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ladykailitha · 22 days ago

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Steve's Family Christmas

Hello and welcome to my Christmas AUvent Calendar! Every day from now until the 24th I will be posting a ficlet that is 500-1500 from an AU I've done over the years.

All stories will be marked with the tag #12 aus of christmas so you can follow along as I will only be tagging my permanent list for this (it would get too confusing otherwise).

The next one on our list is: Grief (a Friend Indeed). You can read the first story here. All links will be to the first chapter, but the chapter itself will have links to the rest of the story.

Day 1 Day 2 Day 3

Steve was sure that his house never had so many people in it the entire time its stood in Loch Nora.

Most of Eddie’s family was here, Penny and Danny, Lauren, Oliver, and Gale. While Danny’s brother Hal was staying with Eddie and Wayne. His uncles Percy and David Kincade were in his parents old room. Penny and Danny were in the guest room across from the master bedroom, while Lauren and Gale shared the guest room next to his bedroom. Oliver was put in the basement next to the game room.

He was looking at about half of them sprawled out over the sofas in the living room with utter helplessness.

David came up and put his hand on Steve’s shoulder. “Don’t worry about all this, Percy and I will help keep the chaos to a minimum. Just rely on us, okay?”

Steve let out a long sigh and nodded.

The other members of the Munson clan were set to join them at any minute so they could go over the Secret Santa rules and let everyone pull a name out of a hat. And if you got someone you didn’t know well there was a poster in the kitchen that had a cheat sheet of people’s likes, dislikes, and any allergies they might have.

Everything was primed to go smoothly. Which was precisely why Steve was so nervous. He didn’t know everyone very well, but those he did? Thrived on chaos.

It took all of five minutes for a fight to break out between the Nelsons and the Kincades.

“I’m just saying that there should be maximum amount,” Penny was saying, “that way the kids can still get their Secret Santa a gift and not see someone else get something outrageous like a new car or sports equipment, something ridiculous.”

“Money is no object,” Percy said dryly, crossing his legs leveling her with a glare. “I have no trouble giving someone the money they need if they want to get an extravagant gift.”

“And I’m saying that they shouldn’t have to,” Penny argued. “Because if you’re just going to give everyone the money then we might as well just buy everyone a gift, no holds barred.”

David shook his head. “That’s not the argument you think it is. It’s what Percy and I wanted to do in the first place.”

Penny blinked at him for a moment, mouth opening and closing without sound coming out at all.

“I have the perfect solution!” Steve said before the tension could mount further. Everyone turned to Steve. “You can spend however much you want–” there was a bunch of grumbling from the Nelsons and Percy and David looked too smug for words, “but! You have to make it yourself. It has to be homemade. You can’t buy it, you can’t pay someone to make it for you. You have to make it yourself.”

“Oh,” Percy purred. “That is elegant. I approve.”

Penny and Danny shared a concerned look, but they really didn’t have an argument against it.

“I’m down,” Wayne said, “I think it’s a great idea. Gets everyone thinking outside the box and sure, some crafts are going be more expensive, like painting or knitting. Or even woodworking, which is what I’m going to be doing. Is borrowing equipment allowed, Steve?”

“Sure is!” Steve said with a grin. “As is renting it as long as the finished product is something you made, it counts. Writing songs, poems, stories totally count too. It’s something you made.”

Eddie grinned up at his boyfriend. He could have drawn something in a pinch, but letting him write a song? That would be even better. “I’m sold!”

Steve breathed a sigh of relief at a crisis well and truly averted.

If Steve thought it was chaotic with a dozen people, adding almost double that made for a wild time that’s for sure.

There were two Secret Santas planned. One for Eddie and Steve’s families and one for all the friends. Eddie had the worst luck and gotten both Oliver and Mike.

“Normally, I’d say just buy two copies of the same album,” Steve suggested, “and just wrap them differently so you know which is which, but...”

“I have to make something for Oliver,” Eddie huffed.

Steve kissed the top of his head. “You’ll think of something. You always do.”

“Yeah, sure Mr. Lucky over here,” he groused. “You got me for the family gift giving and Robin for the friend. You have this in the bag!”

Steve did feel bad about that one. But he picked last, no one could claim he cheated. He had already bought Robin a couple of books on cinema and film making. She had gotten a video camera from her parents on her birthday and thought herself the next Martha Coolidge. For Eddie, he had gotten the recipe for his favorite spice cookies from Wayne was planning on making him a box of them.

The day arrived and the gifts were handed out. Steve had gotten a small stainglass picture of the sun and the moon from David.

“I cut the pieces of glass and welded the metal together,” David explained. “I assume it counts.”

“It’s beautiful!” Steve gasped and gave him a hug for it.

Eddie was happily munching on his cookies and swatting away anyone who tried to sneak one.

Everyone was happy with their gifts and even Penny had to admit that homemade had made for some very thoughtful gifts. Even if, as with David’s gift to Steve, it must have cost a lot of money.

Wayne came up to Steve as the blended families showed off their gifts to each other and just having a good time.

He placed his hand on Steve’s shoulder. “You did good, Steve.”

“It’s nice to have all my family around for the holidays,” he murmured. “And I consider the Munson and Nelson clans as family.”

“You thinkin’ about marrying into the family?” Wayne teased with a grin.

“If it was legal,” Steve said with an answering grin, “I’d do it tomorrow. Or, you know when the county offices opened again after New Years.”

“Well,” Wayne said, “I’d be happy to have you in the family and I even like your uncles, too. It’s nice seeing that boy so happy.”

Steve looked over at Eddie who smiled up at him. Then he came bounding up to them.

“Stevie!” he said brightly. “Come help me convince Oliver to come to the friends’ do so he can meet Mike.”

Steve laughed and let Eddie haul him back into the crowd.

Hal came up beside Wayne. “It may have taken a death in the family to bring us all together but I think your mom would have been proud today.”

Wayne smiled, tears misting his eyes. “I think she would have, too.”

“Merry Christmas,” Hal murmured.

It certainly was that.

Day 5 Day 6 Day 7 Day 8 Day 9 Day 10 Day 11 Day 12

Tag List: CLOSED

1- @itsall-taken @redfreckledwolf @zerokrox-blog @sadisticaltarts @dolphincliffs

2- @gregre369 @a-little-unsteddie @chaosgremlinmunson @cryptid-system @kultiras

3- @maya-custodios-dionach @goodolefashionedloverboi @val-from-lawrence @carlyv @wonderland-girl143-blog

4- @bookbinderbitch @bookworm0690 @forgottenkanji @dreamercec @blondie1006

5- @yikes-a-bee @awkwardgravity1 @genderless-spoon @fearieshadow @thesecondfate

6- @dragonmama76 @ellietheasexylibrarian @thedragonsaunt @useless-nb-bisexual @disrespectedgoatman

7- @counting-dollars-counting-stars @tinyplanet95 @ravenfrog @swimmingbirdrunningrock @lingeringmirth

8- @gutterflower77 @a-lovely-craziness @just-a-tiny-void @w1ll0wtr33 @beelze-the-bubkiss

#my writing #stranger things #steddie #ladykailtiha writes #the 12 aus of christmas

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eggyrocks · 8 months ago

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rot: h. iwaizumi

chapter one -> a favor

word count: 6.1k

(masterlist ; written content ; taglist)

Her apartment is a piece of shit.

Rot has set in its bones, a permanent stench of musk and mold seeped into its walls. The bathroom is perpetually wet, and pieces of the ceiling frequently chip off and fall into her coffee. And it doesn’t help that there’s half smoked cigarette buds littered everywhere or greased soaked take out containers spilling out of the trash she’s too lazy to take out. But she doesn’t have it in her to blame herself. It was shit when she got here-there was hardly any motivation for her to take care of it.

Paint chips from the window as she struggles to jerk it open, muttering curses with a lit cigarette between her lips. The landlady has given her shit before about the smell of smoke that drifts out into the halls, and now she has to muscle open the painted-shut window in order to avoid her ire. She figures the old hag just wants something to complain about. There’s years of ash yellowing the walls; if she went at it long enough with some disinfectant spray and a roll of paper towels, she’d eventually reach the original, creamy white color of the walls.

She’s not the first smoker to rent the one-bedroom. She certainly won’t be the last.

Her teeth grind together, and her hands are starting to cramp, struggling against the wood. The apartment might be a piece of shit, but it’s the only piece of shit she’s got, and she’s not about to ruin it by pissing off some temperamental old lady. If she wants the smell of smoke gone, the smell of smoke is going to be gone (and what, is she supposed to climb down three flights of stairs to smoke on the steps outside every time she wants to light up? Please).

With one final grunt, she’s able to fling the window open, nearly losing a finger as she does so. There’s no screen, and the windowsill is decorated with years’ worth of grime, dust, and bug corpses. Distaste furls on her lip, and she holds the cigarette out the window, arm suspended in the air.

The night is cool and refreshing as it floats into her humid room. It’s always nicer outside than it is in her piece of shit apartment, and if she weren’t so convinced someone in this neighborhood wouldn’t hesitate to climb through any open window they could find (third floor or not), she’d leave it open all the time.

She flicks the end of her cigarette, and ash floats from the tip down to the sidewalk below. This isn’t really what she imagined when she imagined leaving. Her nose twitches, and she brings the cigarette to her lips. Chain-smoking and picking mold off bread and trying to lure in street cats to kill off rats that make their way up from the basement.

Leaving should look different. It shouldn’t have a sickly green tint to it. It shouldn’t be this distorted.

Her liberated life had played out so nicely in her head. Leaving would be the last hard part. She had figured, naively, that once the rot was cut from her, it would be the end to it. There’d be no more problems. It would be easy to be on her own. It would be easy to take care of herself. It would be easy to live in a shit apartment and work a shit job and make shit money and live off shit food and shit coffee and shit cigarettes. It was alone on the train platform, everything she owned stuffed into a single suitcase, that she realized she was dead fucking wrong.

She’s taken to keeping track of her problems with a numbered list.

If it weren’t for the dead bugs, she’d lean out the window, try to get the window to catch her hair. She’d get a good look at the street and the people who stumble through it. But instead, her arm goes sore, and she stares at the yellow wall in front of her.

Every day since she’s been here has been the same. An embarrassingly monotonous groundhog’s day.

In the morning, she wakes up to the sound of songbirds and the dogs in the apartment below her that continuously bark at them. At night, she falls asleep to the sound of whatever is going on in the apartment is going on above her: harsh footsteps, crashes, the occasional breaking of glass. In between, her mind numbs, and she mindlessly works the shift of whatever job she’s managed to get for the week.

She’s run through more jobs than she can count (she gets fired by anyone who makes the mistake of hiring her, problem #2). The grocery store fired her after she called a customer an ugly bitch at the end of a dispute over the price of plums (rage issues, problem #6). The restaurant she served tables at stopped putting her on the schedule after she called in sick one too many Fridays in a row (habitual liar, problem #11; chronic laziness, problem #5). The babysitting gigs she just stopped showing up to (she can’t stand to be around kids, and they can’t stand to be around her, at least she doesn’t have a problem with that).

Her current employment is at a video store. That she seems to be able to manage. At least better than all the other ones she’s had. And it’s easy enough. Rent out DVDs. Collect late fees. Let your eyes gloss over whenever someone starts to run their mouth at you. Beg your managers for extra hours so you can pay all of your bills this month (problem #1, tied in pretty directly to problem #2).

A sigh escapes her. The cigarettes burns down closer to her fingers. A piece of shit apartment, and she can hardly afford it.

Her head turns, and she eyes the living room behind her, surveying the cramped kitchen and the rotting front door just beyond it. Her eyes are lingering on the dull, brass locks that keep her door in place. She thinks that she should install new ones, invest in something more secure. And it’s because she’s fixated on those locks that she sees the door rattle as someone slams their fist against it.

The noise makes her jump, and she hastily puts her cigarette out on the window, leaving it to blow away in the wind. She just a few long strides, her hand is around her doorknob, and she’s cursing the lack of a peephole and figures that’ll give her something to complain about with her landlady. She unlocks the deadbolt but lets the chain lock stay where it is. She opens the door just enough to get a look at whoever’s on the other side.

It's her neighbor. Upstairs. She blinks.

There are three things she knows about her neighbor:

His name. Iwaizumi Hajime. She’s heard his perpetual guests call it out enough to have it committed to memory, as well as the names: Mattsun, Makki, and Oikawa (see also: Shittykawa, Crappykawa, various-one-worded-insults-Kawa). But Iwaizumi is for certain the one she’s heard most, both though bouts of laughter and panic yelling.

He has a very careful routine. He’s religious about it. She can hear his footsteps as he follows the same 24-hours daily. In the morning he’s always gone by the time she wakes up. At night, he’s out smoking on the front step when she comes home. And in between-

Whatever it is that he’s doing in that upstairs apartment, it’s none of her business. She has her ideas. She has her clues that she chooses not to see. But she won’t even let herself think about it, nevermind say it out loud. Whatever it is, she doesn’t need to know. It is not her business.

The first time she saw him, he was smoking a pack of blues on the front steps that led into their apartment building. His black jeans were worn in, and his sweatshirt had tears in the sleeves. A dark purple bruised blossomed along his jawline, fading into a lighter blue as it crept up his skin, and into a sickly yellow when it stopped under his cheekbone. The shape of it distorted when he dropped his jaw to let out smoke. She slowed in her approach at the sight of him and averted her gaze. It wasn’t any of her business.

The first time she saw him, he didn’t say anything. He just watched as she rummaged through her bag in search of her keys, careful not to brush against him as she passed him on the steps. She pretended she couldn’t feel him staring.

Her interactions with Iwaizumi Hajime, neighbor, have always been uneventful. At most, he will give her a slight nod of his chin in greeting as she approaches, but usually he just watches as she fiddles with her keys or pretends to be furiously texting, thumbs aggressively slamming against the keys (the text with no set recipient usually reading: aaaajjdewppgaa).

But even with their nothing interactions, she still would find herself thinking of him. As she popped another plastic meal into her microwave, she would think of his hands: long and veiny and cut up fingers holding up a cigarette, knuckles red and raw and forever scabbed over. When she deleted voicemails, she thought of his eyes, sharp and observant and a shade of green she finds perplexing. She thought of where he might be as she took out the trash. She started to look for the outline of him as she got closer to home.

She chalked it up to the loneliness.

The more she thought of him, the more she noticed him. His new bruises. The way his footsteps sounded late at night. How his voice rose in agitation when he spoke into the receiver of his phone, words muffled by the thin floorboards and drywall between her apartment and his. She noticed the unusual hours he kept and the way his most frequent guests always looked over their shoulders on their way out. She noticed heavy looking boxes covered in thick blankets going in and out of his place.

And she’s not stupid. It didn’t take very long for her to piece it together and resolve to stop noticing him (she can’t, as hard as she tries, and feels she knows entirely too much about him, problem #4).

She notices, now, the way his mouth is pressed into a fine line, a fresh laceration that spreads across the bridge of his nose. His expression is composed but there’s a panicked movement in his eyes, flashing over the details of her face that he can see through the crack of the door. She raises an eyebrow at him. “I need a favor,” he says, speaking directly to her for the first time, slightly out of breath and words strung together in a rush.

She blinks again.

★⋆. ࿐࿔

Her thought process is convoluted. She’s still working on justifying it to herself as she stands on the tips of her toes, trying not to shrink under his stare as her fingers clean his open wounds, the tips of them now stained with his blood.

It’s the path of least resistance, she tells herself. Really, there was no good reason or excuse to deny him, and she couldn’t exactly give him the bare faced truth of, “no, I think you’re a gunrunner and I don’t want to be involved in that shit, thanks.” And even if she did, or could come up with any other excuse to slam her door in her neighbor’s face, she figured it would be better to be on the good side of Iwaizumi Hajime, neighbor and potential arm’s dealer.

So she opened her door for him, and told herself that it’s better to be owed a favor than it is to owe one.

Hands steady, she applies a skin-toned bandage to the deep cut over his nose, an extra pad of cotton underneath it. She thinks it might need stiches, but that’s not an opinion she’s about to voice out loud to him.

She steps back and moves to wash the blood off of her hands in her kitchen sink, lathering her hands up with extra soap and running them under water so hot it turns her skin red. The water hits the sink a rusty color. Iwaizumi lingers, standing in the same spot, watching attentively as she does so. “Want a tea?” she asks as she turns off the faucet, wiping her wet hands off on the front of her jeans.

Without looking back at him, she moves about her cabinets, opening one to find her (frankly, pathetic) collection of mugs. She pulls out one with a chipped-up, knock-off version of Pikachu (a yellow rat-looking thing called “Ponkadu” with the iconic catchphrase, “ponka, ponka,”) and another with unsettling, discolored cats, knocking around a ball of orange yarn that she's fairly certain used to be red. “Ginger, if you have it,” he responds, still standing unsurely in the middle of her kitchen.

She glances at him over her shoulder. “You can sit down, if you want.”

Mechanically and awkwardly, he does so. The floorboards complain under his shifting weight and the chair squeaks as he pulls it out from under her table. It’s only quiet again when he settles back against the chair, going still. “You’re not gonna ask me what happened?” he asks.

It takes a few twists of the knob for her to finally get the flame on her stove going. She places her kettle on top of it, and rips into her tea bags. “Nope,” she answers. He gets ginger. She gets green. He gets the cats. She gets Ponkadu.

She can feel the way he watches her as she moves about the kitchen, putting a dot of honey in the bottom of her mug. He hasn’t asked her name, yet, which she figures is fair. She hasn’t asked his. And he’s probably seen it on the envelopes that get haphazardly tossed on their front steps or slipped under their front door (and he probably knows just as much about her as she does him, considering that more than half of the envelopes with her name on them have a big red stamp of “payment overdue,” or “bill enclosed”).

The kettle on the stove hisses, and she’s quick to snatch it up and pour the boiling water into each of their respective mugs. “How long do you need to stay?” she asks, not meaning to be rude, but she’s pretty sure it comes across that way anyways. She sets a timer on the oven for four minutes and turns to face him.

Iwaizumi shrugs. “Just for a bit, while things cool down,” is his uncomplicated answer.

She nods, arms wrapping around her middle as she leans against the counter, waiting for the teas to brew. There are questions she could ask that she’s sure he’s anticipating, but she doesn’t bother, she knows the answer. (Q: Why can’t you just hide out in your own apartment? A: I need the alibi. Q: Why’d you come to my apartment? A: Location convenience and believability. Q: Could I get in trouble for being involved with this? A: Probably).

Her fingers tap against her side, and her eyes are anywhere but on him. And despite reaching into the deepest, dustiest parts of her brain, she cannot think of one thing to say to him. There aren’t really any standard conversational topics to whip out when your neighbor/local arms trafficker (alleged) knocks on your door and asks if he can stay there for just a few hours, he promises, and also maybe a Band-Aid, if you have one.

It doesn’t help that she feels unbearably vulnerable with him, sitting at her dining room table (okay, it’s a kitchen table; a wobbly little thing pushed off to the side of her kitchen, but calling it a dining room table makes her feel better), looking at her, looking at her living space. She wasn’t anticipating guests, not that she ever gets any.

Everything she owns is splayed out on display for him to see. Dirty socks on the couch that she kicked off while watching late-night reruns. A stack of CD’s piling up on the ground, unopened because she doesn’t actually own a CD player. Dishes with remnants of ketchup and soy sauce and chocolate ice cream on the bottom of her sink. Loose cigarettes. Dozens of dead lighters. Mismatched furniture, curtsey of sidewalk disposals and secondhand stores. It’s a flagrant display of poverty and laziness.

Iwaizumi nods his chin towards the least offense thing he can find: the pile of CDs. “Those all yours?”

She thinks it’s a stupid question. Of course they’re hers. This is her apartment. Everything is hers. But the most complex form of conversation she could come up with to break the silence was, ‘tea?’ so she can’t really hold it against him. “Yeah,” she answers, and then adds without thinking, “got most of them from my brother,” (problem #9, she just says anything without ever thinking about it).

He stands from his creaky chair and creeps closer to the display. She holds her breath as he approaches. One wrong exhale and the entire pile will go toppling. Iwaizumi kneels down next to the pile, and his looking at the spine of them. His brow his furrowed as his eyes skim over the album names, and she’s anticipating some sort of string of critiques about her collection, or lack of. “Anything you like there?” she asks.

Iwaizumi straightens up and looks back over at her. “Gotta be honest, I don’t know any of these,” he admits, moving to sit back at his designated spot.

This makes her scoff. Her brother had started a worldwide sort of collection. Japanese synth-pop. Ethiopian jazz. Russian new wave. British post-punk. American folk. The rarer and more obscure, the better. If he could hear now that her neighbor and possible weapons dealer was stumped by his collection, he’d be overjoyed. Even if she has added a fair few of Hikaru Utada albums since she’s taken it over.

“What do you listen to then?” she asks, arms still crossed around her center, as if she’s shielding herself from him.

“Just whatever’s on the radio when I drive, I guess,” Iwaizumi answers with a shrug. “Not really a big music person, typically.”

For a moment, she tries to imagine whatever could be happening outside her door while he sits at her kitchen table, nursing a potentially broken nose and casually discussing music preferences. She gives him a nod. “That’s fair.”

Iwaizumi taps his thumb against the top of her table. She can’t read his expression. Every time she’s seen him it’s always been the same, like he’s permanently plagued by some minor annoyance that downturns his brow and pulls his lips into a slight frown. It’d be intimidating if she wasn’t so used to that kind of thing. “Wanna play something?” he asks.

Involuntarily, she scoffs. “Get me something to play ‘em with and I’ll play you whatever you want,” she snarks, and then stops. The smart smirk she had on her lips falls, and she shakes her head. “Sorry, that was rude. I don’t,” she starts, and then stops, “nothing to play ‘em on.”

The oven clock, gracious with its timing, beeps three times. She spins around on her heel, turning it off and using a spoon to fish out the tea bags. Her cheeks are red as she grabs his cat mug by the handle and walks it over to him. “Ginger,” she says, placing it down on the table in front of him. “”S hot,” she says, and then thinks, obviously.

She returns to the safe space of her kitchen counter, and grips her own hot mug around the middle, leaning against the counter and holding it up to her lips. She’s blowing away the steam that rises from it. Iwaizumi has a hand around the handle of the mug, and he’s staring down harshly at it. “So, listen, if someone asks you-“

“You were here with me all night,” she replies, and Iwaizumi looks up at her with a raised eyebrow. “You met up with me after my shift ended at around nine, and then you crashed on my couch by midnight, if I remember right. You were still sleeping in that same spot when I woke up.”

Iwaizumi’s quiet for a while. His thumbs are fiddling against the mug. She slowly sips at her tea, and when it’s too hot still, she blows at the top of it. There’s a rhythm to the way he taps his foot against her floor, deep in thought, probably trying to decide whether or not he could trust her.

He can trust her. Even if he doesn’t know it. He looks over at her with a slight scowl. “And you’ll tell that to anyone who asks?”

She can read between the lines. The anyone he’s so worried about is, undoubtedly, the cops that might come to her to verify whatever version of events he presents to them. “Yeah,” she confirms, “anyone.”

★⋆. ࿐࿔

In the following weeks, she gets three visits. Which is three more visits than she got in her first six months of living here.

When she was a kid, her dad bought her a knife, and stuffed it in the bottom of her schoolbag. “You don’t ever leave the house without a way to defend yourself, bug,” he had told her, and made sure it was properly hidden by books and crumbled homework assignments. And it’s the only thing her father has ever taught her that has the slightest bit of validity to it. She’s rummaging through her purse on her way out, double checking for her pink cannister of pepper-spray and that same little knife, when there’s another knock on the door.

Her head snaps up, and she sighs. At this rate, she’s already gonna be late for work and her sixteen-year-old manager is going to write her up if she’s more than twenty minutes late one more time and she cannot think of a single more embarrassing scenario. One hand grips onto her pepper spray, the other undoes the deadbolt. She barely opens the door, and on the other side is a grinning man.

This one she recognizes. It’s one of the men who’s always in and out of Iwaizumi’s place. Sometimes occupying the front step with him and sometimes laughing so loudly she can hear it clearly from her living room. She closes the door, undoes the chain lock, and then opens it once more. Her fingers are still tight around the pepper spray, which she thinks is fair, considering he’s got both hands behind his back. “Can I help you?” she asks, trying not to sound agitated.

He grins down at her, brightly. He’s the pretty one. “Hey, I’m Oikawa Tooru,” he greets, a natural sort of flirtation in the tone of his voice. She can’t tell if he does it on purpose or not, but she can tell form the glint in his eye that, either way, he doesn’t mean it. “Iwa’s friend.”

She nods. “Yeah, I recognize you. Listen, I don’t wanna be rude or anything, but I’m late for work, so-“

“Don’t worry about it,” he dismisses. “Just wanted to give you this gift, from Iwa, since you helped him out the other night.”

He reveals his hands to show off a box, neat and fresh from the store. It’s unwrapped, so she can see right away that it’s a silver little CD player. Portable. Battery-powered. Batteries included. She blinks. “He’s real grateful,” he says, pushes the box into her arms and giving her a wink. And he doesn’t say anything else as he turns on his heel, headed straight for the staircase that leads up to Iwaizumi’s apartment.

She places the box on the kitchen table where Iwaizumi sat, and makes sure her door is locked three times before she finally leaves for work.

The entirety of her ten-hour shift is spent thinking about it. She processes returns, and she thinks about it. She stocks shelves, and she thinks about it. She gets yelled at, and she thinks about it. What she’s going to play first. Where she’s going to keep it. How she’s going to thank him.

It makes her nervous to think about, that he got it for her. That she sarcastically suggested it, and then he did it. It makes nervous to think that he was thinking of her after he left her apartment. It makes her nervous to think that he went out of his way to buy something for her. Even if he left it up to an errand boy.

And listen, it’s not like she’s never had the money to spare to buy one of her own. At least, she could’ve bought a really cheap one, if she wanted. But in her liberated life, she’s always found that there were more pressing, demanding things that needed to be bought. Food. Phone bills. Credits at the laundromat. Cleaning supplies. Train fare. Cigarettes. Every time she passed by an electronics store and considered it, guilt gnawed at her stomach. She never needed it as bad as she needed everything else.

She clocks out a few minutes later than she was supposed to. Maybe it’s a bit much for a thank you. All she really did, at this point, was let him sit in her piece of shit apartment for a few hours and make him a mediocre cup of tea. She thinks about giving it back. She’s not going to, but she thinks about it.

Iwaizumi is where he always is when she gets off of work, smoking the same cigarettes. And instead of ignoring him via fake text or difficult-to-find keys, she stops in front of him, painfully aware of the intensity of the stare. “Thank you,” she says, and it’s all she manages to say.

Iwaizumi brings the cigarette to his lips and inhales. There’s no bruises on him today. She looks at him and doesn’t feel the need to turn her gaze. “It was a gift to thank you with,” he says through clouds of smoke, “you don’t have to thank me.”

She shrugs. “I wanted to.”

He lets out a small chuckle. “Okay, well, you’re welcome then, I guess.”

She gives him a small nod, and then takes careful steps passed up the stairs and passed Iwaizumi. It’s only once she’s twisted her key and is pushing the door open with her shoulder that he says, “Remember though, this means you’ve gotta play me whatever I want, now.”

Inexplicably, her face gets hot.

The second one comes thirteen days after that.

She’s got a layer of sweat on the back of her neck and her hair’s pushed out of her face with a bandana. The CD player sits on top of her kitchen table, playing an old scratched up copy of London Calling: her brother’s favorite. The mess got to her. She had started in the kitchen, scrubbing the burnt food off of her oven and trashing her food-poisoning level of expired leftovers.

Somehow, in the thick of it, she’s made more of a mess than she started out with. Full trash bags falling over in her living room, useless knick-knacks she’s managed to collect that would be better off in the trash, piles of clothes she plans on getting rid of (divided into two groups: ‘maybe I can sell these,’ and ‘these would be best to donate,’).

Her hand is down the drain of her bathroom sink, cleaning out the gunk and collection of her own strands of hair, protected only by a thin, yellow, rubber glove, when the knock on her door echoes around her apartment. “Fucking hell,” she grumbles, yanking her arm out of the sink, along with a clump of her hair, and carefully slides off the glove. She leaves it on the surface of the sink to be a later problem.

When she opens the door, she’s tired and out of breath, her body sore and aching. The door cracks open, halted by the chain lock, and she goes cold and rigid at the sight a police officer, standing outside of her door. “Can I help you with something?” she asks, tone not necessarily impolite, but it’s hard not to hear just how much she does not want to help. The door can stay locked.

There’s a fair few things she’s learned about cops (and lying to them) in her twenty-something years of living. Keep your distance. Don’t give them more than they need. They’re not your friend. They don’t wanna be your friend. She’s careful to keep her expression level and unbothered.

The cop starts up with his spiel. He’s sorry to bother her, ma’am, but he just has a couple questions, if you don’t mind. It shouldn’t take up too much of your time. You don’t wanna open up the door, do you?

She opts to answer any questions he might have through the thin space allowed by her chain lock. And the cop asks the questions she would expect him to ask. Where was she fifteen nights ago? Was she alone? Who was she was? For how long? Does she remember what time, exactly? Was he here the whole time? Are you sure? Are you positive?

Answers flow out of her easily, naturally. Fifteen nights ago, she was here. Like most nights. No, she wasn’t alone. Her neighbor was here. Iwaizumi. He hangs out here with her, sometimes. For how long? All night, why are you asking? What time? Exactly, she doesn’t really remember. She got off work around nine, and he fell asleep on her couch, maybe a bit after midnight? If she had say. Yeah, he was here the whole time. Yeah, she’s sure. Yeah, she’s positive. Why are you asking?

The officer thanks her, disappointed, and leaves with his head hung, disappointed. And she figures that, whatever Iwaizumi did, they were sure that he did it. And the only thing that stands between them and him, is her. She closes the door behind her and makes sure that it’s locked.

That kind of thing, it doesn’t really bother her. Her sense of morality is not dictated by written law, and she’s not going to be the one getting in the way of another person’s living, whether it’s honest or not. There are hard lines she wouldn’t cross, or help others get over. Of course. There are for everyone. But those lines aren’t in sight, so she’ll keep her mouth shut.

A shudder goes down her spine, and once the door is closed, nerves prickle at her skin. She hates talking to cops. Every time’s worse than the last. She shakes her head, trying to shrug it off, and returns to her pile of hair in the sink.

Her third visit comes three nights later, when she’s fresh from the shower, water dripping from her hair down her neck. She’s got a pint of ice cream in her hand, legs crossed on her couch as she watches reruns of Inuyasha. She presses the spoon against her tongue. They’re airing season two, but she’s only caught up halfway through season one.

She got off work a few hours ago. She’ll sleep for a few hours. And then she’ll wake up and go back to work. Then it’ll happen again. Standing on her feet for hours. Getting talked to like she’s scum by people who take video rentals too seriously. Being belittled by her boss. Making barely enough money to pay rent for her shitty apartment. It’s depressing. It’s boring. She shoves another spoonful of ice cream into her mouth to try and distract herself from it.

“Whatever you think life’s gonna be like away from here, it’s gonna be worse than you think. And I bet, when you realize that, you’re really gonna start to miss me.”

On her television, human-faced fruit falls from a demon tree. She puts her ice cream down. At least she hasn’t got to that point yet.

From above, she can hear footsteps moving. She can hear his door open, and swing shut. She can hear him stomp down the stairs. Her head is already turned in his direction when his fist raises to knock on her door.

She shifts off the couch and steps towards her door. She undoes the deadbolt. She undoes the chain lock.

Iwaizumi greets her with a smile once she opens the door. He’s wearing a t-shirt that reveals the clear definition in his arms. Her eyes linger there for a second too long before they flick up to meet his. “I owe you a favor now.”

★⋆. ࿐࿔

Iwaizumi’s not stupid. He never has been. He’s careful and deliberate and sure, in everything he does. And that’s the reason his record’s clean. It’s the reason he’s never been caught and the reason he’s been able to keep this whole thing going. He doesn’t second guess himself. He doesn’t make mistakes. He doesn’t get desperate.

With one, recent exception.

His internal reasoning: his gut tells him she’s trustworthy. He just looks at her, and he knows it. She acts like a private person, keeping to herself and minding her own business. She never has guests. She’s never given him any trouble. Never looked at him like she was scared of him. And, no, it’s not just because she’s pretty. It’s not just because he likes the smell of her fresh lemon perfume blended with the smell of her menthol cigarettes. It’s not just he wants a reason to talk to her, to knock on her door.

Iwaizumi would never do something so stupid.

She sits across from him, cross-legged on the (recently mopped, from the looks of it) floor of her living room. She is carefully studying the layout of CDs in front of her, and he is carefully studying her. The sort of messy way she lets her hair fall. The boxers she wears as shorts and the way they hug the bottoms of her thighs. The boxy shirt that hangs off her shoulders, loose and wrinkled, sporting the name of some band or movie or whatever that he’s never heard of.

Iwaizumi likes looking at her. He doesn’t act caught when she lifts her gaze to see him staring. She doesn’t blush. He wants to see her blush.

She leans forward and picks a CD. Iwaizumi tilts his head to read it. New Order. “Can I ask you a question?” he says, because, at this point, he figures that she won’t.

“Go for it,” she answers with a shrug, extracting the CD from its case with care and precision, movements delicate.

“How’d you end up here?” he asks, watching her face as she bites down on her tongue, placing the CD face down into the gift he got her. “I mean, girl like you, figure you should be enrolled in university or something.”

Her finger is firm against the play button, and the CD whizzes to life. “Girl like me,” she repeats back, though it sounds like it’s mostly mumbled to herself, a touch of bitterness to her tone. She shakes her head and looks up at Iwaizumi. “Is that the kinda question you’d answer? Honestly.”

He smirks. “Nah, I guess not.”

Music is slow to start up. It skips a bit, at first, but then it smooths out as the song progresses, evening out. Iwaizumi doesn’t look away from her. “I didn’t like it at home, so I left. This is where I ended up.”

Iwaizumi shifts, his hand reaches into the back pocket of his jeans and he fishes out a pack of cigarettes. He’s already got one in his mouth when he asks, “Mind if I smoke?”

Her response is a shake of her head, and she pushes up to stand on her feet. Iwaizumi watches her legs as she walks towards the window and, with a bit of a struggle, jerks it open. The early spring air drifts into her living room and cools it considerably. Iwaizumi lights the end of his cigarette. She grabs her own pack and an old cap to a pint of ice cream she’s been using as an ash tray before she sits back down, across from him.

She puts the cigarette to her lips, and before she can reach for her own, Iwaizumi lifts his lighter up, and the flame catches on the end of hers. She inhales, and Iwaizumi watches as her pupils dilate. “Thanks,” she says when she turns her head to let out a cloud of smoke.

“No problem,” he says, and leans back, resting his weight on the hand he places behind him. Iwaizumi jerks his chin and asks, “You gonna cash in that favor any time soon?”

“Hmm,” she muses, flicking the tip of her cigarette against the already ashy cardboard. “Think I’ll save it, for now.”

an: PHEW this was certianly a lot. flexing my writing muscles so this might not be great. right now im planning three total chapters but idk i might end up writing more and dividing the story up differently. if you've made it this far pls let me know what u think im so extremely nervous/anxious lmafo

if you enjoy please leave a like, rb, comment or ask <3

taglist: @wyrcan @thechaosoflonging @publicbathroompanic @bedeater @rottingt1tz @rintarawr @deluluforcarlos55 @ahseyy @localgaytrainwreck @cherrypieyourface @baskin-robinhoods @polish-cereal @iheartamora @ferntv @eclecticeggknightpsychic @httpakkeiji @does-directions @pinkiscool @michivrse @causenessus @cannibalsrider @cherrypieyourface @kmwife @k8nicole @oikasenpai (fill out form linked in masterlist to be added)

#haikyuu x reader #haikyuu #haikyuu fluff #hq x reader #hq x you #hq #iwaizumi haijime x reader #iwaizumi x reader angst #iwaizumi angst #iwaizumi hajime x reader #iwaizumi x you #hq iwaizumi #iwaizumi x reader #haikyuu iwaizumi #iwaizumi hajime x yn #iwaizumi hajime #iwaizumi hajime x you

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vodika-vibes · 1 year ago

Note

Crosshair as a LOVING partner lives rent-free in my head.

A Loving Man

Summary: Crosshair comes home to you after a long day.

Pairing: TBB Crosshair x Reader

Word Count: 1361

Warnings: None

Tagging: @trixie2023 @n0vqni

A/N: So, I wasn't going to write this until tomorrow. "vodika," I said, "You wrote five stories today, take a break before you hurt yourself". And then I saw this and I needed to write it immediately. So. Here you go.

You hum along with the music as you prepare dinner. This is your favorite time of the day. When the rest of the world starts to slow down and you have time to think, rather than to react to whatever disaster happened to come your way that day.

When you can just relax with whatever meal you decided is on the menu that night. When you can look out the window and see the fireflies flickering to life around the yard, dancing to a tune that only they can hear.

When you know that the love of your life, of any of your lives, will be home at any moment.

And true to your prediction, you hear the front door open only moments later. The familiar sound of the old wooden chair near the front door creaking as he sits down to pull off his boots. The sound of the closet door opening and then squeaking shut as he hangs his jacket. And then light footsteps padding down the hall into the shared bedroom.

He’ll take a quick shower, wash off the strain of the day, and dress in clean relaxing clothes, and then, and only then, will he join you in the kitchen. He hates touching you when he’s covered in a day's work, though he’s no longer a soldier and the worst thing he’ll get on you is motor oil.

You tilt your head to the side as you hear the shower click on. If dinner didn’t require an active participant tonight, you would go and see how he felt about having a shower mate.

Oh well, maybe tomorrow.

You pop a roasted pepper into your mouth, before you focus your attention back to the meat. It’s getting to be the time of year where you can pull the grill out of storage. Only a few more weeks. Maybe you’ll finally talk Crosshair into learning how to cook if it’s something as enjoyable as using the grill.

And then strong arms slide around your waist and you feel a warm kiss against your cheek, “Snacking, kitten?”

“It’s a tragic side effect of being a cook,” You joke as you pick up a piece of pepper and offer it to him.

He eats it from your hand, and hums thoughtfully, “Needs a little something extra,” Crosshair decides.

“Oh? You think so?” You nod to your spice rack, “Pick your poison, Cross.”

He chuckles under his breath, and presses another lingering kiss against your cheek, before he releases you and heads over to the spice rack. “What did you already use?”

“Mm. Garlic and onion powder, paprika-” You list, “How was your day?”

“Uneventful.”

“Well, better that than over-eventful,” You quip with an easy smile, as he returns with salt and pepper. “Look at you, I’ll make a cook out of you yet.” You take the spices from him, though he doesn’t release them.

Instead he leans in and kisses the tip of your nose, “You’re not tricking me into using that death trap you call a grill, nice try though.”

“It’s not a death trap. It’s only blown up, like, twice.”

“Sure, sure. Buy a new grill and we’ll talk about it,” Crosshair finally releases the spices and he turns to set the table.

“Ha! I’ll hold you to that.”

He shoots you a fond look, “I know you will.” He sets the table with the ease of long practice, “Need anything else done before we eat?”

“Hm…” You run through a mental list, “Will you run into the basement and grab a new carton of ice cream, I think someone ate the last of it last night.”

“Oh. Someone did, did they?” Crosshair teases, “Is this someone you, or do we have rats eating our ice cream?”

You press your hand to your heart, “I would never eat the last of the ice cream.”

“Of course you wouldn’t.” he heads towards the basement, “I’ll get you your ice cream, kitten. But you’re going to share this time, right?”

“Oh, yeah. Totally.” You smile at him angelically as he shoots you a look and then he vanishes into the basement.

Crosshair showed up at your clinic 2 years ago. Badly injured, overly cautious, and absolutely terrified, though he did an excellent job at hiding his fear. You knew, just by looking at him, that he was a deserter from the Empire, though you were very careful to not let on that you knew.

It took you six months of patient care to get him to agree to see a therapist, and it took an additional two months after that before he admitted to you that he deserted the Empire…and before that he abandoned his brothers.

Your relationship started not long after that. Though he never mentioned his brothers to you again. And you never pushed, it’s not your place, even now. Crosshair moved in with you six months after you started dating, and now people are starting to wonder when he’s going to pop the question.

You don’t expect him to. You don’t mind either way, you don’t need a legal document to prove what you know, and what he knows.

You hear the basement door open again, and Crosshair reemerges into your home with a carton of ice cream, which he promptly shoves in the freezer. “Thank you, Cross.”

“You’re welcome.”

You beam at him, “Dinner’s done. Bring me your plate.”

“Oh no you don’t,” He directs you to take your seat at the table, “You sit down, I’ll get us food.” He lightly runs his hand over your hair, “It’s not your job to serve me, kitten. We’ve talked about this.”

“I know. I just…I like doing it. I like taking care of you.”

“And I love that about you, but you’ve been on your feet all day, and I know your feet hurt.” Crosshair serves the food, making sure to give you more of the veggies than the meat, and then he sits next to you.

You smile at him lovingly and tangle your feet with his under the table, and huffs out a laugh, “I love you, Cross.” You say adoringly, mostly because he deserves to know that you love him, but partly because even now his face burns with embarrassment when you say that to him.

“I love you more.” He replies with a slightly ducked head. You don’t mind, a year ago he wouldn’t have even been able to get that much out. So this is a massive step forward.

You decide to have mercy on him and you take a bite of your peppers, and you eat in silence for a time, before Crosshair hesitates and sets his fork down, “Something wrong with the food?”

“No, it’s delicious, as usual.” Crosshair replies, “I…uh…I talked to the Doc today.” You nod, Doc was the only licensed therapist within three hours, and Crosshair has been his patient for over a year now, “He suggests that I reach out to my brothers.”

“Oh.” You set your fork down and fold your hand over his, “Is that what you want to do, Cross?”

He turns his hand over and threads his fingers with yours, “I…don’t know. We…there are some things that can’t be forgiven-”

You nod understandingly, “Do you maybe want to write a letter, and if you decide not to send it, then that’s fine, but it’s there if you want to?”

His shoulders relax, “That’s what Doc suggested. I’d like them to know you, even if they don’t forgive me. They deserve to know the person who encourages me to be better.”

“Well, I’m flattered, Cross.”

He smiles softly, and he reaches out to trail his thumb over your lips, “When I get there, when I’m ready, I intend to ask you to marry me.”

Your lips part in surprise, and then you beam at him, “When you’re ready, Crosshair, then I will be waiting to say yes.”

***********

Three weeks later, on Pabu, Hunter receives a letter from Crosshair. Inside is a simple one page long letter, a picture of you and Crosshair, and an address, if he should want to write back or visit.

#star wars #tcw #tbb crosshair x reader #crosshair x reader #star wars fanfiction #x reader fanfiction #answered asks

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magiarec · 2 years ago

Text

🆘🏠 WE NEED SAFE HOUSING.

We moved across Canada last year to escape severe medical abuse, but our living situation rapidly degraded. Our next door neighbour is a violent racist homophobe who has dedicated the last year of my life to harrassing us. More details will be under the cut. After months of searching we finally found a new apartment an hour away, and can have it any time in the next two weeks as long as we have the money. We do not have that much money. We can cover moving costs, the remainder of rent on our current place, and all our normal medical/etc bills. We've asked family for help and gotten a resounding "bootstraps" from them. Mutual aid is my only hope.

Our triad is LGBT (what, all at once? yes!), severely mentally ill, two of us are disabled, and one of us is latina. I'm currently still trapped waiting on a reply from immigration, legally can't work yet, and I don't feel safe doing sex work here when an arrest could mean deportation.

🌈 ♿ £0/2000

total cost: deposit (600), rent (1200), eating this month (200)

Here’s what we’ve been trying to get away from for a year. TW for racism, homophobia, slurs, child abuse, assault, graphic violent/sexual threats, sexual harrassment, fatphobia, the police having to get involved, and anything else that I can add if you need. I’m going to list these in the order they happened.

• Tried to break into our house during a four hour long extended breakdown. Hammered on the door til it dented. Threatened all of our lives multiple times. This went on until 2am. First police report.

• Spent a week hammering on our door or window and screaming “WAKE UP” at any time between 4-6am if she heard us using the kitchen the night before.

• Followed me up and down the road when I ran errands calling me a disgusting pig, the d slur, and a pedophile. Followed all of us down the road more than once screaming at us for being worthless [d slur]s while she was a mother.

• Told her children I was a pedophile, and that I might kidnap them one day. Loudly. In front of their friends. Described in graphic detail what she assumed I would do to them if I did.

• Waited on our doorstep for me and pulled out a fistful of my hair when I tried to push past her to get inside. I have not left the house alone since. Second police report.

• Multiple months of her waiting until after midnight to begin blasting religious sermons or the same fucking eminem song six times through our conjoining walls.

• Began weighing our fire escape grates down while screaming at us that she’d burn us alive to ready us for hell.

• Waited until I was home alone and then came up to the door and began calmly telling me that she’d, quote, “cut my clit off” before offering to bring her guy friends over to rape me straight.

• Taped naked photos of herself to our bedroom window.

• Brought a fucking ant infestation into the basement apartments we split and tried to punch me in the face when I told the inspector we’d been putting down traps and all of the bugs came from her side of the building.

• Chased my husband down the side of our house, spat on his face, and tried (almost succeeded before we both tackled it shut) to kick the door open. Third police report that they actually bothered to come out for, and the first one where the officer who arrived took the genuine threats and physical assault seriously.

It’s going on trial tomorrow. Our landlord has had months to evict her for the assults, or not paying rent, or the harrassment, or the way she keeps threatening to shoot his family and calling them the N word. He has told her instead that we’re “probably” moving out soon for the past year and she insists she’s staying until that point - a thing we found out this week when confronting him about her still being here. We also found out that his plan to rent us her bigger unit is contingent on us furnishing it and leaving it for two months when his family comes to stay for a wedding in August.

We also also found out that when the baliffs said they can’t evict her until he does [basic legal step that she could contest] [... that he could have done last year] he decided it wasn’t worth it. So he’s going to illegally evict her. By waiting u til she leaves next week, unlocking her unit, loading her belongings into a van, changing the locks, and installing a gate. His plan is to have her arrested for tresspassing when she tries to come back to her house.

This is insane. It is not legal, it’s deeply unethical even if I hate her ass, and there is no way in hell that she will not just blame us for it when it happens. My husband leaves for work at 4am. She knows this. I am dead fucking certain she will attack him or us before the week is out if we remain here. I am terrified and traumatized and need your help. Please, please help.

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staticspaces · 6 months ago

Text

The Glasshouse

Check out the video if you are interested!!

youtube

Moving along, today we will take a look at the bedrooms, along with the pool house!!

Built in the 1940s this single story ranch style home is absolutely huge considering it never had a basement but was still about 3500 square feet! It sat on about two and a half acres and because of the large property it was ripe for redevelopment.

The home had likely been owned by an investor since they were trying to subdivide the property since the early 2000s but had been denied. The house was rented out on and off for years which likely led to the lack of maintenance seen throughout.

At some point, it looks as though they had thought about renovating, getting as far as tearing out the kitchen and removing some of the wall coverings. Ultimately the project stalled and the house was listed for sale, selling a short time later.

The home was unfortunately demolished shortly after my visit and the new owners submitted an application to build a new single story home in its place which was approved. A sad end for this once beautiful 80ish year old home!

#abandoned #urbex #urban exploring #urban exploration #bandos #abandoned buildings #abandoned places #forgotten #abandoned houses #forgotten buildings #abandoned homes #large abandoned houses #forgotten places #abandoned mansions #abandoned mansion #Youtube

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iboatedhere · 6 months ago

Note

from that summer prompts list! an spending the whole day at the beach au would be really nice i think :))

Day 1

The screen door rattles as it slams shut behind him, and Alex drops his suitcase onto the worn hardwood floors.

The cottage is small but beautiful. A little stuffy and warm, but that’s nothing that can’t be fixed by opening the windows and letting the cool ocean breeze in.

He leaves his belongings behind and does a quick sweep of the kitchen. The basics are there, just as the AirBnB host said. Salt, pepper, oil, sugar. A box of tea and a canister of coffee. Prepackaged snacks on display on the counter. There are water bottles in the fridge and a box of baking soda. He’ll need to go to the market in town and stock up on produce, dairy, and good coffee, but it’s fine. It’s nice.

From the photos online, he knows the bedroom and bathroom are down the hall to his left, along with a small linen closet with extra sheets, blankets, and pillows. There’s a door that leads to the basement where the washer and dryer are kept and the hot water heater, which he might need to reset if the power goes out during his stay.

The living room is basic but homey. A couch and two armchairs, each a little frayed at the edges, are set around a wide driftwood coffee table with stacks of board games underneath. No TV. Spotty WiFi. Perfect.

He steps out the sliding glass doors onto the small deck overlooking the beach. It’s early summer, and kids are still in school, so the beach is quiet and barren. It's just a little lonely, but it's relatable.

He shakes his head, physically knocking the dreary thought from his brain. This isn’t what this vacation is about. So what if his boyfriend of nearly a year revealed that he’d been cheating on him for the last six months two days before the trip, and so what if both the flight and the booking were non-refundable. So what if he had to dip into his savings to pay for this. It’s better to learn that Peter is a heartless douchebag now than five years down the line when Alex is pushing thirty and thinking about marriage and kids and forever. So what if it’s brought up the same feelings of abandonment and inadequacy he’s shoved deep down inside of himself since his parents divorced. It’s okay.

This week is about self-reflection and discovery. He’s going to learn how to be alone and be okay with it. He doesn’t need a partner to be happy.

Alex leans forward on the railing and watches the waves crash against the shore until a man coming up the boardwalk catches his attention.

He’s tall and blond; his blue linen shirt is loose across his shoulders and flutters around his body in the wind. He stops halfway, his shoes in his hand, and turns back toward the beach to whistle. A beagle hops onto the path beside him a moment later, shaking the water from his fur and making the man laugh.

It’s a nice sound.

The man and his dog continue up the boardwalk and into the house next door to Alex’s rented cottage. He towels off the dog and wipes his own feet on the mat before disappearing inside.

Interesting.

Day 2

The town market is small and overpriced, but Alex is able to get almost everything he needs, minus the coffee.

Fortunately, the market is next to a cafe selling their beans by the pound. Alex buys two bags and a cherry turnover and learns that there's a farmer’s market in the church parking lot on Sundays.

On his way out, he spots his neighbor sitting on the patio, a book in his hand, a cup of tea on the table in front of him, and the beagle at his feet.

When Alex passes, the dog lifts its head and wags its tail. Alex wants to stop and ask the man if he can say hello, but his hands are full of groceries and coffee, and the odds of dropping everything and embarrassing himself are too great.

He keeps walking and regrets not stopping the whole way home.

Day 3

Alex spends the whole day at the beach.

He packs a cooler with sandwiches, fruit, and beer and hauls one of the folding chairs provided by the host down to the water.

It’s overcast when he gets down there, but by noon, the sun is high and hot, and he slathers on another layer of sunscreen before he reclines the chair and takes a nap.

When he wakes up, his neighbor has joined him, sitting an acceptable distance away and a bit too close, considering he has almost the entire beach.

Alex’s first instinct is to be annoyed because what the fuck, but then his neighbor looks over the top of the book he’s reading and makes eye contact with Alex, then looks away quickly, like he’s been caught.

Interesting.

Alex stands up and stretches his arms over his head before pulling his tank top over his head and dropping it to the chair.

He feels his neighbor’s eyes on him the entire way to the water, where he jumps in without hesitation. When he surfaces, his neighbor is watching him again. This time, he doesn’t look away.

Day 4

“Bone! You need to bone!”

Alex rolls his eyes at Nora’s voice in the background of the call.

“We're not going to bone,” Alex says. “I don’t even know his name.”

“Maybe you could ask him,” June supplies helpfully.

“I don’t know if I’m ready.”

“To know his name?”

“To bone,” Nora says, sounding closer to the phone. “Alex, your piece of shit ex cheated on you. You’re legally required to sleep with someone else. You should know that. You’re a lawyer.”

“I’m a paralegal.”

“Same diff.”

“Definitely not.”

“You did say he was good-looking,” June says, getting the conversation back on track, and Alex hums as he looks out the back door.

From this angle, he can see his neighbor on his deck, where he’s been fiddling with his grill for the last twenty minutes.

“He is,” Alex agrees, looking over his long legs and broad shoulders. “He can’t work a grill, though. What the fuck is he doing?”

“Go help him!” Nora chimes in. “You two can eat dinner, and then he can eat you—”

Alex hangs up and opens the door, then steps over to the far side of the deck, closest to his neighbor, who is tapping the gauge of the propane tank.

“I think it might be empty.”

His neighbor’s head snaps up. “Pardon?”

“The tank. If you can’t get it to light, you’re probably out of propane.”

“Oh,” he says as he looks down at the tank. “How do I fix that?”

“Get the tank refilled.”

“And where do I do that?”

“At this time of night, nowhere.”

Those broad shoulders fall. “Oh.”

“You can come over and use mine,” Alex yells over. “The host said it was full.”

“I wouldn’t want to impose.”

“I’m not doing anything.”

His neighbor looks down at his dog at his feet.

“You can bring—,” Alex starts, and his neighbor interrupts.

“David.”

“Your name is David?”

“No, I’m Henry,” he says before he gestures down to the dog. “His name is David.”

“Okay….well….you can both come over. This place is listed as pet friendly.”

Henry looks down at David, then at the grill, then over at Alex.

“I’ll be over,” Henry calls.

Alex nods. “I’ll be here.”

Day 5

“You know, you never told me what your friend does to afford a beach house.”

“Oh,” Henry says as he picks up a pint of strawberries. “It’s hard to pin Pez down. I suppose he does a bit of everything.”

Alex nods as Henry pays for the berries, and they continue their loop around the farmer’s market.

Dinner last night was fine. Henry seemed nervous the entire time, but Alex can’t honestly say that he was playing it cool.

It’s like they both knew mutual attraction was simmering beneath the surface, but neither knew what to do about it. Maybe Henry is just shy, and maybe Alex is a little out of practice after spending nearly a year of his life in a dead-end relationship.

He did learn that Henry was a copy editor who could work from practically anywhere. He has a sister who might join him next month and a brother who thinks what he does for a living is pointless.

Alex kind of hates his brother, but he likes the way Henry smiles when he talks about his sister and friend.

“You never told me why you’re here alone,” Henry says, and Alex shrugs.

“You’re here alone.”

“I’m not alone. I have David.”

“Okay, point, but do I have to have a reason? Is it a crime for someone to vacation alone?”

“Certainly not, but….”

“But,” Alex starts with a heavy sigh. “I was supposed to come with my boyfriend.”

“Oh,” Henry says, sounding disappointed.

“Ex-boyfriend now,” Alex explains. “Turns out he was cheating on me, and all the reservations were non-refundable, so…here I am. Alone.”

Henry knocks their shoulders together with a soft smile. “Maybe not so alone.”

Day 6

The power goes out at exactly 11:59 at night.

“Fuck,” Alex swears up at the ceiling while rain and wind pound against the windows and lightning flashes outside. “Fuck.”

He knows he’s lucky that it stayed on for this long. While he’s no stranger to storms (everything is bigger in Texas), the constant weather alerts and warnings that pop up on his phone, combined with how close the house is to the beach, are making him nervous.

He could leave, get in the rental car, and go, but when he sits up in bed and looks out the window, he can see the lights on at Henry’s place.

Of course, Henry’s rich friend would have a generator. Of course, Alex can’t leave without him.

Alex puts on his sneakers and makes a run for it, skidding onto Henry’s front porch and banging on the door, hoping he’s heard over the rolling thunder.

He hears David bark, then quick footsteps, and suddenly, the door opens, and Henry appears through the screen.

“The power went out,” Alex says with a thumb hooked over his shoulder. “And I don’t know where the candles are in the house, and I’m trying not to freak out–.”

“Are you bloody mad,” Henry interrupts as he opens the screen door and yanks him into the house. “You could have been struck by lightning.”

“I’m a pretty fast runner.”

“Fast enough to dodge lightning?”

“I made it, didn’t I?”

“I suppose,” Henry says. “Now, wait here.”

Henry disappears down the hall while Alex drips over the hardwood.

“Should we be worried?” Alex calls after him after a particularly loud clap of thunder. “I’m always seeing ocean homes swept into the sea on the news.”

“Pez said this place has never flooded.”

“Okay, but climate change is getting worse. Just because it didn't happen last season doesn't mean it won’t happen this season.”

“I don’t think we need to worry,” Henry says when he returns, a towel in one hand and a change of clothes in the other. “But I understand why you are.”

Alex takes the towel and the clothes but doesn’t move from his spot by the front door. He’s not sure what to do with the clothes or with Henry, dressed in sweatpants and the softest-looking t-shirt he’s ever seen. Pillow marks across his cheek and his hair mussed with sleep.

Alex is leaving in a few days, gone forever, and he doesn’t know how he’ll handle losing someone he’s never even touched.

“I’m going to make tea,” Henry tells him as he moves into the kitchen. “I’m thinking chamomile. Would you like some?”

“Later, maybe,” Alex says as he sets the clothes down on the kitchen table and crowds into Henry’s space. “Is this okay?” He asks as he slowly brings his hands up to cup Henry’s face.

“Oh,” Henry says, expression falling softly as he nods.

Day 7

The storm is over by morning.

Alex wakes to the sun in his eyes, David curled up at his feet, and Henry’s arm draped over his waist.

“Baby,” Alex whispers, his lips brushing across Henry’s forehead. “We should get up.”

Henry’s face scrunches as he tightens his grip on Alex. “Ten more minutes. Or forever.”

Alex smiles.

Forever sounds nice.

Day 371

Alex wakes to the smell of coffee and lips pressed to his cheek.

He reaches out blindly, smiling when his hand catches the hem of Henry’s shirt.

“Happy anniversary, love,” Henry whispers, and Alex rolls over and opens his eyes. “I got you a coffee and a turnover from the place in town.”