weren’t sure if you necessarily understood now, but there was a certain comfort in knowing you’d be in New York for the foreseeable future.

It helped that you grew up in such an amazing city.

What a town, Donnie would say reverent regardless of whether it was bad or good.

Shouldering your bag, you walked out to baggage claim. While the spot may have changed and the man was still growing like a weed, Donnie would still always appear to you between crowd waves. A sort of fate, he’d part pedestrians like the sea and he looked up from where he was tinkering with something on his gauntlet.

A smile spread on his face and he was in motion.

You had to keep up.

A hop and a skip and you collided in a spin. Twirling out for the sake of it, you both murmured affections until he rooted your face out from his shoulder. There he dipped you first for the sake of flair, but brought you up to properly execute what came next.

Your hands tucked behind his neck.

He locked his arms around your waist.

His gaze poured over you. 

You tugged him lightly as he was taking his time.

He was hovering, no doubt committing all of this to memory.

You didn’t fault him; you had started dating a few weeks ago.

He’d blurted out the question saying he was unable to wait until spring break or even until you graduated with your undergrad. 

You were long past first kiss territory, but this would be the first with the label.

“Donatello.”

“Not to be confused with the famous Italian sculptor.” He staunchly said the same thing he had since the moment he’d first introduced himself. 

“Please.”

“Please what?” He jeered.

“Kiss me, dum-dum.” You pulled him as hard as he’d allow and he snuck in a laugh before your lips met.

You would always appreciate this time of year for its change.

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[rosewaterandivy]

Everyone But You - a Life as We Know It au

Ch. 1 - Come as a Known Enemy Memory

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Summary: You and your nemesis, the blight of Williamsburg himself, are thrown together under disastrous circumstances. Pairing: e.m. x f!oc w.c.: 4.5K warnings: NSFW / MDNI, immersive second person narration w/ a name and background but no physical description mentioned, big sads, grief, character death, car accident, jason carver mention, legal guidance, CPS, repression of emotions, occasional catatonia, max mayfield esquire

The call comes in somewhere south of 2 A.M. It’s an unfortunate fact of life that you are stone-cold sober, awake, and pouring over the second to last manuscript from the agency. 

You answer it by the second ring.

“This is Vance.”

"Ms. Vance, this is Officer Booker at the 94th precinct in Brooklyn. I’m calling on behalf of Christine Carver, could you please come down to the station?”

The telltale sign of a migraine creeps into your head, lashing against your temples to weave around the base of your skull. A forced blink of your eyes while the words from the manuscript swim across your vision. 94th precinct… that’s, what Greenpoint? The fuck was she doing in Brooklyn at this hour?

"Is she alright?”

The officer sighs, “Ma’am, I can’t disclose personal information over the phone. But once you’re down here—"

Innately and intimately, you know something is wrong. Chrissy and Jason were leaving the city tonight, flying out of Laguardia and back to Indianapolis on the red eye, which should have left an hour or two ago. The officer prattles on about policy and regulation as you get your bearings.

"Yeah, I’ll be there in an hour or so.” A few pages scatter on the table in your haste to get up, “I’m sorry, you said your name was…?”

"Officer Booker ma’am. I’ll let the front desk know to be on the lookout.”

The line drops dead and you lock your phone before slipping it into your pocket. A spring storm whipped through the city, rain falling in sheets outside your apartment window. Slipping into the Hunter galoshes at your door, you attempt to recall Chrissy’s latest missive.

Can’t wait to see you this summer! You and Ed better play nice OR ELSE

The doorman kindly hails you a cab and escorts you to the car, umbrella in hand. You thank him and rattle off an address you’d rather forget in Williamsburg. The ride itself is a quiet hum, briefly punctuated by your various attempts to contact said resident of the Williamsburg apartment which usually ended in a hushed, “Fuck.”

By the fourth attempt, you wonder why you’d ever bothered at all.

It’s not unusual for him to dodge your calls, though it was rare to initiate contact either way. But, rather, this was The Way you had operated since Chrissy posed you Iike her life-size Barbie dolls hoping for a happily ever after— the disastrous date was seared into your memory and played on a loop at the most unfortunate of times, i.e. the night before a big client meeting or during a relay of your Top Ten Greatest Mistakes. And closing in our top three humiliations is…

So, in short, no. No, you did not frequent Brooklyn, and you certainly did not cross the East River if you could help it. Working your ass off at one of the most acclaimed publishing houses did not afford you the luxury to gallivant through the burroughs all hours of the evening, especially not if you wanted to make partner and curate your own client list.

But, clearly, this fact couldn’t be helped tonight.

By the time you arrive in Brooklyn rolling to a stop in front of the brownstone off of Bedford avenue and pay the cabbie, it’s nearing 3 A.M. Dashing onto the stoop in an attempt to avoid the rain, you glance over the numerous intercom buzzers and realize, rather foolishly, that you have no idea which his could be. Luckily, someone is stepping out of the vestibule and you’re able to slip in before the door slams shut.

It’s a walk-up, of course, because this night couldn’t cut you one measly break, could it? The squelch of your galoshes haunts you up the flights of stairs, rain dripping in rivulets onto the steps below. You pause at the third floor, a heavy bass thudding from down the corridor like a siren’s call.

Your fist pounds on the door, punctuated by the clipped sound of your voice, “Munson, I swear to all that is unholy—"

The door opens quickly, and you nearly topple over the threshold. There’s a curl to his lips that tells you he wishes you had careened, tits over ass, in an unfortunate lack of poise, and fell to a heap on his floor. Fortunately, your hand collides with the door frame and finds purchase before any of that can come to pass.

"For Esmé—In Love and Squalor, as I live and breathe.” He drawls, all biting marks and bravado.

Edward ‘Eddie’ Munson was a few things: a writer, a pretentious asshole, Chrissy’s high school BFF, the worst person you’d ever had the displeasure of breathing the same air as, and your arch nemesis— just to name a few.

“Well, if it isn’t the ice queen from the Upper West Side! What brings you down here to slum it with us plebs?”

Soaked from head to toe, the rain drips steadily down your face and body. Your mouth opens and closes intermittently, gaping like a fish. How do I say something like this? How do I tell him that Chrissy, our mutual best friend and her husband are in all likelihood dead? Do I tell him, or should I leave it to the cops down at the station?

Because, at this point, nothing has been confirmed. And it won’t be until you’re both at the precinct meeting with Officer Booker. All you had to go on was your gut.

And your gut hadn’t been wrong yet.

Maybe tonight’s the night. After all, there’s a first time for everything, right?

“Hellooooo,” He hangs on the door jamb, long limbed and impatient. “C’mon, if you came all the way down here to bust my balls you could’ve—“

“S-she,” You swallow audibly and try to correct your earlier statement. “They, they’re gone.”

Eddie straightens up. A furrow pinches between his brows. “Who’s gone?”

“Chris, Jason, they just—"

He quickly grabs a jacket and slips on a pair of beaten to hell docs before shutting the door. It briefly passes through your mind that he should get his keys, he’ll need his keys to get back in. But before you can say anything, Eddie’s hand curls around your bicep and steers you down the stairs.

“Okay, okay.” He soothes, guiding you onto the sidewalk. “Where are we going, hospital or precinct? We’ll need a cab or Uber, right?”

Eddie grabs his phone and pulls up an app before muttering, “Fucking surge pricing, what the shit.”

The rain falls steadily, on and on, in the cool spring night as you wait. A seemingly endless vigil for the pair of you, the dark sky blanketing a city that never sleeps.

The blip and wail of sirens increases the closer you get to the station. The cab ride itself had been silent, save for Eddie’s wallet chain jangling as his leg jostled up and down. You’d mostly gathered your wits on the drive over, knew what to do, who to find— your head was as clear as it could be for now.

Eddie pays the fare and nods to the cabbie in thanks as you turn to open the door. His hand finds your arm, fingers trepidatious against the damp fabric of your trench coat. 

“D’ya think…”

A pinprick of pressure at the top of your sinuses, eyes blurring with newly minted moisture. A quick sniff to clear your nostrils as you slowly exhale.

”I hope not.”

You push the door open and stride across the wet pavement. An officer holds a door open for you with a tight-lipped smile.

”Hi,” You say, clearing your throat. “I’m looking for an Officer Booker?”

A desk jockey leads you both back to a small conference room and offers you a choice of coffee or water. You take him up on it and anxiously wait for Booker’s arrival.

”Hello,” A man greets, setting a to-go cup of coffee on the table and offering his hand to shake. “I’m Officer Booker. You must be Esmé Vance. And this is…?”

”Eddie Munson,” He says with a cough. 

Booker nods, as if he expected it. “Of course,” He takes a seat and places a manila folder on the table between you. He takes a beat, looking each of you in the eye, a tinge of sorrow precedes his next comment. “There was an accident, and it is with sorrow and regret that I inform you—"

And with that, the world drops dead.

A harsh buzzing, like static, fills your ears. Unwittingly, you clutch at Eddie’s hand, slotting your fingers together. Can’t bring yourself to worry over how cold and clammy your palm is against the dwarfing warmth of his. He squeezes your hand back, nods at whatever Booker is saying, something about finding your information as her I.C.E. contact on her phone.

"The first responders found it and we took it from there. But now we need numbers for the nearest next of kin, can you supply those?”

Big, wet tears fall silently down your cheeks and you can’t bring your vocal cords to work, to say something as simple as yes.

"Uh, yeah,” Eddie replies instead, accompanied by a violent sniff. “Her parents are back in Hawkins, Indiana— Peter and Ellie Cunningham.” He rattles off their home phone number as you watch, mesmerized, tremulous tears falling unabated down his face.

There’s scruff bordering on five-o’clock shadow peppering his cheeks and jawline, errant curls falling from the sloppy topknot on his head. He looks exhausted, as if the last half-hour has robbed him of sleep, bluish hollows like crescent moons underneath his eyes.

But he hasn’t let go of your hand.

No, he’s held it like a vise. As if it’s the only thing tethering him to the ground. 

“You said the car flipped? It—It flipped when it hit the…”

Booker looks at both of you, really takes a long, hard look.

Two kids, really. Early thirties, if he had to guess, and hopelessly floundering in the midst of a goddamn bitch of an unimaginable situation. Shit, he couldn’t tell which way was up at that age, and by then he’d had a badge and a gun.

Then, as if it’s dawned on you for the first time:

"They have a baby, w-who is she with now?“ You stutter out, dread curling low in your stomach. You clench Eddie’s hand all the harder.

The harsh whisper of your voice brings a halt to the conversation. Eddie gapes back at you, wide eyed and woebegone.

”If you’ll excuse me,” Booker says, rising to leave, “I’ll get a deputy to contact the parents and ascertain where the child is. Sit tight ‘til then.”

The door clicks shut. 

And the wail that careens up your throat is enough to kick-start Eddie’s survival mode into gear. He pushes away from the chair to sit at your feet, one hand grasping yours while the other winds around your waist and presses you to his torso. Sobs wrack your body, loud and hiccuping, while his lips murmur softly at the crown of your head.

Nothing he’s saying registers. But he’s there and warm, one large hand trailing the expanse of your back, up and down and over again; it’s almost soothing. He’s taller than you, something you’d always known from his penchant to loom over you, but you don’t seem to mind it just now. 

Tucked under his chin and pressed to his chest, it feels almost safe. His physical proximity and the way his body seems to mold around your own, protecting you from the sickening reality that she’s gone, and the sharp pain that kicks up in your gut, lends you enough comfort to make an attempt at processing this disaster. Chrissy and Jason, both gone in one fell swoop. Their daughter, Zoë, effectively orphaned and alone.

A beautiful, innocent little girl, a veritable copy of her mother, all blonde hair and blue eyes. Soft coos and footie pajamas, waiting for parents who would never return. 

What would happen to her?

It’s that very thought that snaps you out of your tear-streaked state as Officer Booker returns. Eddie sets you back on the chair, hands patting along your arms to check that you’re okay, at least for the moment. Catching his eye you give him a small nod.

"The Cunninghams have been informed and are on their way. The child was with the nanny, but CPS has taken over her care for the time being.”

”What, why?”

Eddie’s posture has changed, what was once hunched in an uncomfortable precinct chair has now straightened up, his spine pulled taut with tension. 

“It’s procedure until the next of kin can be notified.”

”No, that’s—" You stand abruptly, “We’ve gotta go. I mean, unless you need anything…?”

He shakes his head, “No, you’re free to go.” He stands and offers his hand to you once more, “My sincere condolences to you both.”

Leaving the precinct in a blur, you hardly realize you’re back on the sidewalk. On auto-pilot, you step out to hail a cab. Eddie, the lingering presence behind you, continues to silently brood.

As the cab pulls to the curb, a sharp jerk of your arm pulls you backward to collide with an oomph against him. You turn an apology on the tip of your tongue that vanishes at the sight of him. 

For all you know of Eddie Munson, one thing is for certain, it takes a lot to render him silent. And while you were rapidly losing it in the station, he had held it together. But the second you mentioned Zoë, all the fight left him. 

“Munson,” You croak, trying to draw him out from his racing thoughts. “We’re going to her, she’s not going to be alone, I promise you.” His eyes track your face in the light from the street lamps. “We’ll be on the next flight out, but we have to get in the cab first, okay?”

He nods, so subtle that if you’d blinked you would have missed it. You release the breath trapped in your lungs, a slow exhale as your hands settle on his forearms. Cautiously, you step forward and wrap your arms around him. He hesitates, body as tight as a tripwire, before he settles against you. The slight weight of you reminding him that he’s not alone in this.

"We’ll figure it out,” You murmur, voice scratchy from all the sobbing.

And for a moment, you just hold one another in the crisp spring morning. Birdsong twitters from above as the gloomy clouds of last night’s storm begin to clear. Elsewhere, people are beginning to rise and greet the new day, coffee percolates and sheets rustle. 

But in that moment, you’re able to forget all that— to push aside the fact that there are other people in the world and instead revel in the heartbreak you both feel, in the odd familiarity of each other.

Eddie uses the key Chrissy gave him to unlock the house in Loch Nora. It’s just after 6 A.M. of that same dreadful day and the house looks homey. A laundry basket propped up on a credenza, overflowing with burp cloths and tiny onesies. He flips a switch, and the entryway is bathed in a dull warm glow. 

“No, no,” You continue speaking into your phone, as you shut the door. “What I don’t understand is why we can’t see her now? Ma’am, I know you have protocol but we’re the godparents, isn’t there a precedent for that?”

Eddie moves like a ghost through the house, finds himself wincing as he catches sight of the Carver family photos with Chrissy’s bright smile. As he moves further into the house, your voice falls away.

All business since the cab ride. You swept through his studio like an automaton, throwing things into a duffle and didn’t bother to shut dresser drawers either. It looked like a criminal had ransacked his bedroom for a paltry collection of clothing. 

Eddie was tasked with packing his backpack, which he couldn’t muster up the effort to adequately do, and settled for tossing in his laptop, a few charging cables, and whatever else he swept off of the cluttered desk before zipping the bag.

Spent less than twenty minutes at your own place on the Upper West Side and returned with a neatly packed hardshell carryon and a leather tote bag, all the contents neatly organized and at the ready. 

And, he had to hand it to you, the efficiency you deployed everywhere from check-in to the TSA Pre-Check line, to wrangling an upgrade for the plane ride itself, and now playing verbal chess with the CPS representative was… impressive. Albeit frightening. 

But he also found it rather cold and unfeeling. Because, while yes, he had held you as you fell to pieces in the police station and witnessed your grief, since then you’d been too… together. Neatly packaged with a shiny bow on top, your sorrow packed tight and lying in wait underneath the glinting veneer of propriety.

The click of your heels on the hardwood floors alerts him to your presence. 

“Yes, I’ll be at this number. Thank you, goodbye.” You huff and lean against the arm of the sofa. “They won’t do anything, not until the case worker arrives this morning, at least.”

Eddie nods, “I’m sure that she’s fine, Vance.” His voice is soft, tired. “Why don’t you get some sleep? The guest room is upstairs and—“

A shake of your head, as you bring the phone back up to your ear. “No, I still need to contact the lawyer for Chr— uh, the will.” You reply, unable to speak her name, a little uneasy at the fact that she had a will in the first place.

Eddie tsks, his lip curling in disbelief, “C’mon, are you serious? What lawyer is going to be in-office and answer the phone at this hour, Dewey, Cheatem, and Howe?”

Fixing him with a glare Medusa would envy, you purse your lips. “Then I’ll leave a message with their answering service. And,” You turn, tossing the last bit over your shoulder, “If it’s an attorney that Carver hired, I can guarantee they’ll call back within the hour.”

And, true enough, the offices of Mason & Finch returned your call within thirty minutes. But really, who was counting?

You find Eddie’s limbs sprawled all over the couch in the den, the tv light flicking against the pallor of his skin. Grabbing the remote, you catch sight of Katharine Hepburn swanning across the screen in Bringing Up Baby. 

Tossing the remote to the side with a clatter, you accidentally (somewhat) wake Eddie. 

“The fuck Vance?” He sounds groggy and confused, slightly alarmed that he was jolted awake by a piece of plastic to the face.

”The attorney has arrived.” You say in lieu of a greeting, “And CPS hasn’t called yet.”

He rises slowly, stretching as a cat might— arms flexing above his head causing the hem of his shirt to ride up and reveal a smattering trail of dark hair down his abdomen. With a roll of your eyes, you turn and walk back into the study at the front of the house.

Maxine Mayfield Esquire, junior partner at Mason & Finch, has made herself comfortable at Jason’s mahogany desk. Briefcase stowed at her feet, she runs a hand through her hair, loose in her haste to make this meeting on time. The sealed last will and testament of Mr. and Mrs. Carver sits at the center of the desk, ominous and forlorn.

Technically, she wasn’t on-call for estate cases currently. But when the secretary had phoned her to see who was available this week, the second Max heard the words “fatal collision” and “Carver”, she was up and out of bed. She knew she needed to handle this case, though the name the secretary gave her was unfamiliar: Ripley Esmé Vance.

Whoever this person was, Max knew Eddie wouldn’t be long behind.

Before she’d left for the Carver’s that day, Max had trusted Lucas to rally the troops for an all hands on deck situation. She couldn’t tell him much, or if Eddie was even in town yet, but she knew Lucas would see to it that he wasn’t alone. 

Mason had briefed her over the phone on the drive over about the proceedings, what to expect from the beneficiaries, how to liaise with CPS, who to contact if Vance and Munson refused custody. Though, she didn’t anticipate needing that particular bit of information.

Rising to greet who could only be Vance, Max is nearly bowled over at the sight of Eddie. He looks haggard, which is to be expected, but it’s a stark contrast to the pristine image of his counterpart. 

Esmé Vance oozes sophistication— black Tahitian pearls adorn your neck contrasting with the gray sweater and wide legged trousers you’re sporting. Not much taller than Max, the inch or two gained in whole part due to the heels that click against the floor as you go to greet her.

"Ms. Mayfield,” You say, with the husky voice of a silver screen siren, “Thanks so much for seeing us this early, we appreciate it.” 

As you shake hands, the singular ring on your right hand catches Max’s notice. A clean and simple signet nestled on an elegant finger. Your nails are impeccable, a dark plum shade that Max makes a note to get the name of later.

In short, Chrissy’s best friend is just as the bubbly blonde had bragged— her polar opposite in nearly every way. Max wasn’t sure if she wanted her or simply wanted to be her, but she’d deal with that later.

"Hey Red,” Eddie says, leaning against the doorframe.

She excuses herself to wrap him in a warm embrace, professionalism be damned. He accepts it willingly, and she allows herself the luxury of inhaling the familiar scent of stale cigarettes and coffee.

"Hey Ed,” She replies, stepping back after a moment or two. “I’m so sorry about Chrissy.” She turns back to Esmè, eyes misty, “My condolences to you both.”

Soon after, they get down to brass tacks. Max reads the will aloud, the legalese meaning absolutely jack shit to Eddie, that is until:

"Joint legal and physical custody of Zoë Lux Carver is granted to Ripley Esmè Vance and Edward Waylon Munson—“

"I’m sorry, but what?” Eddie’s voice is louder than he intended, so distracted by the fact that he’s been granted custodial rights over an actual baby, that he completely misses that you don't even go by your given name.

It’ll come back to him later, sleep-addled and at wit’s end, no doubt.

Max pauses, noting the lack of reaction from you. Hmm, interesting. “Did Chrissy not discuss the guardianship arrangements with you?”

Eddie shakes his head, you decline to reply and turn to gaze out of the window. You’re quiet, which can only mean one thing.

"You knew about this Vance?”

"Well,” You hedge a reply, “I didn’t think it would necessarily come up. But… yeah, she mentioned it after Zoë was born. Though I didn’t know she meant joint custody.”

He turns back to Max, “What does that mean?”

"It means,” You supply, turning back to the conversation, “That we raise her together. Joint as in the two of us,” Your fingers gesture between the pair of you, “Not as in what your studio reeks of.” And then, you pantomime taking a drag from an imaginary joint, as if to prove your point.

"Gee, thanks for the tip, Officer Krupke.” 

Max watches, idly amused by the pair of you, a knowing smile gracing her lips. “Right, so if you refuse custody, Zoë will be placed with another willing caregiver, preferably family, but if not, she’ll go into foster care.”

"Oh, fuck no!”

"Over my dead body!”

Your exclamations override one another, the volume of the conversation increasing for so an early an hour. Max desperately wants a coffee, maybe an Irish one. 

“Okay, so you’re agreed on that, at least.” Max turns over to the next page in the document. “Everything else is pretty standard: all liquid assets are left to Zoë, kept in a trust until her twenty-first birthday, which you are both guardians of.”

She pauses for a moment, very much entertained that Chrissy, and by extension Jason, have left you both in charge of everything. A realization that has Eddie rolling his eyes beside you.

”You’ve also been given the deeds to the house in Hawkins, as well as the brownstone and, besides a few personal effects left to other people, everything within the properties seems to be yours.”

The redhead passes a copy of the document to each of you, along with her card. “When you have questions, you can reach me at these numbers and Eddie has my cell, too.”

Your mind is reeling, trying and failing to piece together the remnants of a life left behind. A puzzle that only you and Eddie can solve, or so it would seem. Before you can ask for confirmation or voice any of your concerns, Eddie’s voice rings through the room with an incredulous, “Properties? As in, plural?”

Max clears her throat, “Uh, yes. They want you to raise Zoë either here, in Hawkins, or—" She trails off to confirm the location of the other property. “New York. They closed on a property there earlier this week.”

"Huh,” He says, collapsing back into the club chair in front of Jason’s desk. “They never mentioned that.”

"Zoë.” You say once your tongue begins working again, “How do we— Where is she now?”

Max gives you a relieved smile. “Well, I’ve already arranged for her transfer. The foster family she was placed with last night will bring her to CPS. They feel that she’ll adjust best in her own environment. So, first, she needs to be picked up and brought here.” 

“Right,” You say, rising from your chair, “Can you excuse me, for just one moment?” And walk, as calmly as you can, out of the study and through the house to the back deck. 

It’s as if you can’t get enough air into your lungs, but the quicker you breathe in, the faster your heart beats. Your skin pricks with cold despite the warm morning sun.

”Ohmygod,” You heave out in a rush of air, “Ohmygod, ohmygod.” 

There has to be a better solution than co-parenting with Munson. How Jason’s attorney even let Chrissy pair you together for the foreseeable future truly boggles the mind. The pair of you loathe each other, further compounded by one disastrous interaction after another. This was insanity, there was no way in hell it could ever work!

You brace your hands on your knees and will yourself not to throw up. Never knowing that at precisely that very moment, Eddie is doing the same in the front yard of the house, just as petrified as you.

[bcolfanfic]

i'd love to know more about west side of sorrow <3

as you can prob gleam from the title it’s a kinda side B of east side of sorrow. where instead of going through with his attempt bucky goes The Runaway BunnyTM mode and runs off away from wyoming/gale to nyc (and curt). this was something that was born, like most of my young vets ideas these days, from messaging with rachel <3

“Are you okay, honey?” John blinked, rubbing the palm of his hand over his eyes, stumbling some as he moved his hand off the wall. When he moved his wrist he saw the woman the voice must’ve come from. She was shorter than he was, eyebrows pulled together in concern. “‘m alright ma’am, thank you.” He said, giving her a haphazard salute, taking a step to get around her and tripping over his own two feet. Even more startled when he didn’t hit the ground like he anticipated, he squeezed his eyes shut before opening them again. And realized he hadn’t fallen through some sort of portal in the floor in Laguardia, the woman he’d been talking to had just grabbed his arm. Whoever she was didn’t take her hand off his arm when she got him back on his feet, rubbing circles on his elbow. She reminded him of his mother. He should call her. “Is there someone I can call for you?” But he couldn’t, not here- not like this.  John shifted his eyes around, trying to look anywhere but at this woman’s face. WELCOME TO NEW YORK! “Curt.” He blurted out, feeling around his jacket pocket for his phone, relieved when he remembered it was only his wallet that had been taken. Placing it in the woman’s hand, he leaned into her space to jam in the password for her. “M' best friend. His- his name is Curt. Should be in there somewhere. Can you call him?”

[celandeline]

Summer of Like // Farleigh Start x OC (1)

“Yes… New York, that’s correct. JFK, if that’s possible, but LaGuardia works too if… you’re sure the closest flight you have is next Monday?” I run a hand down my face, and flop back against my dorm bed, cell phone wedged between my shoulder and my ear. “Sure, fuck it, put me on a waitlist. Yes, call me if a seat opens up… yes, this number is the quickest way to reach me.” I stare up at the ceiling as the receptionist talks, her polite, Britishness, beginning to grate. “Yes, thank you. Bye.”

I snap my phone closed and toss it as far away from me as I can with a groan. It’s sweltering, it’s exam week, and I can’t get a fucking flight home to Brooklyn for the life of me. The dorm is half packed - clothes and shoes from the winter stowed away in trunks, along with all of the non-essentials (decor and trinkets and the like). The rest of my belongings are scattered around, collateral damage from the mess of the last weeks of school. I long for the streets of New York - I haven’t had a bodega sandwich in almost a year. “If I have to stay on this stuffy-ass pretentious campus for even a week longer than I have to I might just slit my wrists in the fucking bath.” I say, mostly to the ceiling. I am so tired of Cambridge. 

“Jesus, Evie.” 

I sit up to look at Venetia - my flatmate, and one of my only friends here. She’s one of the prettiest girls I’ve ever seen. She’s maybe the only person in the world that can make bottle blonde look high end. Somehow she toes the line between cute and sexy without seeming like she’s trying too hard - on anyone else, dark grunge eye makeup and a button nose would look silly, but on her… she’s like Helen of Troy in Saint Laurent sunglasses. She's a good angel sent to make my year at Cambridge so, so much easier. It’s hard to make friends as an American exchange student at one of the most pretentious English schools in the world. Harder still when Venetia is also something of an outcast herself. I don’t care much though - she’s worth ten of these other British schoolgirls. “Sorry.”

She barely glances up at me, too busy filing her nails into rounded almond points at my desk, little flakes of old nail polish falling all over my schoolwork scattered there. “It’s your own fault for leaving it until exam week.”

“I know.” I say. I really should have booked a flight back home sooner, but it’s hard to remember to do anything else when you’re drowning in schoolwork and vodka at the same time. “I just didn’t think it would be such a pain in the ass to get home. I mean really, it’s like the whole fucking country’s just decided to go to New York. I’m on seven waitlists to fly economy, V. And I still have finals to do.” 

She grins down at her fingernails. “New Yawk.” She snickers, mocking my accent. “Still so American, even after a whole year here.”

“Might be two years if I don’t get a flight home.” I grumble, swinging my legs over the edge of the bed. “What color are you doing this time?”

Venetia holds up two bottles - one a dark gray, one more of a silver. “I’m thinking gunmetal underneath, silver on top.” She says conversationally, turning back to the desk to focus on her nails. “You could always come to Saltburn with me.”

“What?” I say, taken aback by her nonchalance. “V- c’mon. I can’t just go live in your family’s castle at the last minute, I mean, we leave campus in like two days.” These rich kids - I swear they think anything can happen at the snap of their pretty fingers. And she does have quite pretty fingers. 

She shrugs. “It’s not that big of a deal - I mean, Felix brings someone home every year. Never the same person either.” She grins. “He’s a bit of a slut - in that way.”

“We leave campus in two days.” I repeat. Venetia - for all her lovely qualities - sometimes forgets about the logistics of things. I mean, if I was fuck-off rich, I’m sure I would too, but there just isn’t enough time for arrangements to be made for me to stay at her family’s mansion. It’s a generous offer, but… “I don’t want to just show up V, that’s so presumptuous. Rude, even. And I’ve got a whole year's worth of stuff with me, I can’t just lug it all to your house.”

“But you so totally can.” Venetia says, swiping nail polish over her fingertips. “There are at least six bedrooms that no one uses Evie, it would be no problem at all. And there’s more than enough room for all your luggage. Really, the house is just begging to have more people in it - why do you think Mum throws so many parties? The place is too empty - and it’s so boring over the summer, really you’d be doing us both a favor Evie, please?” She turns her head, batting her long eyelashes at me. 

God, she’s pretty. Too pretty for her own good. But- “I don’t want to intrude - I wouldn’t know anyone but you, V. It’d be awkward.” I say. I really would rather not feel out of place for a whole summer when I could be eating delicious bodega sandwiches with my friends that I haven’t seen in a year. 

“Please Evelyn?” She pleads again, this time using my full name. She only ever uses my full name when she really wants something. “It’s the perfect solution - you don’t have to stress about getting home, and I’ll finally have a friend to bring for the summer. I’ll have someone to talk to besides Felix and whatever poor soul he brings.”

“I can’t, V. It’s too last minute - I don’t want to intrude. I can’t.” I say. 

She sighs, a long, drawn out thing that sinks into my chest and twists around my heart in that way that only she can do. My determination to go home falters. Would it be so bad to stay in England for the summer? I’m already here - it’s not like I’d have to fly (and fight with the airline). The whole point I came to study abroad at Cambridge was to experience English culture, and what better way to do it than to stay in a giant fuck-off castle for a few months? And she seems so… desperate, really. I’ve always sort of been able to tell that she’s never had many friends just by the way she acts - and how the other girls here act around her - and the way she talks about how her brother always brings someone home makes me think that she’s a little jealous. 

“You’re sure it wouldn’t be too last minute?” I ask. 

Her face lights up, and she turns around in her seat again. “Not at all - the guest bedrooms are always made up anyway, it wouldn’t even be an issue. And it would be such fun to have you there, Evie - Mum will be so excited that I’ve brought a friend home. And Farleigh will finally have another American to talk to - it’ll be great, promise!”

next part >

[cherry-bomb-ships]

Oouuuuuh holy shit hi followers 👉👈 I do not know where the day went I thought I was gonna get a post like this out MUCH earlier, but as y'all have probably noticed by now, it is my second anniversary with Cortex!! 🥺💖💖💖💖

Good lird where do I even START with this guy 💖💖💖 I'm sure y'all are tired by now of hearing my story abt how I got stuck in the LaGuardia airport overnight and ended up down a rabbit hole of watching Crash Bandicoot cutscenes, and something about these silly games and ESPECIALLY this little freak of a man was such a nice distraction from what i was dealing with 🥺 Little did I know that that night in LGA would start a year-and-a-half hyperfixation and a PASSIONATE love for Cortex, plus my favorite, most unique self-insert I've designed yet! It's crazy to me that one of the characters who's come even close to being on the same level of love for me as Jamie is this weird, short, offputting evil scientist, but love works in mysterious ways I suppose 🥺💖💖💖💖

I feel like I have so much more to say and yet words aren't coming to me, so perhaps that's just my adoration for my little freak of a man making my head and heart feel so full of emotions!!! So what else is there to say, but happy second anniversary, Dr. Neo Periwinkle Cortex. I love you so much, whether you deserve it or not 🥺💖🥺💖🥺💖🥺💖

[bitchfitch]

whenever I have to go out into public spaces where it is someones job to be nice and courteous and very helpful I am reminded of the things, 1. Kind help is invaluable no matter the motivation behind it, and 2. dear God do I look like absolute dog shit.

I kept tally for this work trip, I got offered a wheelchair on six different occasions across 4 separate airports. One of the offers involved a very nice lady saying I could board early with the other disabled folk next time. I just missed the pre boarding call because I was too busy thinking about Miquella elden ring.

I lost my wallet somewhere in NYC and when I got to LaGuardia looking like Jack shit they kinda just let me through without an id so I could do the paperwork on one of the benches on the other side of TSA.

[maycanady]

You are lucky to have parents that even care about who you date. The closest my mom ever came to setting me up was when she taped her weed to my thigh on the way to LaGuardia.

[new-sandrafilter]

This Wonka is also a musical, and Chalamet sings and dances throughout. It is, Chalamet said, “a throwback to LaGuardia,” meaning his performing-arts high school. “We’re telling a story here. This isn’t, like, athletic naturalism. It’s a shot of earnestness and sincerity, without the cynicism or dread or all the stuff we’re exhausted by.”

He trained in New York and London with Tony-winning choreographer Christopher Gattelli. “Sometimes with someone of that caliber, it’s almost like a chore to get them to do things, especially if it’s out of their comfort zone,” Gattelli said. “But he was the exact opposite—he wanted to go and go and go and do it over and over.” Chalamet hadn’t previously studied tap, among the hardest forms of dance to learn, but once he gained his confidence, Gattelli said, he couldn’t get him to stop. “He would Skype with his mom and his grandma, just to show them, because you could tell that he was genuinely proud of himself.” Of what he was picking up, but also of the way he was sort of carrying on this family tradition from his grandmother and mother—both trained Broadway dancers. “He would joke about it—like ‘It’s in my blood!’ And I was like: It is. It literally is.”

( November 2023 issue of GQ Magazine )

[visit-new-york]

Meadow near 91st and Central Park West

Meadow near 91st and Central Park West

Central Park West, often abbreviated as CPW, is a prominent and prestigious avenue located along the western edge of Central Park in Manhattan, New York City. It is one of the city's most iconic and sought-after residential addresses, known for its historical significance, architectural grandeur, and cultural importance. Here are some key details about Central Park West:

Location: Central Park West runs parallel to Central Park, starting at 59th Street in the south and extending to 110th Street (also known as Cathedral Parkway) in the north. It forms the western boundary of Central Park and offers stunning views of the park's landscape.

Historical Significance: Central Park West is lined with a diverse array of architectural styles and historic buildings, many of which date back to the late 19th and early 20th centuries. It is often considered a showcase of New York City's architectural history.

Architectural Diversity: Along Central Park West, you'll find a mix of architectural styles, including Beaux-Arts, Renaissance Revival, Art Deco, and more. Notable buildings include The Dakota, The San Remo, The Eldorado, and The Beresford, all of which are famous for their architectural splendor and the notable residents who have called them home.

Cultural Institutions: Central Park West is home to several renowned cultural institutions, including the American Museum of Natural History, one of the largest and most prestigious natural history museums in the world. The Museum of Arts and Design (MAD) and the New-York Historical Society are also located along this avenue.

Residential Prestige: Central Park West has long been associated with luxury living. The buildings along this avenue often feature spacious apartments with park views, elegant pre-war details, and a high level of service. Many notable individuals, including celebrities and business moguls, have chosen to reside in this area.

Transportation: Central Park West is well-connected to the rest of Manhattan via public transportation. It is served by several subway lines, including the A, B, C, D, and 1 trains, making it relatively easy to access other parts of the city.

Scenic Beauty: Residents and visitors of Central Park West enjoy breathtaking views of Central Park, with its lush greenery, serene lakes, and iconic landmarks. The proximity to the park provides a sense of tranquility and natural beauty amidst the bustling city.

Cultural and Entertainment Events: Due to its proximity to Central Park and its cultural institutions, Central Park West is often a focal point for cultural and entertainment events, including parades, concerts, and film screenings.

Real Estate: Real estate along Central Park West is highly sought after and can command some of the highest prices in the city. The area is known for its co-op and condominium buildings, each with its own unique character and charm.

Historic Preservation: Many of the buildings along Central Park West are designated as New York City landmarks or are part of historic districts, ensuring their preservation and protection. This commitment to preserving the architectural heritage of the avenue contributes to its enduring charm.

Cultural Impact: Central Park West has been featured prominently in literature, film, and television, further cementing its status as an iconic New York City location. The Dakota, in particular, gained worldwide fame as the residence of John Lennon and Yoko Ono and was the site of Lennon's tragic shooting in 1980.

Parks and Recreation: In addition to Central Park itself, the avenue offers access to several smaller parks and green spaces, making it a desirable place for residents who value outdoor activities and leisure.

Educational Institutions: Central Park West is also home to some educational institutions, including the Fiorello H. LaGuardia High School of Music & Art and Performing Arts, renowned for its performing arts programs.

Shopping and Dining: The avenue features a mix of upscale shops, restaurants, and cafes, offering residents and visitors a range of dining and shopping options within walking distance.

Central Park West Parades: Central Park West is a popular route for parades and processions in New York City. One of the most famous parades is the annual Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade, which passes through this avenue on its way to Herald Square.

Transportation Hub: Central Park West provides convenient access to various transportation options, making it easy for residents to explore other parts of Manhattan and beyond. It's also a popular location for taxi and rideshare pick-ups.

Community and Neighborhood: The avenue is surrounded by vibrant neighborhoods, including the Upper West Side and Morningside Heights. These neighborhoods offer a mix of cultural attractions, dining, and shopping options that enhance the quality of life for those living on or near Central Park West.

In summary, Central Park West is a quintessential New York City avenue known for its historical significance, architectural beauty, cultural institutions, and luxurious residential offerings. It provides residents and visitors with a unique blend of urban living and access to the natural beauty and cultural richness of Central Park.

Central Park West remains a symbol of New York City's cultural and architectural richness, offering a blend of history, luxury, and natural beauty. Whether you're strolling along the avenue, enjoying the views of Central Park, or exploring the cultural institutions and dining options, Central Park West provides a unique and enriching experience in the heart of Manhattan.

[lixzey]

The Story of Us.

Best Friends

Timothée raised his eyebrows, his green eyes sparkling as he looked at me.

“That's not too far from where I live. I live in Hell's Kitchen.” He leaned in a little, making sure I could hear him in the crowded room “I live in the federally subsidized apartment building, Manhattan Plaza, you know.” He chuckled softly, scratching the back of his head.

“Yeah, just twenty minutes away. I heard famous artists live there.” I chuckled

He chuckled. “Yeah, some do.” A faint blush covered his face, “I'm gonna be a big actor someday, like Leonardo DiCaprio.” 

He leaned closer to me and whispered softly so that only I could hear him. “I'm gonna be the star of the next big blockbuster movie when I’m all grown up.”

“I bet you will.” I chuckled, patting him on his hand. He looked at me with sparkling eyes, his head slightly tilted to the side.

“What are you gonna be when you grow up, Y/n?” He asked. “Are you gonna be a big famous actor like me someday?” He chuckled softly. “Maybe you'll star with me in one of my movies.”

“I don't know, I guess a writer? I mean I love to write poems and stories. Though, I love to act too.” I shrugged. I didn't really know what I wanted to be. My parents always wanted me to become an actress, they made me attend workshops, and made me apply to LaGuardia, but I wanted to be a writer. 

“Maybe you can write one of my movies someday?” Timothée shrugged, a big smile on his face. “Or I could be the star of a movie you wrote. How about that?” He chuckled softly, his green eyes sparkling.  It's making it hard not to stare at him when he looks at me like that.

“Maybe.” I chuckled. 

A big smile covered his face. “I know it sounds silly, but I know it's gonna happen. I can feel it.” He sighed, his eyes glittering.

“I really wanna be someone like Leonardo DiCaprio or, like, Johnny Depp, you know?” He seemed shy talking about it, his voice was soft.

“If I'd be an actress, I want to be like Anne Hathaway.” I smiled as I thought about my favorite actress. I absolutely loved her in The Devil Wears Prada and in the Princess Diares made me fall in love with her. 

He raised his eyebrows. “Anne Hathaway?” He looked over at me, “I bet you'll be even better than Anne Hathaway when you grow up, Y/n.” He smiled softly.

“But I'm not pretty enough to get roles.” I shrugged. He seemed surprised I said that, “Oh please, you're beautiful!” He chuckled and giving me a small wink. “With your talent and your looks, you will be a star someday just like Anne Hathaway, I'm sure of it.” He seemed confident I was going to be the next big actress.

“You don't even know if I'm talented,” I  chuckled, “I mean we only just met.”

He placed a hand over his heart, his eyes twinkling. “I have a pretty good instinct when it comes to people, and I just have a feeling about you.” He smiled, his voice was sweet and calming. “Besides, you won't know unless you try, right?” He looked over at me, his head slightly tilted to the side.

“When's your birthday?” I asked, changing the subject. 

He looked surprised that I suddenly asked him that question. “You want to know when I was born?” He chuckled softly. “Um, it's December 27, 1995. Why?” He seemed curious, a faint smile on his face.

“I'm older, October 19th 1995.” I smirked.  

“Oh really?” He chuckled, looking at me with a curious expression. “I didn't realize I was talking to a big, older girl!” He teased, his smile growing wider.

He raised his eyebrows. “Does that mean you can boss me around?”

“Maybe,” I giggled, “Do you want me to boss you around?”

He looked at me, his head slightly tilted to the side. “Yes please.” He said, his voice being cheeky and playful. “I love being bossed around by older, powerful women.”  A smirk covered his face.

“How do you even pronounce your name?” I asked with a cheeky smile. 

“Oh, my name…” He scratched the back of his head. “You say it like ‘tee-moh-tay’.” He chuckled softly. “It's French, so it's a little tricky for some people.” 

He looked at me apologetically, his smile returning. “I know it can be a tricky name to say, I mean my last name is Chalamet.” He laughed softly.

“So, you're french?” I raised my eyebrows at him.

“Yes, yes I am.” He nodded and smiled confidently. “My dad is French and my mother is American.”

He smiled proudly as he mentioned his parents, “Um… yeah, that's why I speak a little bit of French too.” He chuckled softly, his green eyes glittering.

“French boy, huh? Do you like escargot, since you know, you're french?” I teased. 

“Escargot?” He chuckled before shaking his head, a grin covering his face. “No thank you. There's no way I'm going to eat those slimy snails.” He shrugged. “I mean I'm French but I'm still a New Yorker after all. But, I do like croissants though.” 

“You're funny.” I giggled. 

“I know.” He smirked. “You wanna hear a joke?” He chuckled. 

“Go on, frenchie.” I chuckled.

“Don't call me that.” He laughed

His eyes twinkled with humour. “Do you want to know why you should never trust stairs?” He looked over at me with a cheeky expression, his head slightly tilted to the side. “Because they are always up to something.” He laughed softly, thinking he was hilarious. I giggled, it was a bit corny but in a silly, fun way.

“I know, I know, silly joke, but still funny.” He chuckled softly and brushed his hair out of his face.

I like this side of him, I thought as I studied his face.

“I think we're going to be best friends.” He chuckled. 

“Oh, yeah? You want to be like besties?” I raised my eyebrow at him.

He looked at me with a wide grin on his face. “I thought we already were besties.” He smirked and tilted his head to the side with a hint of playfulness.

“Yeah, um, I guess we are.” I nodded, feeling my heart race a bit when he said that. “I mean I don’t mind if we're best friends. It's cool!” I chuckled nervously. 

I liked the sound of his voice, it was so soft, it was calming. It's no wonder why so many girls were looking at him, I couldn't help but stare at him when he looked at me. 

I laughed, looking back at him, “Yeah, I guess you're right.” I nodded. “You're the first person who actually acknowledged me when I walked in the classroom today.” I suddenly felt my cheeks heat up again.

“I mean… I just feel… comfortable talking to you.” I said sheepishly, “Do you believe people are put into your life for a reason?” I asked.

“I think so.” He nodded. “If there is a God, or a higher power, or whatever, then yeah I believe we are meant to meet people for a reason.” He looked over at me with a wide grin on his face. “Do you believe in destiny?” He asked.

“Um…” I looked down at my hands as I nervously fidgeted with my fingers, “I've never really thought much about it.” I shook my head.* “Maybe that's just me being a realist. I don't know…”

“Do you believe in destiny?” I returned his question, looking at him with curiousity. “Do you think that everything that happens was always meant to happen? Or that some things just happen and we should not question it?”

His head was slightly tilted to the side as he started to think about my question. “I mean, if everything is already set in stone then I guess it would mean there's no free will.” Timothée shrugged, his eyes were glittering with curiosity. “But I believe in free will, and I'm able to choose where I'm going in life.” He sighed and looked at me, his voice calm and collected.  

“Well, then I guess that means we meet people for a reason.” He shrugged, thinking about it for a moment. “I know that my dreams of being famous and an actor are gonna happen, that's my fate because I want it to be.” He smiled, his green eyes sparkling in the sunlight. 

“I've already made up my mind on it, just like you were meant to be my best friend.” He smirked and winked at me. “Some things just happen, some things don't, and some thing you chose to, you know? We learn something from them or something happens from them and they shape us for the future.”

“You do make a good point,” I nodded. “I mean there's times in my life that I've thought, ‘man, do I really believe in destiny?’ Or ‘what if this is just a big coincidence?’” I chuckled softly, still smiling. “But then, I think maybe, you know, I shouldn’t think about it too much and just enjoy what’s happening now.” I shrugged.

“Like us, for example.” I laughed and looked at him. “And just like that, we're best friends.”

He looked at me, a genuine smile on his face. He nodded, “Best friends…” He let out a small sigh as his eyes twinkled. “It's so funny because when I woke up this morning, I didn't think that by the end of the day that I would meet a new best friend.” 

He looked over at me and then looked out the classroom window. “It's like everything happens as it's meant to… you know what I mean?”

I nodded, “You're right. Sometimes I think about that too. Like maybe I met you for a reason?” I paused, looking at him hesitantly, “Um, not that you’re some kind of divine being or anything…” I chuckled nervously.

I looked back at the classroom window, then back at him. “But maybe… you know, you were meant to meet me.” I muttered softly.

“It's like the universe knew what to do.” Timothée looked back at me, smiling softly. “I mean, what are the odds of meeting you in this exact moment? This exact place.”

He raised his eyebrows, “I mean… what if we went into different classrooms?” He chuckled, “Then we might not be talking right now. Might not have become best friends.”

I giggled at his theory. “I guess the universe knew it was the right time to put us in this classroom together.” I placed my hand on my chin, thinking about his question.

“What if we sat in different seats?” I thought out loud, “Maybe I wouldn’t have caught your eye?” I smiled. I liked talking to him, I liked these hypotheticals. “I guess we'll never know.” I shrugged.

“This is true.” He looked over at me with a grin on his face.

He chuckled and brushed his hair from his face. “And if I didn’t sit next to you in this class, maybe I wouldn't have noticed you in the hallways either?” He thought out loud. He took a deep breath as a realization hit him. “I might never have been friends with the most amazing person I’ve ever met in my life, and that’s kind of hard to imagine.” He smiled, nodding. 

“From now on, I'm calling you Timmy. Timo-TAY is too obnoxious.” I chucked

“So you're giving me nickname, huh?” He asked with a smirk. He laughed, placing his hands together. “I guess you can call me Tim, or Timmy, or whatever you like.” He was trying to hold back laughter. “Just don't call me Frenchie.”

“Nope, still going to call you Frechie.” I chuckled, “Frenchie Timmy.”

Timmy let out a soft groan, looking at me, he then burst out laughing at my comment. “Frenchie Timmy.” He shook his head. “Why must you do this to me?” He teased playfully. 

He laughed again, smiling softly. “Well, if the Frenchie nickname sticks around, I'll just have to find something to call you then." He smirked.

“Good luck with that, Frenchie.” I giggled.

“Y/n, you’re such a dork.” He tilted his head to the side and smiled. He placed a hand on his chin. “Hey, maybe I could come up with a special nickname for you, you know?” *He smirked.

He leaned back and thought for a moment. “Hmm... Y/n/n.” He nodded, chuckling as he did. “Yeah, you’re Y/n/n now.” He grinned at me. 

“Whatever you say, Frenchie.” I giggled.

Who would've thought I'd be friends with the boy I just met?