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isacksteban · 4 months ago

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Ghost — Strollonso (ft. Nikola)

@boxboxluckybird saw it first + an add-on to First Kiss

The night was quiet, except for the soft hum of the wind brushing against the windows. Fernando sat at the kitchen table, staring at a half-empty glass of whiskey he wasn’t sure he wanted to finish. The divorce had left his house emptier than it had ever been, the silence suffocating, a constant reminder of everything that had gone wrong. Fourteen years Fernando had spent married to Lance. Seventeen years they'd had a son together. All for nothing.

The sound of footsteps broke the stillness, tentative at first, then more deliberate. Fernando looked up to see Nikola standing in the doorway, his face pale, his eyes red-rimmed and glistening with tears. Fernando’s heart clenched. He knew that look. It was the same one Lance had whenever the world felt like it was crumbling around him — whenever the world was crumbling around him.

“Nik?” Fernando’s voice was softer than he expected, his usual sharpness dulled by concern. “What’s wrong, mijo?”

Nikola didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he stepped into the room, his arms wrapped tightly around himself like he was trying to hold himself together — trying to hold the closest thing he had to Lance. His lower lip trembled, and when he finally spoke, his voice was raw and cracked.

“Do I look like him?”

Fernando blinked, startled by the question. “What?”

“Do I look like him?” Nikola repeated, his voice breaking. He stepped closer, his movements shaky, like he was being pulled forward by some invisible force. “Is that why you… why you treat me like this? Why you barely look at me? Because I remind you of him?”

“Nikola, mi amor, that’s not—” Fernando started, but Nikola cut him off with a sudden, anguished outburst.

“¡Ya basta! Don’t lie to me, Papa!” Nikola’s voice rose, thick with emotion. “You can’t stand to look at me, can you? Because I look like the one person in the world who loved you unconditionally, and you bailed on him. You left him because you were fucking scared!”

Fernando’s breath caught in his throat. He opened his mouth to respond, but the words wouldn’t come.

“Scared of this,” Nikola continued, tears streaming down his cheeks as he motioned towards himself, convinced he was the one that drove his fathers apart. “Of having a family. Of having me. Having me with a man. You were so scared that you ran away from the best thing that ever happened to you, and now… now I’m here, and you can’t even look at me without seeing him, without remembering what you lost.”

“Nikola Díaz. Stop—” Fernando tried again, but Nikola wouldn’t let him.

“Are you ashamed of me?” Nikola asked, his voice trembling, every word cutting deeper than the last. “Is that it? Am I the reminder of everything you couldn’t handle? Everything you didn’t want? Do you hate me because of him? Because I'm a Stroll?”

Fernando stood abruptly, the metal of the chair beneath him scraping harshly against the floor. “Nikola, stop it!” he snapped, his voice cracking under the weight of his own guilt.

But Nikola didn’t flinch. He just stood there, shaking, his eyes locked on his father’s, pleading for an answer. “Do you love me? Did you love him?” he whispered. “Because it doesn’t feel like it, Papa."

Fernando felt like the air had been sucked out of the room. He took a step toward his son, then hesitated, his hands trembling at his sides. How could he explain the storm of emotions that had consumed him since the divorce? The shame, the regret, the unbearable weight of knowing he’d failed the two people he’d loved most in the world?

“You look like him,” Fernando finally admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. Nikola flinched as though struck, but Fernando kept going, his words tumbling out in a desperate attempt to bridge the growing chasm between them. “You look like him, and it kills me every single day because I can’t look at you without thinking about how much I screwed up. How much I hurt him. How much I hurt you.”

Nikola’s breath hitched, but he didn’t say anything, his eyes wide and shining with fresh tears.

“I’m not ashamed of you,” Fernando continued, his voice thick with emotion. “I could never be ashamed of you. You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me, Nikola. But every time I see you, I see him. I see the man I loved more than anything, the man I let down because I was too scared to face what we had, what we could’ve been.”

Tears spilled down Fernando’s cheeks now, his composure cracking under the weight of his confession. “I was scared, yes. Scared of being a father. Scared of being with a man. Scared of failing you both. And in the end, that fear made me do exactly what I was afraid of. I failed. I failed him, and I failed you.”

Nikola’s lips quivered, and for a moment, he just stood there, staring at his father. Then, with a sob, he rushed forward, throwing his arms around Fernando and burying his face in his chest. Fernando froze for half a second before wrapping his arms tightly around his son, holding him like he was afraid to let go.

“I’m sorry,” Fernando choked out, his voice muffled against Nikola’s hair. “I’m so sorry, hijo. For everything. For hurting you. For not being there. For making you feel like you weren’t enough. You are enough. You’ve always been enough.”

Nikola clung to him, his sobs wracking his small frame, and for the first time in years, Fernando let himself cry too. They stood there in the kitchen, father and son, broken but holding onto each other, trying to piece together the fragments of what had been shattered.

They stayed locked in the embrace, their shared grief filling the space that silence had once suffocated. Fernando’s grip on Nikola tightened, as if by holding on to his son, he could make up for all the lost time, all the mistakes that had created this chasm between them. The warmth of Nikola’s trembling body in his arms was a reminder that despite everything, he was still here, still his son, and still someone Fernando had a chance to fight for.

After a long moment, Nikola’s sobs began to subside, his breathing slowing into uneven hiccups. He pulled back slightly, just enough to look up at his father with tear-streaked cheeks and swollen eyes. “Do you think he hates you?” he asked, his voice barely a whisper.

Fernando’s heart twisted painfully. The question hit him harder than any of Nikola’s earlier accusations because it was the one he had been asking himself for years. He sighed, brushing a hand over Nikola’s hair, smoothing down the wild curls that reminded him so much of Lance.

“I don’t know,” he admitted honestly, his voice heavy with regret. “I hope not. I hope… I hope he knows how much I loved him — how much I love him — even if I didn’t show it the way I should have. Even if I messed everything up.”

Nikola searched his father’s face, his expression a mixture of sorrow and something Fernando couldn’t quite place. “I don’t think he hates you,” Nikola said after a moment, his voice fragile but sincere. “He never talked badly about you. Even when things were bad, even after the divorce, he always said you loved me. That you loved us.”

Fernando swallowed hard, his throat tightening. “He said that?”

Nikola nodded. “He never wanted me to think you didn’t care. Even when I was mad at you, he… he always defended you.”

Fernando closed his eyes, overwhelmed by the weight of Nikola’s words. Lance’s forgiveness, his enduring belief in Fernando’s love, was more than he felt he deserved. And yet, it was the lifeline he didn’t know he’d been waiting for.

“I wish I could fix it,” Fernando whispered, his voice breaking again. “I wish I could take it all back and do it right. For him. For you.”

Nikola’s lip trembled, but he reached out, placing his hand over Fernando’s. “Maybe you can’t fix the past,” he said softly, “but you can still fix us.”

Fernando looked at his son, his chest aching with a mixture of pain and hope. He saw Lance in Nikola’s eyes, but for the first time, it didn’t feel like a curse. It felt like a second chance. A chance to love his son the way Lance would have wanted. The way they both deserved.

“I’ll try,” Fernando promised, his voice steady despite the tears still clinging to his lashes. “I’ll do everything I can to make it better, Nik. I swear to you, mijo.”

Nikola nodded, his fingers tightening around his father’s hand. “That’s all I wanted, Papa. For you to try.”

They stood in the kitchen for what felt like an eternity, the hum of the wind outside now a soft lullaby to their shared pain and tentative healing. When Nikola finally let go, his movements hesitant but lighter, he wiped at his face with the sleeve of his shirt.

“Can I stay here tonight?” he asked quietly, his voice small, like he was afraid Fernando might say no.

Fernando’s heart broke all over again at the thought of Nikola feeling like he had to ask. “Of course,” he said firmly. “This is your home, Nik. It always will be.”

Nikola gave him a weak smile, the first hint of light Fernando had seen in his son’s eyes all night. Without another word, he turned and headed toward the living room, curling up on the couch the way he used to when he was little and afraid of the dark.

Fernando watched him go, his heart heavy but filled with a sense of purpose he hadn’t felt in years. He grabbed a blanket from the hallway closet and draped it over Nikola, pressing a kiss to his son’s temple as he whispered, “Te amo, mijo. Always.”

Nikola murmured something in return, his voice slurred with exhaustion, and Fernando smiled faintly as he returned to the kitchen. The whiskey sat untouched on the table, but this time, Fernando didn’t pick it up. Instead, he poured it down the sink and stood there for a moment, staring out into the night.

The wind brushed against the windows again, but this time it didn’t feel so suffocating. It felt like a reminder that life was still moving, still offering chances to make things right. And for the first time in a long time, Fernando felt like he was ready to take it.

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starstruckodysseys · 7 months ago

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she’s getting into something (he’s going all or nothing) —

(or: lanie doesn’t do bets. or lessons, for that matter. there’s also not a lot she wouldn’t do for her friends. unfortunately.)

(or or: the ep8 business date/craps game but a little to the left. extremely to the left, some might say. possibly not even on the map anymore)

“Okay,” Lanie says, because she’s pretty sure they’re getting confused here, “hang on, sidebar real quick.”

She drags Wendell-as-Vic off to the side, just enough that no one should be able to hear them. It’s both easier and harder than usual, but somehow not in a way that cancels out.

“Wen,” she says quietly, staring him dead in the eyes, not taking her hand off his shoulder. “Wendell. You are aware that I, actual person Lanie Woodward, am not a lesbian, right?”

He stares at her like he was not, in fact, aware of this. “…What?”

Lanie sighs, rubs at her temple. “I’m— what do you mean what? I flirt with half the customers that come into the store!”

“I’ve never seen you flirt with a guy!” he whisper-shouts frantically.

Holy shit. Holy actual shit. There’s a voice in the back of her mind that isn’t hers yelling at her not to cry, but she feels pretty damn close to it.

It’s not— Lanie is not subtle. That has never been a word in her vocabulary. If she grins and laughs and leans a little closer during conversation than strictly necessary, people assume things, and that’s easier than dealing with her actual emotions. But this is not that, has never been that. She’s aware that she’s an awkward third wheel in whatever the hell Wendell and Liv have going on, but she’d assumed everyone was aware of that. It’s, like, her entire deal. Usha winks pointedly at her and Dang laughs while Russell attempts to be comforting when she groans too loudly and Paula— well, Paula might not actually be aware of it, but that’s perfectly fine with her.

But anyway. She was under the impression everyone knew, for the most part. Hell, Dave’s gotten onto her about it numerous times! Which, to be fair, he kind of does anyway, but fuck him because she’s nineteen and already in debt and—

Lanie sighs. Swallows. Glances around for anyone remotely resembling a bartender. Finds no one. “Is there a bartender here?” she asks desperately.

The weird clown man in the back steps forward, bowing slightly. Lanie squints at him, recognizes him as the guy who set up the kiss bet, and nods.

“Can I get, just… the strongest thing you have. In general.” She makes a vague hand motion that means nothing.

“Lan—” Wendell starts, stops, tries again. “Cara. I don’t—”

She waves him off. “I’m fine. Or, I will be fine in the next thirty seconds, if someone gets to it.” She raises a pointed eyebrow, something she’s never been able to figure out how to do as herself.

The clown man bows deeper. “Yes, ma’am.”

Lanie cringes, but nods, and he sets off to… somewhere. The where isn’t important. She’s currently unpacking the difference between what she’s meant the past few months and what everyone else has apparently assumed she’s meant. Or at least what Wendell has assumed she’s meant. Which is nothing.

She thinks she might have an aneurysm.

But that’s— they don’t have time for this right now. They have to learn how to play craps — and then pretend that they knew how to play craps the whole time, because Kingskin’s entire thing is crime and gambling and whatnot, and they can’t risk being found out now — so that Wendell doesn’t fucking die in the movie or whatever. Either that or he… kisses Liv on the mouth. As Kingskin and Vic Ethanol. She’s getting flashbacks to every high school party she ever went to.

Is it wrong that she doesn’t really care who wins? Probably. She’s also murdered several people at this point, so maybe her morals are a little off. Sue her.

Liv glances sideways at her when she sits back down. “Everything okay?”

“I think I’m going insane, Livvy,” Lanie mutters, just loud enough for only Liv to hear.

“Oh.” Liv frowns. “Do you want to head out?”

“I mean, I’d love to, y’know, survive,” Wendell cuts in, swinging around to sit on Lanie’s other side, which does not feel convenient if they do lose the game.

She’s not complaining or anything. It’s just impractical. From a logical standpoint. Obviously.

“They legally can’t kill you,” she says, bumping their shoulders together — a feat that’s a little more difficult now that their height difference… exists at all, really, but is more exaggerated than usual. “Pretty sure you made sure of that.”

“I didn’t do anything!” he protests weakly.

Lanie rolls her eyes fondly, and Liv laughs, and Wendell huffs but doesn’t say anything else. If she squints, it looks like he’s blushing, but that would be— well. Actually. It would be ridiculous on Vic Ethanol, sure, but she knows Wendell well enough that it’s hardly even surprising. It’s just… strange, seeing it on someone else’s face. Which is kind of a summary of their entire experience here so far.

The clown guy returns with her drink. He pauses in the doorway when he sees them, but recovers quickly, only looking at them a little suspiciously as he hands over the glass, the liquid somehow both muddy brown and bright pink at the same time. Right. She has a reputation to uphold, and the fact that her best friends slash main flirting targets are not women is not helping Cara’s whole lesbian thing. The lesbian thing being that she is a lesbian.

Maybe that’s Lanie’s lesson here. Stop being an obnoxious freak.

She’s never been good at taking lessons to heart.

“You all know how to play, yes?” French fry man asks — Pommefriete, whatever, it’s a stupid name. His accent is slowly getting less French and more incomprehensible.

“Um. Yeah. Definitely,” Liv says awkwardly. “But if we could get, like, a refresher? For the table…?”

This is going either nowhere or very badly and neither of those are great options.

“Just so we’re on a level playing field,” Lanie adds. If she leans a little more forward than necessary, well. “You wouldn’t want someone to have an unfair advantage, would you?”

Pommefriete shakes his head. “Certainly not. A refresher for the table it is!”

She lets out a very small sigh of relief. Wendell bumps their legs together under the table, and Liv flashes her a grateful smile when they make eye contact. She sends one back — it was Liv’s idea, after all. She’s just… using her resources. Yeah, that’s it. Pretty privilege works, kids.

Unfortunately, it isn’t enough to save their dice rolls, which end up being very bad. Lanie still doesn’t entirely understand how the game works, but the numbers are low and that’s not usually great in dice games. She leans back in her chair, lets out a low whistle. There’s not much else to do.

“Practice round,” Wendell mutters. Liv nods, determined.

Lanie takes a sip of her drink in preparation. It’s far stronger than she’d expected, even with her request, and it tastes strangely like nail polish remover. She coughs, attempting to muffle it with one hand and failing miserably. She’s still decidedly too sober to deal with literally any of this, so she takes another drink and pretends it doesn’t burn her throat on the way down.

There’s a tension in the air, electric and terrifying. Lanie isn’t even involved in the game, or the bet — they’d offered, but her luck has always been terrible — but she’s still on the edge of her seat. Metaphorically speaking, that is.

The dice clink against the table. Liv swears under her breath. Wendell goes deathly still. Lanie kicks back the rest of her drink before even bothering to look at the numbers. It’s entirely worth it once she does.

“Well then,” Pommefriete says, sounding just smug enough that Lanie actively resists the urge to not punch him in the face. “That’s the way the dice fall, I suppose. Or, roll, rather.”

He laughs as if he’s made some sort of clever pun, and not just a statement of fact. Next to Lanie, Wendell’s still completely frozen, and she covertly elbows him to drag him back to the present. He jolts, stares properly at the dice on the table, and seems to physically hold back a groan. She can’t say she doesn’t relate, and she’s not even part of the deal here.

“I, uh.” Liv moves like she’s going to mess with her hair, then seems to remember she doesn't exactly have hair to mess with. “Do we just…?”

Her hesitance is strange to see on Kingskin, but it makes it easier for Lanie to pretend that this is a normal situation for the three of them and not borderline life or death. Like they’re playing Truth or Dare at a sleepover, and not gambling Wendell’s life away.

The dynamite sticks out from behind the table. She thinks she sees red for a second.

Lanie has, over the course of their time in the movie and even before it, watched Wendell and Liv dance around each other. She’s seen Wendell forget how to form sentences like a functioning human, noted carefully as Liv’s feelings seemed to slowly blossom into something new. It’s cute, really, and she’s used to being the third wheel in their whole deal, used to being the advice girl, the therapist friend.

She scoots her chair back to give them space. Liv places one monstrous hand on her thigh to stop her and leans in.

It’s a painstakingly slow affair. Which is fair, because she doesn’t think either of them have kissed anyone before — not that she’s one to talk — and they’re two of the most awkward people she knows. When it comes to each other, at least. Thank god Liv is at least a little assertive when the situation calls for it.

They’re still incredibly far apart. The fact that everything feels like it’s going way too fast doesn’t change the actuality of the situation. Lanie sighs, leans back, catches Wendell’s eye for half a second and raises an eyebrow, pointed and teasing and a little jealous, all at once.

It’s just a Liv thing, he’d said. She doesn’t know if she still believes it.

“You chicken?” she says, like a challenge.

She doesn’t mean to say it, really. But there’s a buzz in her chest and a warmth in her bones, and her brain doesn’t feel completely tethered to the ground, much less her own head. It’s not entirely her fault she’s saying the first thing to come to mind.

Lanie isn’t particularly quiet, most of the time. The alcohol is doing nothing to help.

Wendell sputters, avoiding her gaze even as his face reddens. Liv pauses for a fraction of a second, glances at Lanie and immediately looks away. She doesn’t know what to do with any of this information. Her brain’s so fuzzy she might not even be retaining it.

(She is. It’s going straight to the back of her brain, highlighted in several different colors and cataloged under what the fuck what the fuck what the fuck. She’s used that box a lot more recently.)

They’re leaning in again. Not that they ever really stopped, but it’s actually happening now, and Lanie really feels like she shouldn’t be here, or should at least be looking away, but Liv’s hand is burning a hole through her thigh and she doesn’t even know if she could move if she wanted to. She should want to. This is weird.

The voice in the back of her head — the one that isn’t hers, technically, just trapped in its own body — has dulled down. Logically, Lanie knows Cara’s in there somewhere, probably shouting at her to leave the situation, but she can’t hear the woman unless she actively tries. And, for reasons she thinks are pretty solid, she doesn’t really feel like trying. She’s got… other things on her mind right now.

She hasn’t been able to take her eyes off of either of her friends in front of her, which isn’t much different from usual, actually, but there’s a flash of movement in the corner of her eye, and even in her clouded state she manages to clock it. Pommefriete is dashing away, more subtle than anyone else in this goddamn film.

“Fucking—” Lanie mutters, then continues, at a normal volume: “I hate to break this up, trust me, but french fry motherfucker is currently getting away, and I feel like we should maybe do something about that.”

Maybe it’s her words, or her voice, or the fact that half of those words weren’t even words because she’s slurring them just barely, but Liv and Wendell spring apart, nervous and hesitant. Lanie rolls her eyes — she loves them, really, but there’s a time and a place and yes she’s being a hypocrite, but that’s not relevant. Blame the fact that she’s getting drunker by the second.

They, eventually, dash out the door, hopefully hot on the tail of the clown guys who apparently want them dead. It doesn’t take long to find them, mostly because they’re brightly colored and in a large room. Lanie reaches for the gun in her pocket, then switches sides because that’s her taser, actually, which is also her MacGuffin and not something she wants to be throwing around for no reason.

And then it turns out they don’t even need their weapons, because the hotel staff spring out from literally nowhere and, quite literally, commit murder in their own hotel. It feels far too convenient, but then again, they’d said they’d protect their group when they walked in, no murder rules aside. Which is kind of just an everywhere rule, actually.

“Holy shit,” Wendell says, awed.

Lanie laughs. “Again. You did that.”

She doesn’t know how she knows that, or even if it’s true, but he smiles in response, a little proud, a little shocked, and something warm fizzles in her chest.

Liv, on the other hand, looks more downtrodden, slumping out of Kingskin’s ramrod straight posture. Her halberd sits loosely in her hand, resting against the floor. Lanie attempts to process this, connect the dots that feel way too far apart. She doesn’t get a chance to before one of the clown guys pops up from the floor, apparently not completely dead, and Liv brings the halberd down right across his neck. There’s a grin on her face as she does. A subconscious shiver runs down Lanie’s spine.

“Holy shit,” she echoes, barely above a whisper. Wendell nods slowly, eyes wide.

Never Stop Blowing Up is not a slow paced film. It’s quite possibly been the most insane god-knows-how-many hours of her entire life. She’s committed several crimes by this point. And she doesn’t know if it’s because they’re just standing around, for the moment, or if it’s everything crashing down at once, or what, but this feels like far too much. Like they’ve crossed some sort of invisible line she hadn’t even known existed.

Don’t get her wrong, she’s not upset about the series of events that have led up to now. She’s just… having an adrenaline crash, it seems. Not the greatest time, all things considered.

Liv leans down, tosses Wendell his dynamite, which he fumbles with for just a moment. Something feels like it clicks in the back of Lanie’s mind, but she’s far too out of it to know what. Or care what, for that matter. She would love to get out of the room with several dead bodies. Maybe even find the rest of their friends.

“Are you feeling okay?” Liv asks, her brows furrowed.

It takes Lanie longer than it should to realize the question is directed at her. “Never better,” she says, and the slur of her speech immediately contradicts it.

Neither of them seem to believe her.

“Right,” Liv says, audibly holding back a laugh.

Wendell loops an arm over her shoulders, and she leans in on instinct, only then remembering that Cara’s 5’4 on a good day and not Lanie’s comfortable 5'10. She’s never had to lean against him like this — never been able to, really, they’re about the same height. It’s weird. She’s also not completely upset about the whole situation.

Liv’s hand — Kingskin’s, really, but Lanie cannot find it in herself to care enough to differentiate the two right now — darts out, then retracts, like she can’t quite figure out what to do with it. There’s a dazed sort of look in her eyes, which might be bold coming from Lanie, who is notably drunk off her ass right now, but the fact that it’s there at all is… a little concerning. Then again, a bunch of shit just happened in the span of maybe half an hour, more emotionally taxing than anything else they’ve done so far.

Mostly it’s just been explosions. These are like… mental explosions. Or something smarter than that. Again, her brain is not in her head right now.

They make it back to the lobby, eventually, and Lanie has to blink to reprocess the deep purples and bright pinks scattering across the room. For a moment, the only coherent thought that comes to mind is holy shit they’ve got bisexual lighting this place fucking rules. And then Liv snorts next to her, and she realizes it is not just a thought.

She likes making Liv laugh, though. She’s gorgeous when she does, when her eyes sparkle and her lips curl into a smile to create the most beautiful sound Lanie’s ever heard. It’s even better when she doesn’t pretend, when her eyes fall shut and her head tilts back and she grins like nobody’s watching, and it’s breathless and melodious and if Lanie could play it on repeat every day she would for the rest of her life. It doesn’t happen often, but Lanie’s pretty damn funny. She’s heard it enough to make it count for something.

At some point in the process of being too gay about her friend’s laugh, she’s been handed off to said friend, Liv’s hand warm where it rests tentatively on her back. Lanie blinks up at her, which is also new — god, someone should teach Cara about platforms, or, like, inserts, or something — but also not a terrible thing. She kind of understands why girls go for taller guys.

“Wendell went to go get water,” Liv explains quietly.

Lanie stares at her, eyes no doubt strangely wide and pathetic if the way she feels is any indication, processing the information. Her brain is currently the equivalent of Internet Explorer right now, so it takes a moment, but eventually she nods, and Liv lets out a sigh of what might be relief.

“Anyone ever tell you you’re really pretty?” Lanie says suddenly, because she needs Liv to know, and sure, it’s a little weird saying it to Kingskin, but it feels like if she squints enough, tilts her head, she can almost see Liv herself in there. “Cause you are.”

Liv coughs, flushes a shade of red that only proves Lanie’s point. “Um. Thanks!” She sounds strained, but not upset. “You’re, uh. You too. You’re also… really pretty. And cool. And, uh.”

She cuts herself off, glances away, scratches her cheek. The words send a thrill up Lanie’s spine anyway.

There’s the hint of a smile on Liv’s face, though. Lanie tries not to think about that too hard before she spirals. It’s pretty simple — there’s a paper airplane flying out the window, and she slips out of Liv’s grip to follow it, ignoring her protests. Her brain tracks movement and bright colors and pretty much nothing else. It’s not entirely her fault for getting distracted.

Someone bumps into her, as to be expected in such a crowded building, but they seem to do a double take, which is less expected.

“La— Cara?” Russell’s voice says, distant, and Lanie turns to see Jennifer Drips, in all her glory. He stares at her in confusion, which slowly morphs into more concern than she thinks is warranted. “Are you… good?”

Why do people keep asking her that? “Feeling great,” she says, attempting to lean on the nearest table. There is no nearest table.

Russell catches her before she can completely tip over, sets her upright. “Lanie,” he says, worryingly serious, “what happened to you?”

She pauses. That is… a very good question, actually. “Uh. Wendell ‘n Liv—”

“Didn’t do anything,” Wendell interrupts out of nowhere, his voice at an octave she didn’t know voices could hit. “Nothing happened. She’s drunk.”

He passes her the water. She stares at the cup, then back up to him. Raises an eyebrow teasingly. Grins when he becomes obviously flustered.

“You do care,” she says smugly. It doesn’t come out as smooth as she would like, but it gets the point across.

“Yeah, well.” He gestures vaguely at nothing. “I’m going to go, uh. Talk to Liv. At the— at the blood rave. If you… wanted to come.”

Lanie considers this, deeper than perhaps the situation requires. She shakes her head. “I think— I’m gonna chill with Russell. We’re buddies. Besties. Pals. Uh.”

Wendell gives her a look she doesn’t think she could decipher if she were sober. “Right. Well, uh. Don’t die?” he offers. Glances up to Russell. “Please make sure she doesn’t die.”

“Sure thing,” Russell says, amused. “Have fun.”

“Love you!” Lanie calls at Wendell’s retreating figure. She turns back around before she can see him stumble so hard he nearly faceplants.

Russell definitely sees it, but doesn’t comment on it, just looks at Lanie, expectant and amused. “So, what did you say is happening with them?”

She lights up at that, grins, because she loves to gossip and she loves to talk about her friends. “They’re, like, making out in the blood rave or whatever. I dunno. So—”

“I’m sorry,” Russell interrupts, and he does genuinely look apologetic. Ignoring the fact he’s obviously trying not to laugh. “The what?”

“You know.” Lanie shrugs. They all know about the blood rave, duh. “The blood rave. I dunno. Not my business. They almost kissed, Russell. ‘N I was just kinda… there. In the middle.”

Rest in peace to Russell’s brain for trying to figure out what the fuck she’s talking about right now. Godspeed, soldier. She can see him connecting the dots, and waits patiently for him to do so — it’s not that complicated, really. Why is everyone so confused about all this?

“So— hang on.” Russell actually sits down on the ground, which is kind of weird considering how many chairs there are here, but Lanie just follows suit because standing is getting tiring, actually, and her feet are starting to hurt. “What do you mean in the middle?”

Lanie huffs petulantly, like a toddler. “We played craps, ‘n the french fry fucker had Wendell’s MacGuffin, so we bet on it, and it was either that or he ‘n Liv kissed. We… didn’t win. It was so bad, Russell.”

“The kiss?”

“No— well. Maybe?” She considers that, then shrugs. “I dunno. I wasn’t part of that. I was just… in the middle. Literally.”

Russell stares at her, Jennifer’s piercing gaze boring into her soul. She doesn’t entirely blame him, this time. Her brain was just as foggy in the moment.

“So no one actually kissed.” It’s a statement more than anything, as if he’s processing everything. “And you’re… okay with that?”

She shrugs again. “I like being the guy in the middle. ‘M not that worried about it.”

She’s surprised to find she really means it when she says it. Anyone with eyes can tell she’s absolutely down bad for her best friends slash coworkers slash multiple question marks at this point, but she’s genuinely never really expected it to go anywhere. Especially now that Liv seems to return Wendell’s feelings, even if she’s not completely aware of it herself. Sometimes Lanie uses the only two psychology classes she ever took for good.

Russell frowns, which confuses her, because she’s not upset about any of this. “But you’re into both of them.”

Jesus fuck, why is this a conversation she’s having with a coworker nearly thirty years older than her?

Because she’s drunk and no one else will listen to her, most likely. And anyway, Russell’s initiating at least seventy percent of it, so it’s not entirely her fault. Just mostly.

“‘S like… imagine a tricycle,” she says, only half sure of where the metaphor is going. “Three wheels. Two of them are in the front, and then there’s the one in the back. The two are like… bonded or whatever. Besties. Lovers. Worse. I dunno.

“You can’t get, like, stability without the third one, though,” she explains. Her eyes feel less dry than they were a minute ago, and when she reaches up to rub at them her hand comes back tear streaked. Huh. “It’s there for emotional support, or something. And it doesn’t mind being at the back, ‘cause how else do you get to see the other two?”

“That’s…” Russell trails off. “I don’t think tricycles are set up like that.”

Okay, so it’s not a perfect metaphor. Sue her.

Lanie groans, probably a little overdramatic. “Shut up, I’m making points. You get it.”

He smiles like he just might. “That makes a lot of sense, though, Lanie. I just think maybe you haven’t been paying close enough attention.”

And then, like he hasn’t just casually dropped a bombshell like that on her, he pats her shoulder before standing up and wandering off. She thinks she sees him with Usha, but she’s too busy staring at the ground and trying to refocus her brain as she runs through every interaction she’s ever had.

It doesn’t go well, not at the moment. Later, though — later, they’ll end up on a speedboat to the Amazon, and Lanie will squeeze herself between Liv and Paula and shiver in nothing but a tank top. Later, they’ll end up in Alaska first, and she’ll throw up off the side of the boat when Usha takes over driving, and Wendell will quietly confess that he and Liv didn’t kiss the night before.

Later, Liv will run off, and they’ll find out about Dave, and they’ll storm the White House when it flies away, and a million other things will happen that Lanie won’t comprehend at the time, much less afterwards.

Later — much, much later — they’ll have time. Time to choose, time to talk, time to figure things out.

For now, Lanie passes out in the middle of the floor until Dang nudges her awake with his foot and dreams about almost kisses that aren’t an almost.

#here it is. the 4.4k nsbu oc insert fic of my dreams!!#this is so embarrassing #i am mentally unwell about my own d20 ocs and i luv to incorporate them in the actual universes #unfortunately this is very cringe but hey #reese’s fics #reese’s ocs #lanie woodward #i’m too afraid to maintag this LMAO #daft pretty boys lanie song of all time btw!! if you even care!!!#they look so pretty from afar… like the gates of heaven have opened now and my one true love has just waltzed right out…#THERES ONE TJING ABOUT ME THAT YOU SHOULD KNOW I CANT HELP FROM SPEAKING MY MIND #it’s so this fic coded. augh #sky full of stars

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