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copiousloverofcopia · 2 years ago

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Because I am INSANE here is another Chapter fic I have started featuring Copia and OC Astrid!

We will see where this goes because I have some people telling me include my signature stuff and others who want it left out. Feel free to tell me what you'd like to see in the comments!

Something Blue

Sister of Sin Astrid is anything but excited for Cardinal Copia to return home from tour. As his assistant, she leads a life of monotony and boredom from which she longs for more. When the Cardinal returns, anointed as Papa Emeritus IV, she is faced with an unwanted and unavoidable situation predicated on her family's position within the church. Will Astrid rise to what has been asked of her or will she destroy everything and leave it all behind?

Also available HERE on A03!

Commissions currently closed! They will open up again once I finish editing cosplay photos from my sessions 😅

Anyways here we got ghesties!!!

Below the cut for space

She smoothed over the crisp folds made in her black sheets. Lastly, fluffing up her well-slept on pillows before heading to the refectory. The smell of freshly baked bread was already wafting up the stairs from inside the kitchen—and a dutiful sister was never late for breakfast. Astrid was done up, smug with how well her mascara and eyeliner had come together for a change. Her porcelain pale face–perfectly dewy, with cheeks that blushed a delicate shade of rose. Her habit had been freshly ironed and veil well affixed to her dark navy hair. Carefully selected strands, falling down and framing her face. Adding to her natural beauty as she entered the hall.

Today was a special day for the Abbey. The Cardinal would be returning from tour, and tonight the siblings and clergy would be ripe with celebration. Everyone was preparing for the festivities–not only for this triumphant return, but a special announcement to be made at the night’s celebratory dinner. Despite the expected fanfare, Astrid couldn’t care less about it.

Had it not been for her determination to show Cirrus what she had been missing since their breakup, Astrid would have absent-mindedly gotten drunk and ignored the celebrations all together. Enjoying the spoils so generously donated from Secondo’s stash, much more than rejoicing in the old man’s return. She was the Cardinal’s assistant. Day in and day out, watching him work the finances—a prosaic job bestowed so lovely upon her by the Deacon Patrick. An old friend of the family who so happened to be the head of Sibling Affairs.

She had wanted something exciting to do after officially taking her vows. It was her family’s idea however that she worked with the Cardinal, and of course she couldn’t say no. Ideas and dreams of a more interesting life—crushed with her appointment. There would be no working in the garden with Papa Primo, surrounded by the beauty of exotic flowers and his mystical practices with herbs and spells. Nor would she get the chance to bend down in low-cut garments in front of the Third as she tended to his “needs”.

No, all the potential for something more intriguing, ruined for the sake of giving the old man someone to double check his grammar on expensive reports and verify that budgets reached Sister Imperator in a timely fashion. It was a wonder to her that she hadn’t already gone stark-raving mad. From the moment they gave her the position she longed for more. Disappointed that she was destined to live out her days in monotony. In service to the Ministry and to others, unable to make many choices for herself.

It was unavoidable, almost as much as an Emeritus son's ascension to the Papacy. Astrid’s father was a high clergyman for years before his passing, and her mother too, came from a bloodline that spanned back centuries. A family that helped to found the Satanic church in Italy—now pushing for her to continue her studies and move up within the ranks of the clergy. It was assumed that one day she would become an abbess or even a sister akin to the likes of Sister Imperator. A woman of high regard and power.

Either way, she seemed to be expected to take up a mantle set out for her by a family she barely knew. Astrid was angry that she’d be unable to truly forge a future of her own. Her job with Copia, a reminder of just how tedious and unexciting the Ministry could be. That life for her was meant to be full of hard work and appeasement—masking her own desires.

Copia himself was a kind man and Astrid bore no ill-will toward him. Although she could do without his obsession with his rats and other strange habits. Like the time she caught him riding around his tricycle at 3am—not the sight she expected to see when Cirrus and her had crept downstairs to fool around in the pews. She was ambivalent towards him, more caught up in her own misery than giving him much attention. Not really friends, but friendly one might say–though she could tell that the Cardinal felt differently about her.

She paid it no mind and Copia was too much of a gentleman to bring it up, but It was a relief when Sister Imperator had convinced Papa Nihil to appoint him as head of Ghost, leaving Astrid to be responsibility free for a bit while he was gone. Not only would the desk work be on hold, but Cirrus too would be gone. The break up between them, leaving a bad taste in Astrid’s mouth. One she was glad to be rid of as the tour began.

Today however, they were back. Any minute now, the ghouls of the band along with the Cardinal would arrive and she needed to hurry up if she wanted to stuff something into her face before they returned. When she had finally reached the refectory, Astrid grabbed herself a cappuccino and bowl of granola before sitting down on the bench just at the front of the room. Watching the main entrance from the doorway. Only a few moments passed before the inevitable cracking open of the door.

“Argh why does this shit seem to get heavier every time I have to carry it.” Dew hissed, trying to reposition his pack higher up on his back. His tail, swishing around fast from side to side. A sure sign of annoyance as the other ghouls began filling in behind him.

“Quit your blubbering. We are on break now Dew, no more luggage for a while.” Aether said, rolling his eyes as he lugged in his own bags through the door.

“I don’t have any problem.” laughed Mountain, who picked both Dew and his bags up and walked them further inside. Effortless like he’d lifted a tissue from the ground. The other ghouls laughed a bit as they entered, watching Dew struggling to free himself from Mountain’s grasp. Astrid, almost choking on her coffee as we watched the slinky ghoul drop to the ground.

It was amazing to her just how much like family the ghouls were with each other. She was always envious of how well they got along and just how much they all seemed to truly care about one another. She was also not shy about discovering how well they seemed to all be in the bedroom. Dating Alpha some years back before her and Cirrus had gotten together. She continued watching them as she took her empty bowl to the counter and threw away her napkin, next coming Cumulus and the Cardinal.

Astrid noticed almost immediately something was different about him. Copia seemed happy to be home, which was all together expected, but his smile—it had changed. More confident than she had remembered. He glanced towards her, nodding to acknowledge he’d seen her before Astrid sent back a lackluster nod of her own.

As her eyes shifted away, she caught sight of Cirrus walking inside. The tour seemed to have done wonders for her. The ghoulette’s ashen skin glowing as she wrapped her arm around Sunshine, kissing her fully and deep as they walked inside. The two of them giggling together like they’d spent the whole tour held up in bed. Astrid’s blood began to boil at the sight. Her anger and jealousy seething through every pore.

She took off out of her seat, rushing through the entryway to the refectory and down the hall towards the chapel. Copia watched, listening to the conversation of the ghouls and a few of the siblings that had come to greet them at the door. He could feel something was wrong. Though Astrid had never allowed him to get close, it didn’t take a genius to see the pain in her eyes.

“Everything ok Papa.” Aether asked, noticing the concerned look on Copia’s face. He handed his bag over to Aether, as the ghoul insisted, and gave him a small smile before speaking.

“I—ah…I think I will go check on Sister Astrid. She seems upset.” he explained.

“Ha la Luna storta. I wouldn’t worry about it.” chimed in Marcus, a brother of sin who had been waiting for them to return. Copia started to walk off, watching as Astrid disappeared towards the chapel.

“Papa, Sister Imperator is expecting you in her office.” Rain reminded him. Copia waved his hand to shrug off Rain’s concern. He needed to know what had the sister so upset.

“No worries…I will head up there soon Rain…” he assured them as he took off towards the chapel.

How dare she move on so fast…fucking bitch. Glad I was just so easily replaced, Astrid raged. Her knees hitting the hassock as she began to pray for strength. Lucifer knows she didn’t want Cirrus back. The sister’s affections for the ghoulette, waning fast over the course of their rather dysfunctional relationship. But the idea of her moving on so easily, however, really pissed Astrid off.

She felt herself begin to cry. The eye make-up she had prided herself on, beginning to run down her cheeks as she failed to hold them back. Just behind her was the sound of the door. A small creak that echoed gently in the room, alerting her to another’s presence.

Astrid quickly wiped away the tears and pulled herself up onto the seat of the pew. Her heart, racing as she prepared for the worst. Hoping that Cirrus hadn’t followed her in. That no one had seen her losing her grip.

“Cara mia?” A familiar voice spoke, as a warm body took its place beside her. Astrid looked over to see Copia sitting there. His face, full of concern and empathy.

“It’s nothing, Cardinal. How was the tour?” she asked, hoping that Copia would be too polite to push further.

“Glorious cara, there is truly nothing like it. The ghouls and I have grown quite close over the past 2 years. I honestly am very excited to do it again once I have had a chance to work on the next album of course.” he smiled.

“Oh wow…I’m surprised that the clergy were that impressed, but they must be if they are letting you do another tour cycle.” Astrid said innocently. All the frontmen of Ghost she had seen were Papas after retirement. Terzo was the last and then Copia was chosen reportedly as a last stitch effort to mix things up by Sister Imperator who felt the Emeritus sons weren’t pulling in enough support for the Dark Lord.

“Ah yes well…” Copia began, Astrid sensing that her words could be taken as an insult. She wasn’t the best at thinking before speaking.

“Sorry Cardinal I didn’t mean to—”

“It’s alright Astrid, I take no offense. Anyways I am happy to be home for now. I missed you while on tour.” he told her, trying to change the subject–his words still however very much true.

“Oh? Why is that?” she laughed.

“Well there was no one there to make sarcastic comments or joke around with me—except Dew and Aether, but if I am being honest cara, I prefer your humor.” he explained, his words warm and comforting.

“Heh…well then, I missed you too.” Astrid sniffled, no longer caring if the Cardinal knew the real reason she had come to the chapel. He was a compassionate man after all and, following his kind words, she felt she could confess her sin. Be absolved by him in some way to help her make it through the night’s celebrations.

“Cardinal…”

“Sister Astrid…”

“The real reason I came in here…well…it’s because of Cirrus. I'm angry and I needed to be alone.” she admitted, Copia’s brows raising up on high his forehead with her words.

“Cirrus? I thought things were—”

“They are… they have been. I just…I just didn’t think she’d move on so soon.”

“Ah, si…I understand. This thing between her and Sunshine is making you feel insecure, eh?” he asked her. How astute he was, a trait that both impressed and irritated Astrid to the core. She narrowed her gaze, unable to hide her discontent from Copia, she then turned to face away. Staring forward at the large stone grucifix that sat atop the sanctuary.

“I’m just tired of feeling unimportant.” she sighed, once again wiping away tears.

“You are not unimportant cara. I certainly need you.” Copia laughed a bit, trying to lighten the mood. His comment made no difference to Astrid. She was mad and hurt, nothing he was going to say would change it. He didn’t want him to be upset either but being unable to help. Astrid, beginning to feel as though she shouldn’t have said anything.

“Yeah.” was all she could muster, becoming quiet as the two of them sat together in the pews.

“Well…While I know this won’t make your pain go away sister, you are very much needed.” Copia smiled, reaching over to touch her hand. Astrid instinctively tensed, looking over to him confusedly.

“Cardinal—” she began before Copia cut her off.

“Shhh…Astrid. I will share a secret with you, ok? But you must tell no one until after dinner tonight.” Copia whispered, his head swiveling around to make sure the two of them were truly alone. Astrid’s demeanor changed. Finally, something exciting, even if it was a small secret between her and her boss.

“Promise, my lips are sealed.” she promised. Copia smiled once again and began to look a bit nervous. Astrid, growing more intrigued by the second. Finally, after what felt like hours, even if it had only been a minute, he told her.

“I am now Papa. As of now I am Papa Emeritus the Fourth.”

When Copia had left Astrid in the chapel, she was floored. As he shut the door behind him, leaving at the behest of Aether and Rain, she couldn’t believe it. How? Why? They made Copia…Papa?

The choice to her seemed to be completely out of left field. Copia was a smart man, but different from the others. He wasn’t even Papa Nihil’s son so how could he be an “Emeritus”. None of it made sense, but in true Astrid fashion her thoughts immediately went to how it would impact her. Would she have to change positions, or would she now be a Papal assistant?

The thoughts of Copia ascending now thrilling her. If she were to be Papa’s assistant that would open up way more opportunities for things like travel and parties and excitement. Astrid was all but giddy now with the news, hoping that it would play out like she’d envisioned in her mind.

As she left the chapel, she decided the evening couldn’t come fast enough. Now there would be cause for celebration and the night hadn’t been completely ruined by seeing Cirrus after all. She took off back to the dorms. Wanting to pick out an outfit for such a special occasion—having the insider information no one else had, when she was stopped by the Deacon on her way in.

“Sister Astrid.” he said as he stood in front of the door. A tall man, thin and sharp looking in his Diaconal vestments. Black alb and stole. His black dalmatic adorned in red grucifixes along its center. Clearly he had been conferred his position during the time of Papa Emeritus the First’s reign.

“Deacon Patrick, for what do I owe the honor?” she asked, laughing a bit under her breath. He was like an uncle to her. Her mother, off overseas with her second husband, leaving the Deacon to watch over her like a second father.

“I am to fetch you and bring you to Sister Imperator’s office at once agnellino.” he smiled back, walking over and wrapping his arm over her shoulder, mindful of the fall of her veil.

“Oh? That's strange.” Astrid hummed, hoping it had to do with Copia’s new appointment…and she was right.

When she walked into Sister’s office, she was hit with a chill. She had half a mind to think it was Sister herself causing it. The woman always was standoffish and all together cold to those who resided beneath her in station. When she rounded the chairs facing the desk, she saw Copia already sitting in one, anxiously stroking his mustache as both her and the Deacon took their seats.

The three of them sat together in silence for several minutes. All looking toward one another but never speaking. “I hope I haven’t kept you all waiting long.” came a voice from behind them. Astrid immediately recognized it as Sister’s, though she was used to it being a bit more like a bark than the calm tone it was today.

“Not at all. We have only just arrived, though I can’t speak for Papa.” the Deacon laughed, bowing his head in reverence towards Copia. Copia only nodded back, still looking anxious—almost child-like in Sister’s presence.

“Good…ah! I see you’ve brought with you Sister Astrid.” she beamed, a cold chill shooting down the young sister’s spine. It was unnerving to see her excited about something and the way she reacted immediately to seeing her, set Astrid on edge.

“Of course Sister, I was told you asked to see me?”

“Yes…I am so glad you came. Well then, I don’t see any sense in resting on ceremony. I wanted to have this little meeting to discuss things prior to dinner this evening as it will be on the minds and, I'm sure, the lips of every sibling before sundown.” Her words, puzzling the three of them.

“You mean Copia becoming Papa?” Deacon Patrick asked.

“Well of course that…but there’s something else I needed to discuss specifically with you two.” she explained staring straight at Copia and Astrid. Copia’s eyes widened, it had to be something big for her to be carrying on like this. Astrid could feel her heart beginning to pound as she waited to hear whatever it was the Sister would tell them.

“Yes Sister, go on with it then please.” Copia asked, trying still to find his voice when it came to her.

“Yes…As Papa Emeritus the Fourth there are obligations to be upheld as I am sure you are all aware. This was not a decision made lightly by the Ministry, but with Papa Nihil’s other sons all having a go at it and still managing to fall short…changes needed to be made.”

“Am I missing something here Sister? You make it sound as if—” the Deacon began before Sister Imperator cut him off.

“As if Copia is Nihil’s son? That is because he is Patrick. Copia is Nihil and MY son.” Sister proclaimed. Astrid and Deacon Patrick audibly gasped, jaws hitting the proverbial floor with the revelation.

“So that means…” Astrid said, trying to work it all out in her overwhelmed state.

“That means that he is the rightful next heir to the miter and always has been because of his birthright. Copia has known for some time, but now it will become common knowledge since I am sure since the ghouls don’t know how to keep their mouths shut. That being said, it brings me to you Sister Astrid.

“What about her?” the Deacon asked.

“Well you see because of his new position we are now in need of some other adjustments to her position as well.” Sister Imperator continued. This was it, Astrid thought to herself. Finally she would be getting in on some excitement. Hoping to kiss the paperwork goodbye, leaving it behind for something greater.

“I am very excited to hear that.” Astrid nodded. Sister smiled back at her, sitting down at her desk before steepling her fingers.

“Cardi—Papa. Now that you have ascended it is by both mine and the Ministry’s judgment that you be betrothed, acquiring a Prime Mover.”

“I’m sorry, a what?” Copia asked her. The Sister took in a deep breath, looking directly at Astrid. All three of them—Copia, Astrid, and the Deacon sat pupils blown, waiting for her to continue.

“A Prime Mover Copia—a wife. One day you will be expected to carry on the Papal line. None of the others are in a position to oblige and that leaves the task to you.” Sister explained. Copia lowered his head, looking into his lap accepting what she was saying to him with a nod. Both Astrid and the Deacon left in shock.

“Oh you can’t mean.” Astrid began, realizing now what her new position was supposed to be.

“You have been chosen by the ministry to be Copia’s Prime Mover. The two of you will be wed within the next few weeks, once things have settled down a bit and we have had a chance to plan things out.” Sister said, flipping through some paperwork on her desk. Immediately both the Copia and Astrid stood up from their chairs.

“Sister, I am not sure Sister Ast—” Copia protested, knowing that despite his own feelings, Astrid had not once given him any indication she’d felt the same.

“This has to be a joke?!” Astrid snapped, her blood running cold with madness. How dare they just decide who she would marry, that she would bear children—that she’d be stuck playing Suzy homemaker with the awkward tricyclist of an old man.

“I assure you it is not a joke Sister. You and Copia will be wed by the end of the Autumnal Equinox. Is that understood!” Sister Imperator hissed back, her force like a knife held to everyone’s throat. Both Copia and the Deacon stared at Astrid, awaiting what she’d say next.

“I—I can’t.” she cried, running from her chair and out the door of the office. Tears pouring forth like rain in a storm. Her heart aching and her mind swirling with anger. Copia got up from his seat, nodding to the Deacon as he attempted to make his own way out.

“And just where do you think you are going?” Sister Imperator asked him, eyebrow cocked and smug look on her face.

“I am going to talk to her. She is meant to be my bride Sister, is she not?” he said sharply. Sister only nodded to him as he left on his way to talk to Astrid—his bride to be.

Notes:

Ha la Luna storta-Her moon is crooked (An Italian saying for someone being in a bad mood)

Hassock- kneeler (place where one kneels to pray)

Dalmatic- vestment worn by Deacons, similar to priests chasuble

Alb- vestment worn by clergymen to cover street garments for ceremony.

Stole- scarf like vestment worn by clergymen

Agnellino- little lamb

36 notes · View notes

ghost-proofbaby · 1 year ago

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SO SCARLET (IT WAS MAROON)

CHAPTER SIX: IS IT OVER NOW?

LET'S FAST FORWARD TO THREE HUNDRED TAKEOUT COFFEES LATER, I SEE YOUR PROFILE AND YOUR SMILE ON UNSUSPECTING WAITERS.

☆ pairings: rockstar!eddie munson x fem!reader

☆ warnings: no use of y/n, strong language, angst, minors dni

☆ WC: 5.8K+

☆ A/N: if i could put the entirety of the lyrics to this song on here, i would. it's! their! song! (side note: these idiots need to start making progress before i tear my hair out i mean it. they make me think about jumping off of very tall somethings)

thank you to my love @hellfire--cult for the divider!

masterlist

The coffeeshop that Eddie chooses isn’t one you’re familiar with. It’s smaller, more hidden, tucked away in an unsuspecting corner and disguised from prying eyes.

It wouldn’t have been your first choice, but you’re sure his thought process on choosing public locations differs from yours now. One wrong move, and he’s sure to end up on the cover of another magazine. Actually, one wrong breath, and the public eye probably eats him alive.

He’d sort of brought that upon himself, building up such a polarizing reputation all by his own hands.

“Ever been before?” he asks as the two of you stand in line, the scent of espresso burning your nose and the hiss of steam wands cutting straight through the soft chatter of fellow patrons.

You only shake your head. No words to ease his clear anxiety as you watch him shift his weight between his two feet and his hands dig deep into his pockets.

“It’s pretty good,” he continues to ramble, looking up at the menu rather than you, “They’ve got decent hot coffee, and their lattes aren’t too bad. I like the vanilla one best, which is probably boring but-”

“Eddie,” you interrupt him sternly, “What happened to not talking?”

He scoffs a little, finally turning to look at you. “We aren’t seated yet. Once we get a table, I swear, my lips are sealed.”

You highly doubt that.

It’s torture being this close to him for this long. The accidental bumps of his elbow against your shoulder that send you jumping from the contact. The way you nearly stepped on his foot when you’d shuffled out of the way for someone, and your apology got tangled on your tongue when he’d reached out to steady you. In small moments, when he’s too busy glancing nervously around the cafe, you spare him longer looks. Since he first came tumbling back into your life a mere week ago, you’d been staunch on your stance that he had changed beyond measure. But here, out at a coffee shop with just the two of you present along with all his nervousness, you can see glimpses of something familiar beneath the surface. The way he bites his lip, the way he fiddles with his rings, how he’s occasionally humming tunes beneath his breath as he avoids eye contact with you – you hate it. You hate every aspect of it, and all the painful nostalgia it stirs within you.

It reminds you of your first date with him, back in Hawkins. All the confidence he’d exuded at that Halloween party you’d met him at had disappeared the moment he got you alone sober. As if he had felt the weight of what this would become from day one, as if he knew just how much of both your future’s rested in one stupid date.

You almost get lost in the memories before it’s your turn to order at the counter.

“Just a vanilla latte, please.”

You can see his small smile out of the corner of your eye. A small trace of triumph is clear as day as you order the exact thing he just said was his favorite. It wasn’t intentional, but there’s no use trying to convince him of that.

It’s just a coincidence, you try to convince yourself. It just sounded good after he brought it up.

“I’ll have the same,” he tells the barista behind the counter, moving to pull out his wallet.

On your first date with him, you had bickered endlessly about who would pay. And you nearly do it again – you nearly reach out a hand to stop him and insist you could pay for your own coffee on instinct.

It would be so easy to let history repeat itself, to watch your greatest hits reinvent themselves at this moment. Maybe, this time around, the two of you can get it right.

You don’t move a single muscle as he hands over his card.

He murmurs out a soft thank you when it’s returned to him with a receipt, and you’re already turned to scout out a table to sit at.

There’s plentiful booths, a few high-tops by the front windows. There’s even half booths lining one wall of the cafe. If you were out on your own, all of these choices would be perfect. You’d take a seat at any of the tables and be content, especially the high-tops that offered the perfect opportunity for people watching between work.

You choose a table in one of the back corners. Somewhere darker, and far from everyone else in the building. Somewhere hidden.

“Here?” he questions, hesitating behind you as you drop your bag down beside one of the chairs.

“Something wrong with this table?” you ask over your shoulder, hand gripping on the back of the chair as if it could ground you.

“I mean… not really,” you turn and look at him over your shoulder, “It’s just kind of dark back here, and you used to like sitting by windows-”

Your throat tightens at it – the acknowledgement that he remembers. That he can recall anything from the past, of you, of your time spent together. Part of you had been convinced he’d taken a sledgehammer to the past, shattered it into something unrecognizable and abandoned it altogether.

He hadn’t. It should have been obvious, but he hadn’t.

“Maybe I’ve changed,” you cut in, gaze unwavering as you dare him to challenge you on the fact, “Besides, I don’t want to be distracted while I work.”

You won’t lose this game; whatever he’s currently playing at, you can’t afford to lose. You are not the girl he remembers, and he is not the man you’ve mourned for two years. Both of you, it seems, need that reminder.

He joins you at the shadowy table without another word.

You take to setting up your laptop and notebook, powering up your devices as you flip back open to your pages of contacts and physical notes already taken. Your eyes refuse to find his the entire time as you log in, as you open up to that damn refusal from the latest venue, as you sigh harshly out your nose at that bitter reminder of failure.

When they call your names for the lattes, he’s up and retrieving them without you even asking him to.

In your short time alone at the table, you lean forward to rest your forehead on the palms of your hands. It’s exhausting – being around him, pretending like you wouldn’t have enjoyed the view out the window, facing the reality that his mess had once again become yours. Every inch of your skin prickles with the need to run. And yet you don’t. You could have told him no, easily turned down his offer for coffee. But you didn’t, so now, you’ll live with the consequences.

“One vanilla latte,” Eddie appears, setting down that takeout cup of coffee down in front of you before he takes his seat, “I didn’t know if you’d want any extra sugars, but if you do, I can grab them-”

“Thanks,” you interrupt blandly, lifting your head from your hands as you watch him sit down his own coffee. You really, really didn’t want to hear him ramble anymore.

Didn’t want to ponder how it’s almost as endearing as the first day you met him. Didn’t want to think about how each syllable that falls from his lips strikes something deep in you, something stained and something yearning for erasure of a past both of you can’t change now. Didn’t want to keep caving so damn easily.

You are meant to be furious. You have every right to be; he left first, he stopped loving you first, he broke this first. You’ve had two years to gather up all your grief and all your anger, package it nicely with a bow on top, and that is what you should be handing over to him right now. Not forgiveness, not understanding. Certainly not endearment.

Something in your chest still shudders at the sight of his wince when he tries to sip the hot latte too soon, effectively burning his lip and tongue.

“So, you come here often?”

What the hell happened to not talking?

It’s not him to blame – it’s you. The words tumble out embarrassingly quickly. You had a plan, why weren’t you following the plan? Get a free coffee, get a break from the office, maybe manage to have some sort of breakthrough while away from that stuffy building. You weren’t supposed to be talking to him.

And he knows it. Damn it, does he know it as his lips curl at their corners ever so slightly, “Yeah. It’s convenient, nice and close to the studio.”

Where the fuck had all his rambles disappeared to? What are you supposed to do with such a short, such a normal response?

“Right,” you nod, acting as though the location of his studio would be common knowledge to you, “Right, no, of course. It’s good to have a convenient coffee place.”

He leans back in his chair, nervousness misting away and some sort of confidence creeping in instead. Fuck him.

“Do you have one around here?”

He’s testing the waters, seeing just how much conversation you’ll allow. The threshold should be none. Zilch. A resounding absolutely not.

“I usually stop by the Starbucks closest to my apartment.”

So much for that.

“Starbucks?” he crinkles his nose, and dear Lord, you need to look away. Save yourself the heartbreak, because those wrinkles are almost a replica map of the ones you remember back in Hawkins when he’d make faces at you across the Hideout when someone would approach him with boring conversation he wanted no part in. The same disgust, the same silent conversation between you transpiring, “I thought you were always a coffee snob. Hated that shit.”

You had been. When he had known you, you had hated that subpar commercial coffee.

“Like I said,” you swallow hard, looking down to your keyboard, realizing the conversation needed to end, “People change.”

Did you change, though? You still hated the taste of your morning coffee, cringed at either the burnt bitterness or overwhelming sweetness you could never find peaceful equilibrium between. A thousand different orders, a thousand different experiments, and you still had yet to find anything that satisfied your caffeine cravings.

Kind of like how you window-shopped at the bars. How you’d look over various men that Romina pointed out, and only shake your head before picking out something wrong with them. Something that wasn’t to your usual taste, something that wasn’t him.

You finally take a sip of your latte as Eddie nods, muttering a soft, “Guess so.”

It’s perfect. The latte isn’t too sweet, isn’t too bitter. It’s exactly what you’ve been searching for these last two years.

“They have really good muffins,” Eddie continues on, mimicking you by taking another sip of his drink. This time, he doesn’t burn his mouth, “Cinnamon rolls, too.”

The small talk is nearly killing you. You should go silent on him, begin to work on figuring out the venue situation. But you watch the way he fiddles with the sleeves of his leather jacket and can’t help but remember the old one with safety pins holding together the sleeves. Finally, you cave outwardly.

“What kind of venue do you want?”

It’s not small talk, but it’s not personal talk. It’s just you swallowing your pride, and shocking yourself by reaching out for the help everyone has pestered you with offering the last week.

“What?” Eddie’s eyes widen, no longer rubbing the fabric between his fingertips.

“The venue for the party,” you elaborate, “What are you looking for in it? Small? Big? Private? Rooftop? I’ve tried asking Matt, and he’s given me nothing to work off of.”

Eddie slowly lifts his hands to lay on the tabletop, watching you with such careful eyes that you can see all the lack of trust in them. “Does it… matter?”

You scoff, and before your brain or heart can warn you against it, you’re scooting your chair around the table to be closer to Eddie. You pull your laptop along with you, shifting it so that both of you can see the screen as you bring up your list of options. A colorful spreadsheet: rejections highlighted in a muted red, the ones you haven’t heard back from highlighted in soft orange, the ones you’re unsure of and haven’t even sent out queries regarding highlighted in a nearly transparent yellow.

Only one is highlighted in a pastel green. The one with a rooftop option, as well as several downstairs rooms. The one you thought seemed the most like Eddie.

“Yes, it matters a fuck ton,” you explain, pointing at a random line as his eyes dart about your impressive display, “The ones in red are ones that already rejected me, but most are larger venues you’ve played in the past. By the way, why have you destroyed so many green rooms?”

“I get bored,” he flatly replies, leaning in with squinted eyes, “What does that yellow mean?”

“Those are ones I’m unsure about. Either too big, too small, or too exclusive.”

“And orange?”

“I sent out an email, and haven’t heard back.”

“And…” he pauses as he reaches that venue, “And green? Why’s there only one green?”

It occurs to you he’s the first person to not turn their nose up at your extensive organization. Everyone else had thought it was stupid, wasteful, to spend so much time on the spreadsheet. No one had asked you to explain the color system before, usually hardly glancing at the screen before brushing you off.

No one had even questioned the green line yet.

“Green is the one I think…” you trail off, unsure of why you’re so afraid to admit the meaning. You sort of feel foolish; that terrible imposter syndrome managing to creep up on you as you doubt your judgment, “It’s the one I think might be the best fit. It probably isn’t, I don’t know. Honestly, I can take it off the list-”

“Show me the venue.”

“I really don’t-”

He interrupts you by saying your name sternly, looking away from the screen to glance at you with raised eyebrows, “Just show me. It can’t be any worse than…” he looks back over the list, letting out a snort, “Jesus, Webster Hall? Yeah, they’re not letting us come back any time soon.”

“What did you do to them?” you ask, too curious for your own good. Most of the venues wouldn’t divulge the messy details, only staunchly say no and promise they had their reasons once you mentioned Corroded Coffin.

“I’ll tell you if you show me the green venue.”

He knows he’s won when you finally click onto the still open tabs. You’d opened the hyperlink for every single different room, ranging from the large main one to the petty small one on a rooftop. You start with the largest room, and Eddie eagerly drinks in the details on the page.

He whistles softly, only loud enough for you to hear, “Quite the venue.”

“This is just the first room.”

He looks at you, clearly shocked, subtly nodding for you to click through the rest of the tabs. His reaction is fairly consistent as you show each new room, new capacity, new option. You can see the way his face lights up – you had been right.

Your judgment was correct. You hadn’t been an idiot, shouldn’t have doubted yourself. It almost makes you feel as if there’s still a chance that you still know him. Somewhere deep down, beneath your layers of stained armor and his layers of reckless defenses, you still know him.

“It’s… good,” he says softly after reading over that final tab you had opened, “Like, really good.”

You exhale in relief, “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” he leans back in his chair, “I don’t think we’ve ever played that venue before, either, so… no wrecked green room to hold over my head.”

You should stay on track and focus; you are making progress. After a week of hopelessness, you were finally not feeling like an absolute failure. Better to keep the train moving forward than to halt right now.

And yet, your mind picks up on that green room comment again, and you can’t help it – all your focus flies out the window.

“Why do you fuck up all those green rooms? And don’t just say you were bored,” you ask, curling your hands around your still warm cup of coffee, “I mean, I get it – the rockstar image or whatever – but isn’t it… isn’t it more trouble than it’s worth when it comes to scheduling tours?”

He shakes his head softly, curls tumbling over tense shoulders, “Definitely not for the rockstar image.”

“Then why?” you turn your head, ignore the screen, focus on him. On his scruff and the bags under his eyes, on the cracks in his chapped lips.

On that distinct look overtaking his face that says you overstepped.

“Forget it,” you weakly say, taking back your words to the best of your abilities without being able to pull them back onto your tongue, tuck them back into that box of anger and grief, and curiosity now, apparently. “I guess it doesn’t really matter. Either way, it’s good that these guys have nothing against you, right?”

“They still might,” Eddie shrugs, sucking his bottom lip in between his teeth, “Word travels fast between venues.”

He says it so sadly, it’s hard to think of a proper response. You know he brought it upon himself. There’s no room for sympathy at this table, in this cafe.

But it still only adds to your motivation to do this job, and do it well. A parting gift to Eddie; a way to silently swallow the pride leftover from a messy breakup, and apologize for the way you’d left without a trace. Right then and right there, you decide that’s what this has to become. For your peace of mind, and possibly for his.

“You want a rooftop,” you don’t phrase it as a question, but as a statement as you yank your laptop closer to you, fingers flying over the keyboard, “A rooftop with a nice view, that’s what your email said.”

“I mean, that’d be nice-”

“You all want an open bar,” you add, continuing to type loudly enough a few people glance back towards the dark corner. You pay them no mind, your determination taking over, “And it needs to be smaller than your normal shows according to Matt. That doesn’t mean we have to limit venues by capacity – we could just limit ticket sales.”

Eddie’s mouth falls open ever so slightly, watching you in awe as you start a new document. Making a checklist of just what was possible. No more spreadsheets littered with reminders of rejections, of what you weren’t sure you could get for the band. It would be nice to have a list of the venues you couldn’t contact now, but there was no need to let their names glare at you every time you reviewed your plans.

“We need a top three for venues. What are your top three?”

You finally pause your clacking to look at him. Still stunned, still under the spell of watching you come to life.

It used to be this way back in Hawkins, too. Whenever you took over on a school project, or a new gig for Corroded Coffin. You could do this. You would do this.

“I don’t-” Eddie starts, before taking a deep breath, “The only venues I really know by name are the ones I can’t perform at. The ones that banned me.”

“Awesome,” he shrinks back a little at that, almost in disbelief, but it was awesome. Not that he’d gotten banned, but that you had somewhere to start, “Send me that list. Type it up on your phone right now, and send it.”

“To your email?” he questions, already doing as you’d commanded of him.

You consider it. Your email was already overflowing with work related notions, and brimming with those goddamn rejections you had yet to delete and move past.

Personal email was out of the question. You only checked it for coupons from your favorite online shops and notifications from your mother’s Facebook.

You snatch his phone out of his palm, and don’t look up at him until you navigate to the contacts app, hit the small plus sign, type in the magic number that you don’t check to see if he actually deleted two years ago. You just assume he did.

Your number.

“Text it to me,” you instruct him as you pass the phone back. His hand still hovers where it’d been when you’d taken the cell phone, as if he’s frozen. “Now, please.”

You don’t care if it’s stupid to do, it’s necessary. He’ll probably just delete it once you finish this final favor, this final gift to him to send him off and out of your life for good.

“O-Okay,” he stutters, and not even a minute later, your phone buzzes with a text.

You flip it over, keep it angled so Eddie can’t see the screen.

New text from ROCKSTAR ♡ !

He may have deleted your contact, but you’d never deleted his.

You’d tried to, make no mistake. Spent plenty of late hours staring at that haunted number, even tried to backspace it away a few times. But every time your thumb would hover over the delete button, your hands would shake and knuckles would ache. Every time you’d manage to fully backspace the number away, it was no use; you still knew it by heart, still retyped it and saved it as if nothing had ever changed. There had been a short week of having his number blocked, but you’d given up, unblocked it then sometimes still sat and waited for another round of calls from him begging for a chance to just talk.

You always seemed to have one foot in the door, one foot out with Eddie. Always stained, never cleaned of him.

It didn’t matter. After these next three months, you’d delete it. You told yourself you would, for real this time. You’d erase him, properly let him go until you forgot the sound of his voice and couldn’t even recall the first three digits of his phone number. You would. You had to.

You flip the phone back over and face it down on the table, looking up at him, forcing a polite smile. It kills you – it startles him.

“Alright, Mr. Rescue Party. Shall we begin?”

—

You never return to the office.

Hours later, when the sun was setting and the table was littered with empty coffee cups bought by Eddie to continue to fuel the two of you, you receive an email from Lydia.

Leaving and locking up the office now. Hope the meeting with your client went well. See you tomorrow.

You blink rapidly at the message, hardly being able to process the time. It was nearly seven.

“Okay, so, that venue was a no-go,” Eddie says as he approaches the table again, finally stepping back inside from calling your green venue. The two of you had decided it was time to stop sending off emails that could be easily ignored – you were tracking down numbers and calling them directly, now. Forcing them to give an answer then and there rather than putting you off for weeks, “I was right about word traveling between those assholes- What’s wrong?”

He stops just before he pulls out his chair, leaning down with his forearms pressed into the back of the seat when he notices your expression of shock.

It had been easy, too easy, to waste away the hours with Eddie. And, sure, the main distraction had been planning and putting everything into action. Eddie had narrowed down his top three venues, you had found a few businesses that would service an open bar and had begun to gather quotes. But it hadn’t all been business.

Small things had slipped in. A short conversation had been had about the best bars in town when you’d begun that side quest, Eddie admitting which bars in town let him frequent them while offering the most privacy (not many, unsurprisingly) and you’d listed a few of the clubs your coworkers liked to frequent. No overlap to be found. But then, there had been the joking after Eddie called one of his other top three venues and put them on speaker, allowing you to hear the way the owner chewed Eddie out for the time he’d caused chaos at a show that wasn’t even his own. The moment the owner hung up, Eddie had made a face, somewhere between embarrassment and irritation, until you’d finally spoken up and mocked one of the last things the owner had said before the dial tone.

“Don’t you ever call here again,” you’d jokingly mimicked in a deep and comical voice, wagging a finger in Eddie’s direction in fake scolding.

It hadn’t even been that funny. But the two of you had still descended into giggles like two children, until tears pricked the corners of your eyes and your stomach ached just a little bit.

Small moments. Small exchanges. Things that were personal, things you wouldn’t have done with a normal client. Things that had a full day slipping away from you quietly in the darkest corner of a coffee shop you never even knew existed mere blocks from your work.

“It’s seven, Eddie,” you tell him as if he should be just as taken back. He hardly blinks an eye, “We’ve been here seven hours.”

“And?” the creases between his brows finally smooth, standing back up straight, “We’ve been getting shit done, and we’ve been paying customers the entire time. I don’t see the issue.”

The issue is the way you made work not feel like work.

The issue was the cycle you had been fearing, avoiding, and falling victim to ever since he’d been waiting for you in that conference room that very first day. Every time Eddie would inch back into your vision, whether right before you as he was now or in the form of emails you’d find yourself reading over before bed, you were forgetting the anger. It kept feeling like a time machine, sending you right back to that very first night. Before the fame, before the hurt.

You have no idea how you’ll manage to keep this to just a parting gift.

“I just…” your words fall short, because he’s technically right, “I didn’t realize we’d been here that long.”

Eddie takes his seat with a nonchalant shrug, “Easy to lose track of time when you’re actually getting shit done,” he stops, blanches at his words as he stares at you as if he thinks he’s just insulted you, “Wait, I- No, I just mean- I don’t mean you weren’t getting things done before. I swear.”

You’re not offended in the slightest, “I know. But to be fair, I really wasn’t. I’m sorry for doubting how helpful you’d be when you showed up earlier today.”

“Don’t do that.”

“What? Apologize?”

“No, discredit yourself,” he stresses. And you hadn’t noticed it, but your two chairs had seemingly grown closer over the hours as his knee bumps your thigh, “You… I’m not an easy client. You were handed a shit deal, plus Matt really wasn’t giving you anything to work with. I wasn’t giving you anything to work with.”

“I’m working for the entire band,” you remind him, remind yourself.

All it does is remind you of even more people you miss. Gareth, who was the little brother you never had back in Hawkins. Jeff, who had been one of your closest confidants. Craig, who would’ve answered your phone calls even in the dead of night. All friends you gave up when you walked out on Eddie. You always forget that – you didn’t just leave behind one person, you left behind an entire life.

Eddie’s phone buzzes, and he makes no move to grab it, “Have they been helpful?”

You stare at the phone, waiting for him to reach out. He doesn’t.

“Sort of.”

Another buzz. Another unanswered message Eddie clearly has no interest in responding to.

“Sort of? What did they ask for in their lists?”

Another buzz. Finally, you break free of whatever conversation Eddie’s trying to have, and lean forward to grab his phone and pass it to him, “You need to check that. What if it’s Matt?”

Eddie doesn’t glance at the phone, only crosses his arms, effectively tucking the phone out of your sight as well, “He can wait. What did the other guys ask for?”

You can hear the next buzz, more muffled against his t-shirt and beneath his jacket.

“Eddie.”

“Sugar.”

He knows the nickname is a weapon against you. He uses it more deliberately this time, not letting it just slip out as it had at the office.

“Open bar, fuzzy robes, normal things,” you finally spit out, trying to not let the echo of him calling you that name to worm into your brain and begin to rot you away, “Now, check your phone. Please.”

This time, when the phone buzzes, Eddie removes it from being trapped beneath his armpit and actually looks at the screen. You know immediately you were right; his face falls as he reads over the missed messages, all his teasing fading and that air of light-hearted arrogance being sucked out of the space between you two.

You don’t need to ask, but you do anyways, “Rockstar duty calls?”

He looks up rapidly, mouth already forming the word no, but you shake your head to stop his lie.

It’s fine. It’s entirely acceptable that other people need his attention, that he has other affairs to tend to. You had gotten used to it when the two of you were dating and he first made his big break, you shouldn’t expect a change now when you were nothing more than a stranger working for him. It shouldn’t sting, and you shouldn’t feel a small fraction of you hopeful that he’ll be defiant and insist on ignoring those duties.

Today was only ever meant to be one cup of coffee. The fact that you two had lost track, fumbled and turned one cup into four, was only a blip.

“I get it,” you say, sinking back into your chair. And you did, you really did. It was easier now to understand than it was back then, back when this very type of situation started the domino effect that was the beginning of the end, “You should go if they need you. You are a rockstar, after all.”

It’s a hard sentiment to say without a trace of bitterness, but you manage. He’s a rockstar. All his hopes, all his dreams, have finally come true. He gets to breathe, he gets to be rowdy, he gets to hear crowds scream back all those lyrics you’d watched him write in his bedroom back in Hawkins. He got everything he wished for.

You should be happy for him. If this arrangement is going to work, you have to be happy for him.

“What are you doing tomorrow?” he asks you as he shoves his phone into the pocket of his jeans, standing and beginning to gather empty coffee cups.

“Work,” you shrug, crossing your arms as you glare at the laptop, already feeling preemptive frustration at the thought of picking up where you’ve left off today, alone.

It’s not just because you want Eddie to join you on the project. It’s not Eddie’s help that you specifically want. It’s just nice to have someone to help shoulder the load with you, right?

“At the office?”

“That’s where I usually work, yes.”

“Come to my place instead.”

Time almost freezes. He’s standing there, nearly all of the empty latte cups balanced in his arms, and looking at you as if he hadn’t just asked the most insane possible thing of you.

“Eddie,” you speak softly, carefully, as your arms drop from your chest, “I don’t think that Lydia would be okay with that-”

“I’m a client,” he points out, “Besides, you’ve been stressed about this project, and I like to think I helped with that today.”

He did. God, he did.

“Just think about it,” he’s nearly begging. Beneath the lowlights of this cafe, features dancing with the reflection of some Christmas lights pinned up to line the top of the wall as they cast an aesthetic glow of gold over the surroundings, Eddie Munson is begging for your time, “You have my number. Think it over tonight, and just text me if you decide you want to. I can send over my address.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“Probably not,” at least he’s being honest. But quickly, it becomes apparent he’s misinterpreted you as he continues on, “You’re probably going to get photographed by paparazzi when you show up if you’re not careful, and if they figure out you’re there to see me, you’ll probably end up on the cover of some lowlife magazine-”

“That’s not the part I’m concerned with,” you lament, finally choosing to stand now. The last thing on your mind is publicity, or cameras, or magazines, “I mean, I don’t think it’s a good idea to make this,” you motion your arms between the two of you, “A habit.”

His face falls ever so slightly. A soft drop of his eyebrows, a gentle pinch of his lips. You swear, you watch him nearly drop one of the coffee cups before he regains composure, “It won’t be. It’s… It’s just work, yeah?”

Just work. Just a project. Just one final parting gift. This is nothing more than a source of closure for the two of you, a slamming of the door on that chapter of your life where the boy standing before you was your end-all, be-all. He’s right – it’s just work.

Your voice hardly comes out a whisper, “Okay.”

“Okay?”

“I’ll think about it,” it takes everything in you to level your words, to keep them from shaking, “I’ll ask Lydia, and I’ll let you know.”

A slow smile spreads across his face, and you can’t ignore the way it puts the glimmering lights on the ceiling to shame. No shade of gold, no twinkling reflection on the windows overlooking the busy street, can compare to the knife his hopeful smile strikes in you. It’s the type of smile that aches, that resonates, that haunts.

It’s the kind of smile that tells you you’re going to bleed for this, no matter how much you resist.

“Cool,” he nods, finally taking a few steps back, “I’ll see you tomorrow then, maybe?”

The kind of smile that tells you the bloodstain is never going to wash out, whether this is all just for work or not.

“See you tomorrow, Eddie.”

The idea of closure is about as tangible as smoke and mirrors as he leaves you alone in the dark corner of the coffee shop. It almost hurts as much as it did the first time he walked out to be a rockstar.

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