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babybluebex · 9 months ago

Note

i’ve had this scenario banging around in my head since the movie came out but imagine a fic where the reader has a massive crush on angus but they see him kissing elise at the christmas party 😭 like i loooveee angst and i would write this fic myself but i lost my last neuron when i fell off an electric scooter and got a concussion 😔

oh no concussion!! :( i'm so sorry about that honey, hopefully this'll make up for that!//word count: 2.1k, tw for grief/loss

You couldn't help but notice the way Angus grinned when Ms. Crane said her niece's name. It was a real smile, not the firm, thin thing that he had given you at lunch— you supposed that he hated being stuck at Barton as much as you did, maybe even hating you in the process. Being the only girl at Barton was hard, but especially at the holidays, when you really felt like your choices were the school or a fucking grave. It hurt, sure, but that smile on Angus's face hurt worse.

Elise pulled both you and Angus into the basement, where children sat, doing crafts with paste and glitter and pom-poms, and you smiled at one of the little girls, playing a popsicle stick as a little doll. You heard Angus and Elise talking to each other as they crossed the room, and you lifted your eyes to him just in time to watch him raise his arms in a silly pose and pull a goofy face. You almost started to laugh at him, as per usual when Angus was doing his antics, but Elise laughed first. Her laugh was gentle, her eyes bright, and your heart sank. She really was beautiful, and she was creative and knew whatever painting Angus was talking about. She was something that you weren't, and you sighed gently. And, based on the way that Angus reacted to her, he wanted what she had.

You took to playing with the little girls, keeping an eye out for Angus and Elise across the room. He didn't look at you one single time, keeping his gaze on her the whole time, spreading paint around the page with his long, thin fingers. You tried to distract yourself, but nothing worked, and you looked at the pair just in time to watch Elise lean over the table and press her lips to Angus's mouth.

Your heart stopped and your mouth went dry. Of course. After everything, all the time you spent with him, the tells of friendship and maybe more that was building throughout the vacation, he still chose her over you. Would anyone ever choose you? Even at your old school, you were cast aside, forgotten. You thought that there was something with Angus, little flirtations and lingering glances, you could have sworn there was something there, but apparently not. You rubbed your lips together and lowered your eyes, feeling hot tears prick to the surface, and you quickly got up from the short table and made your way upstairs. You needed the bathroom, or the kitchen, or somewhere where there wasn't other people.

Unluckily for you, as you pushed into the kitchen, you heard a shuddering sob, and you stopped dead in your tracks at the sight of Mary Lamb bent over the counter, crying. Danny, the janitor, who you had interacted with a handful of times, stood in the corner, obviously wanting to help her but not wanting to aggravate her.

"Mary?" you mumbled. "Everything okay?" Even in your upset state, you hated to see the strong and smart Mary in a bad moment. If she was crying, something was wrong.

She said nothing, drawing in a breath and weeping, and your heart clenched. You turned back out of the kitchen, going in search of Mr. Hunham, but before you could even think about his whereabouts, you collided straight into Angus's chest. "Oh, hey," he said with a crooked smile. "You disappeared really suddenly; you okay?"

Seeing his stupid smile made your tears return, and you struggled to breathe. You could worry about yourself and your complicated feelings towards Angus later; you needed to worry about Mary. "M-Mary—" you started, pointing towards the kitchen. "She's— Where's Hunham?"

"What about Mary?" Angus asked, looking past you to the swinging door of the kitchen.

"Where is Hunham?" you repeated firmly, and Angus's smile fell.

"I'll go find him," he mumbled, and you turned back to the kitchen without a word. Mary's head was hanging now, her tears dripping on the counter, and you carefully approached her. "Mary?" you started softly. "Do you want some water or something?"

Mary sniffled and shook her head, and you frowned. She obviously didn't want anything, and you took a step back as Angus and Mr. Hunham noisily bustled into the kitchen. One look at her had Hunham closing the door, and Angus stood in the corner, arms crossed, as he watched Hunham lay a hand on Mary's back.

You felt sick as you listened to her sob about her Curtis, the boy you never met but would always admire, and the group of you was quick to grab your jackets and decide to go home. You were glad; if you ever saw Elise again, you might have dropped dead. But, of course, Angus was whinging the whole walk to the car about leaving Elise behind. "I was having a good time!" he complained. "You can take Mary home and pick me up later!"

"Yeah, having a good time sucking Elise's tongue," you scoffed before you could stop yourself, and Hunham's head snapped to you with intensity.

"I can't believe you two," Hunham grunted. "This poor woman is bereft with grief—" Mary interjected that she didn't need anyone feeling sorry for her, but Hunham paid her little mind— "And all you can think about is that silly girl!"

"What did I do?" you gaped. "All I said was—"

"I heard you, miss," Hunham said. "Mary and I are going to get the car, and by the time we get back, you two had better fix whatever this is."

Your face heated up with shame and embarrassment as Mary and Hunham scuttled away, and you couldn't even bare to look at Angus. But you did, and you saw, on his pale and sharp chin, the smallest red mark, a cut, a nick from shaving. "You have a cut on your chin," you mumbled.

"I know!" Angus spat. "What's your fucking problem suddenly?"

"Hey, don't yell at me," you said quickly. "Look, I'm sorry that you're being pulled away from the love of your life or whatever, but you've got to start giving a shit about other people!"

"Like who?" Angus asked. "Like you?"

"Like Mary!" you said, even though your heart was screaming, begging for Angus to see you. For him to really see you, see through your timidness and shyness and see how badly you liked him. "Oh my God, this is her first Christmas without her son; Jesus Christ, at least act like you've got a heart inside your chest!"

"Why do you care so bad about her?" Angus asked. "And, for a matter of fact, why do you care about Elise?"

"Trust me, I couldn't give less of a shit about Elise," you said, crossing your arms in front of your chest in the cold. "But Mary, I... Fuck... My dad died in January. S'why I didn't wanna go home for the break... It would just be me and my mom, alone in our place, not being able to avoid the empty space on the couch where my dad should be. I don't know what Mary's going through, I'll never know how that feels, but... I get it. It hurts like fucking shit, and, like, you'll never understand how that feels because your parents are alive—"

"My dad's dead."

The way Angus venomously spit out his words made you feel rotted inside. "But..." you started. "I thought your dad...? Saint Kitts...?"

"That's just some rich prick my mom married," Angus said.

"So you should get it," you sighed. "The first holiday without family is hard, every day is hard, but Mary... I can't imagine how she feels, and I'm trying to be as sympathetic as possible, try to make it easier for her or something, y'know?"

Angus was quiet for a long moment, pressing the toe of his shoe into a snowy patch on the sidewalk. "I guess I like Elise because she likes me," he said softly. "S'not everyday I find someone who likes me."

"God..." you sighed, squeezing your eyes shut. "Is that what that was?"

"Shut up," Angus sneered.

"Hey, easy," you said gently. "Angus, I..." You didn't know what to say to him. You had no idea how to start the conversation, let alone get to where you wanted to be quick enough— Hunham only parked around the corner, he and Mary should be coming back at any second— and you said, "Was that your first kiss? Just then, with her?"

"All-boys schools don't make it easy to find a girl to kiss," Angus mumbled.

You sighed heavily. Your eyes drifted down to a snowbank at the edge of the street, watching it glitter under the streetlamp for a moment, and, before you could stop yourself, you leaned into him and pressed your mouth to his, grabbing his upper arms to keep you upright with your shaking legs. He started for a moment, shocked and surprised, and his hands hovered above your hips, wholly unsure of how to proceed, and you broke the kiss quickly. His owlish eyes stared you down, his mouth open, but he didn't look upset.

"Say something," you whispered, and he let out a breath, the warmth of the air hitting your lips. "Fuck, please, just say something—"

He kissed you again. His hands grabbed your hips and tugged you against him, and you easily looped your arms around his neck and rose up on your tip-toes to reach his height. His lips were warm, if a little dry, and his nose bumped yours as he went to deepen the kiss, his fingers itching in the skirt of your dress. You smiled, unable to control yourself, and Angus did too, pulling away from your mouth.

"Oh," you whispered, and you smoothed your thumb across his top lip, wiping off a little bit of the rosy lipstick that you had worn to the party. "Sorry 'bout that."

"Whatever," Angus said breathlessly, his eyes soft as he gazed at you. "You taste good."

You chuckled lightly, lowering your eyes to his shoes. That shyness returned as your skin flamed, and you worried your bottom lip between your front teeth. "S-So I guess you see why I wasn't too jazzed about Elise," you said, trying to attempt a lightness in your voice.

"I'll say," Angus said. "How long have you liked me?"

"Since I met you?" you squeaked. "Since, um, I got sat in front of you in Hunham's class...? I don't know, it's dumb."

"Nuh-uh, that's not dumb," Angus said. "I've liked you for... I don't know, I guess since that first day too. We had, um, heard that a girl was coming to Barton, and I didn't really care too much, but I heard how much the other guys cared, and it... I don't know, it became a contest on how little I cared. But then I saw you... Heard you laugh... Watched you sneak a cigarette behind the bleachers during a football game..." You laughed, as did Angus, and his big hand came to cup your face, angling you to look at him. "But I think I really, really fell for you when I kissed her."

"Huh?" you asked, wrinkling your nose.

Angus rolled his eyes, obviously a little abashed by his admission. "Listen, I'm a teenage boy, it's in my nature to daydream about you," he started. "I had dreamed about what it would be like to be your boyfriend, to kiss you, to have my first kiss with you... Then, Elise kissed me, and, when I opened my eyes, I was sorta disappointed to see her and not you."

"Oh," you said softly.

"You went upstairs, and I went after you to try to talk to you about that," Angus said. "And then Mary, and... But yeah. I've just been too chickenshit to tell you before now."

"Well..." you whispered, listening to the quiet rumble of Hunham's car come from around the street corner. "Thank God for Elise."

"Don't you ever say her name again," Angus told you, and he leaned down to kiss you again. You were acutely aware of how Hunham and Mary could certainly see you two necking in the middle of the sidewalk, but you didn't care. Hunham said to work it out, and so you had.

The blaring of the old Buick's horn made Angus pull away from you, and you heard the window squeak down before Hunham shouted "Will you two quit and get inside the goddamn car?"

"Take it easy on 'em," Mary said as you slid into the backseat, followed by Angus.

"Yeah," Angus said. "Take it easy on us."

"I don't need your sass, Mr. Tully," Hunham said, glaring at you two in the rearview mirror. "Now I have to find a way to separate you two at night, no more sleeping in the same room, no more..."

You didn't care to hear Hunham's ramblings; you leaned your head on Angus's shoulder, you took his hand in yours, and you closed your eyes. Maybe the rest of break would be okay.

#bex answers #anon ask #angus tully x reader #angus tully #the holdovers #dominic sessa

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gothgleek · 9 months ago

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How Many Licks? (Just Bite It)

Angus Tully x fem!reader

Summary: You work at the University’s mail room sorting packages and trying to keep yourself from boredom. However- not that you would ever admit it out loud- you look forward to Thursday afternoons when Angus Tully stops by.

Based on my post Dominic Sessa looking like he bites people.

Word Count: 1,900+

Notes: She/her pronouns, Afab reader, Christmas mention, biting, cunnilingus, unprotected sex, unsafe sex, semi-public sex, sex at the workplace, overstimulation, quickies, reader being a brat, calling each other ‘slut’, everyone involved is over the age of 18

Notes: Huge thank you to my friend, Mera for helping me come up with what to call Angus because there is no way I’m moaning that name either fictionally or irl. It’s like moaning ‘Ulysses’ or ‘Cornelius.’ Please be nice as this is the first fanfic I’ve ever posted on Tumblr and first ever reader insert I’ve ever written. I tried being as neutral as possible when describing physical features but please let me know if there is anything that takes you out. Specifically I tried saying bite marks instead of bruises because not all skin tones bruise easily but I’m sure I missed some.

Comments, likes, and reblogs are appreciated 💕💕💕

Minors DNI

Your bright red stockings paired well with your wool black dress that hits you mid-thigh. You couldn’t see Angus from this angle, but you could feel his gaze rising up your legs and to the garter belt as you climbed the ladder. You knew he was a boob man but it was too cold for a v-neck dress. You put his package on the top shelf specifically so you could show off your legs when he arrived.

“Thanks, I got them Black Friday shopping.” You tell him, stepping down the ladder, his package on your hip. “Which is what I assume this is?” You shake the box in your hands. It’s not heavy but you can tell it’s packed to the brim.

“Hope so,” You hear him unwrap a lollipop and pop it in his mouth. You cringe as you hear him bite the lollipop.

You step off the ladder and tuck the box under your breasts, pushing them up more. “If you keep biting them, I’m going to start hiding them when you stop by.”

He smiles obnoxiously. “Then you would’ve hid them away by now.”

You roll your eyes, putting the box on the counter. “It’s disgusting.”

“No, it’s actually pretty tasty,” He smirked and took the used lollipop stick out of his mouth. “Wanna guess what flavor it is?” Angus sticks his artificially red tongue out.

“You’re such a slut.” You roll your eyes and shake your head.

---

The piles of new shipments kept the two of you hidden from the public eye as Angus got on his knees, pushing you against the wall. Your stockings had been quickly disposed of, tossed over his shoulder before you could say anything. His mouth was on your left knee, pressing a kiss as he opened your legs. One warm hand rests on your stomach, balancing himself.

He places a sloppy, open mouthed kiss on your inner thigh, above your knee. He licked upwards and bit down, sucking on the flesh between his teeth. He mirrors his actions on your left thigh. You hissed, knowing (and loving) that it would leave marks.

“You smell fucking amazing,” He says against your skin, his big brown eyes looking up at you. Motivated by your scent, Angus’s kisses get sloppier and while his bites are quicker, it is no less painful as he moves upward your legs. You glanced at the entrance to the office, double checking you could freely respond to his actions.

“God, you’re fucking soaked,” Angus said smirking, the cold air making your clit pulse. His thumb lightly moved over your lace covered pussy.

“Did you get jealous of the lollipop? The way I licked,” You jumped as his tongue touched your clit, the lace of your panties adding to the friction. “And bit?” His teeth graze against it.

“God, you’re such a dirty slut,” You tell him, only half teasing.

“And you’re a loud slut,” Angus teases and pushes your dress upwards. “Bite on this.”

You wordlessly accepted and clamp down on the polyester fabric. He slowly pulled down your red panties to show him your beautiful pussy. Since your lower half and most of your torso was visible, Angus greedily took in the sight of your bare stomach and underboob. He kisses your clit and spits on it. He traces his tongue over the sensitive nub and gives you slow, deliberate licks, creating a bigger mess between your thighs.

You let out muffled moans, your fingers tangled in his curly hair and grinding your hips for more friction. Angus once told you he would die a happy man if that meant being between your legs. Today is a good day to test that. You grip his hair, forcing his mouth to wrap around your clit, an action he responds to with a hum of approval. The vibrations make your hips roll and back arch. You can feel him laugh because he knows he has you where he wants you but you cannot care about that now. You hold his head there, pleading whimpers begging for more. Angus removes his hands from your pussy so he could grip your thighs for balance but makes no effort to loosen your grip.

Embarrassingly, it doesn’t take you long to reach your peak. Not when his mouth is making you feel so, so good. Your dress falls down as your mouth opens, a strangled cry echoing in the room, and your nails dig into his scalp as you cum. Angus keeps licking you as if you’re not melting around his mouth. As if your legs are not shaking in his hands from overstimulation. Eventually you cannot take it anymore and you have to push him away. Still, he licks up the mess you’ve created on your thighs before standing to face you with a satisfied smirk.

The intensity of your orgasm leaves you feeling dizzy so his hands stay on your hips as he rises. Though his face is painted with arrogance, Angus gently sits you on the table your boss reserved for processing packages. He lifts your dress over your head and tosses it to the side, impatiently but gently. Your nipples pebble because of the cold air and his lustful gaze.

Eyes never leaving yours, Angus unbuckles his belt and pulls his cock out. He pushed you against the table, kissing you at the same time. You wrap your arms around his neck as you taste his mouth- a combination of your pussy and his strawberry lollipop.

His hand gently pushed your thighs wider as his other hand slipped a finger between your entrance. His thumb gently rubbed your clit in exactly the way you taught him so you couldn’t help the moans that escaped your mouth. He slid another finger in and you gasped out a “Yes!” You rode his fingers, chasing your pleasure. Your moans ricocheting off the walls, not caring how slutty you acted.

But he cared.

Angus pulled away from your breast, not bothering to wipe away the string of spit connecting his lips to your breast. The hand on your thigh paused your movements and his fingers slowed.

“Tell me you’re my slut,” he smirked. You whined in response. “Come on, say it.”

He gently lays you back on the table and takes his shirt off. Angus turned around to see the clock on the wall ticking down the minutes until your boss came back from lunch.

“Tick tock.” He said, emphasizing each word with the tap of his cock on your entrance. “Tick, tock.”

You had no doubt he would elongate this. Last time you pushed your luck, you weren’t caught, but you didn’t you cum either. Angus had the biggest shit eating grin when he came in the following day and you begged him to fuck you.

But you still weren’t going to give him the satisfaction.

And he knew that.

“How does it feel to be a slut?” He murmured against your ear. Angus buried his face in the crook of your neck, biting down and pulling satisfied moans out of your mouth. “To be my slut?”

“I’m not your slut,” You protested between your moans.

He stopped biting your neck to simply nip at it, moving downwards to your breasts. Your trembling fingers grabbed at the curls on the back of his head, encouraging him. Agnus took a nipple into his hot mouth causing your left hand to dig into his shoulder and your right hand to pull his hair. Angus let out a muffled moan of pleasure and sucked on your nipple harder. There was tension building in your stomach but you couldn’t release it until you were around him.

“Say it,” Angus said as he alternated between your breasts. “Say it and I’ll fuck you.”

“Fine! I’m a slut!” You cried. “I’m your slut! Now please! Fuck me!”

Angus chuckled and slid into you. You instinctively wrapped your legs around him, pulling him closer. His eyes fluttered as he felt your heat surround his cock. He stared down at you as he found his rhythm. his fingers finding your clit again. Angus’s fingers moved in the same rhythm as his hips.He moved his hips faster, forcing your back to arch off the desk. Moaning, you clenched around his cock.

Angus kept his pace but his mouth suctioned around your breast as his tongue swirled around your nipple faster. The hand not on your clit reached over to grab your other breast, rolling the nipple between his thumb and forefinger.

“Keep going…” You whined, almost begging. The tension was reaching its peak. “So… close…”

Hearing you cry out, Angus pulled away from your beast and watched you fall apart.

He tried to fuck you through your orgasm but he couldn’t help but he wasn’t far behind you. Not when pleasure washed over your face. Not when you squeezed him like that. Not when your voice echoed like that in the small room. With a stuttering groan, Angus came inside your pussy while biting your shoulder.

Your legs loosened around his waist as your body relaxed but your pussy still clenched around his twitching cock, taking every drop of him. Angus’s body relaxed and his mouth loosened its grip on your shoulder. But you can feel his teeth scraping against your tender skin. He pressed gentle, open mouth kisses against your neck as he pulled out of you. You whimpered as he did that, already missing him inside you.

Tiredly and lazily, he kissed his way down your body until he got to his knees again. Angus spread your legs again, watching his cum dripping out of you and pooling on the table. You felt his mouth cover your pussy once again. Though tired, you couldn’t help but arch your back a little when you felt his tongue lap at your sensitive pussy, cleaning you. Angus pulled away before you could cum, though you are thankful he did as your body was not ready to accept another orgasm.

He helped you to your feet and kissed you gently on the mouth. You returned the kiss, leaning against him for balance. However, your orgasms still left you a little tired so you had to break the kiss to retain your balance. Not that Angus minded, he still kissed you, this time peppering them on your neck. Your hands loosely held his neck before you noticed the clock.

“Unless you have a turtleneck for me in that package, don’t you dare leave another hickey on my neck,” You told him as your wits came back to you and he laughed against your skin. He kissed your neck and went to his package on the counter.

“As a matter of fact,” He said, tearing it open and digging around, not caring he was still naked. “I do.”

He pulled out a knit black sweater with a thick, folded turtleneck. You accepted it and marveled at how soft it was.

“For me?” Your eyes were wide.

“Yeah, well, you always complain it’s cold down here, ” Angus shrugged nonchalantly but you could see color rising to his cheeks.

“Plus you know,” He brushed your hair off your shoulder. “It’ll hide those bite marks I left behind.”

You look down at your body to see a map of bite marks and bruises identical to his mouth and fingers. You snatched your new sweater from his hands and threw it on.

#angus tully #angus tully x reader #angus tully imagine #angus tully smut #the holdovers #smut #fanfic #reader insert #mine #my fanfic

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anyarose011 · 4 months ago

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Anya's Totally Bitchin Masterlist

"Books and Battles of Wits"

{Angus Tully x Reader} ->The Holdovers

Summary: Being stuck at the snooty, all-boys school your father works at is NOT how you wanted to spend Christmas (especially with Angus Tully...asshole). Still, the Winter of 1970 leading into 1971 is one you will not forget. A stubborn teenager, a professor with a stick up his ass, a woman with a heart of gold, and a mini feminist who's pissed at everyone 99% of the day (yours truly)...what could go wrong?

Tropes/keywords: Academic Rivals to Friends to Lovers, Young Love, Mystery, Hurt/Comfort, Feel Good, CHRISTMAS, and Found Family.

Chapter 1: "Bah, Humbug!" Chapter 2: "You're a Mean One, Miss Hunham" Chapter 3: "Emotional Motion Sickness" Chapter 4: "Too Late to Turn Back Now" Chapter 5: "One More Reason to Control Myself" Chapter 6: "December Never Felt So Wrong" Chapter 7: "Christmas Time is Here" Chapter 8: "The Most 'Wonderful' Time of the Year" Chapter 9: Coming Soon

"The Woman at the Well"

{Aemond Targaryen x Reader} -> House of the Dragon: Season 2

Summary: You allowed men to follow you in the dark for a living. One night, a man you never expected (nor wanted) to do so did just that. Over the weeks to come, you become...more acquainted with him. Still, despite how fun it is to dance with dragon fire, one must do their best to remember the chances of being burnt.

Tropes/keywords: Strangers to Friends to Lovers to Strangers (again), Mostly Angst, Little Hurt/Comfort, Somewhat Toxic Love, This story has a happy ending (but not in the way you'd expect)

Chapter 1: "There Must Be Something in the Water" Chapter 2: "Crawling Back to You" Chapter 3: "Nursing on the Poison that Never Stung"

#angus tully x reader #angus tully #the holdovers #dominic sessa #aemond targaryen x reader #aemond targaryen #aemond x reader #hotd #house of the dragon

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literallyalbertcamus · 9 months ago

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Angus Tully as a boyfriend headcanons:

(I did this at 4 a.m. instead of sleeping, so coment something or like it. I also did this all in my phone)

- Boyfriend!Angus who teases you about absolutely EVERYTHING, he isn’t even mean or anything, is just that the poor boy is incapable of flirting like a normal person, but he likes you and is confortable enough being his weird akward self around you.

- Boyfriend! Angus who as always an arm around your shoulders during your dates, kinda showing you off to his classmates, who actually where kinda shocked when they found out about your relationship.

- Boyfriend! Angus who calls you everyday from the school’s phone to your house because you are the only person he really cares about before the holidays, and just hear you makes his day better.

- Boyfriend! Angus who tell you all the drama and gossip from school, that is not a lot, and probably is just him bitching and whining about how everyone at Barton is dumb, but you just listen to him like 👁👁 and feeling like a peasant bc what did you just said babe? That you have classes of ancient history and you understand latin and french? Pfff yeah they TOTALLY teach that at public school (i actually don’t know that because im not from the US, but im basing in what i know about you guys and my experience in private school in my country).

- Conected to the previous one, boyfriend! Angus who listen to your gossip from town and school totally entretained like you where telling him the plot of a movie or a tv show, small town drama really does it for him, you two could be on your bed room while you where supoused to be doing homework with his help but now he won’t do nothing until you tell him all about why Tina S. and Mark H. broke up and what does it have something to do with Sarah F.

- Boyfriend! Angus who send you the most nasty letters but when he meet in the weekend will be all akward and stiff.

#angus tully #angus tully x reader #the holdovers #angus tully headcanons #dominic sessa #god i love him

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spatialwave · 8 months ago

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i am LOVING your angus tully content 💕 would you please write an angus tully x reader where the reader meets angus in boston while they’re ice skating and then they get to know each other as they explore the city, sort of ‘before sunrise’ style and hunham gives them the space to do so? if you don’t like this idea though that’s totally okay!! have a lovely day regardless :)

𝐧𝐨𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐢𝐧 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐢𝐜𝐮𝐥𝐚𝐫

pairing: angus tully x fem!reader word count: 4k notes: reader is very nervous & dorky! thank u for sending 🤎

the chilly december air stung your cheeks, leaving them reddened and sore, but that didn’t stop you from braving the weather and heading to the public skating rink. your friends had cancelled on you last minute, one of them falling sick with a nasty cold and the other deciding that her boyfriend was more important than a night with you during the festivities that boston had to offer. you couldn't be angry at her, though, you were a hopeless romantic at heart and would do the same if you had a boyfriend. you were happy that your best friend found someone so perfect for her, you dreamed of finding him too—the perfect boy.

though, you usually just giggled in your bed at night when you imagined yourself spending the rest of your life with david cassidy. that was much easier than finding real love.

so, alone you were as you willed your way ahead through the boston streets where your father had dropped you off. you promised yourself you'd start getting out of your nervous shell and what better way to test it than being alone at a skating rink? especially when you were notoriously clumsy and horrendous at skating.

if you could do this, you could do anything.

as you approached the skating rink you felt an overwhelming sense of anxiety flooding you. there were a lot of people, too many people, a lot of friends giggling with each other, children learning how to skate with their parents and partners holding hands as they stared into each other's eyes lovingly. you sorely missed your friends, but you shoved that thought as deeply into your consciousness as you could because you promised yourself you wouldn't wallow in your loneliness.

and you were here, weren’t you? successfully making do without them. all you needed to do was get the skates on and make your way onto the ice—that’s all. getting here was half the battle.

comfort warmed you as you fit yourself into the hand-me-down skates your older sister had given you. you tried so hard not to think about the negatives because even if you slipped and fell, it’s not like anyone here knew you. there was not a single person on the rink that looked even the slightest bit familiar and you thanked god you lived in a busy city.

of course, you were unsuccessful in ridding those thoughts because all you could think about was that there was a likely chance you could embarrass yourself in front of a cute boy. you were too boy-crazy for your own good, your mother blamed david cassidy for it.

as you let out a shaky exhale, you darted your eyes around the exterior of the rink as you shrugged off your bag and held your winter boots in your hand. you had ran into your first problem of the evening; there was no one to watch your belongings.

that’s when you noticed an older man just to the left of you, smoking out of a pipe and watching the rink, smiling to himself. he seemed friendly enough, reminding you a lot of your grandpa. there was no better person to watch your things!

“excuse me sir,” you said to him, smiling as you approached him cautiously, “is it alright if i leave my things here next to you? i’m not skating for long… i just don’t want to take them onto the rink with me.”

the man hadn’t realized you were talking to him at first as he pulled the pipe out of his mouth and looked between you and someone on the skating rink. he smacked his lips together a few times in thought, “okay. sure, i don’t mind.” he mumbled, though you could tell that he minded.

he was grumpier than you pegged him to be.

“thank you so much! i won’t be long!” you smiled, happy that you had some form of success, but again you had to ward off the image in your head of him running off with your things. at least he’d only have stolen a woman’s snow boots and three dollars from your wallet.

as you waddled away, you hadn’t noticed that a boy on the rink had skated up to the older man, you were much too focused on not toppling over. your ankles were already wobbling back and forth as you navigated through the snow, unaware of the set of eyes that lingered on you with each step you took.

“you got this,” you breathed to yourself as you made it to the entrance, taking a long and deep breath that caught in your throat. you froze in your spot, feeling frigid as you watched the tens of people skating along the rink so seemingly expert in their ways.

a woman cleared her throat behind you and you jolted up, looking over your shoulder and seeing a mother and her two children waiting to step into the rink, “sorry!” you squealed as you hurried onto the ice and clung to the railing for dear life.

the sounds of the young kids snickering made your cheeks burn red, so you kept your eyes downward and stared at your mitten-covered hands as they gripped onto the rail. then you focused on your feet, slowly moving them back and forth on the ice as you got used to the feeling of the skates gliding across the frozen surface.

with a triumphant huff, you straightened up and slowly started to skate with your hand keeping balance on the edge, much like a learning child. at least they usually had a helper.

you had focused on this for a bit, getting into the swing of things. you looked around with a content smile, slowly moving and breathing in the crisp air as you focused on the sounds of laughter. the christmas spirit was high and you were happier than ever to be experiencing this alone, you couldn’t wait to go home and gush to your sister about your first solo adventure as a young woman.

satisfaction wasn’t fully met, however. you needed to challenge yourself further before calling it a night.

carefully, you let your hand off of the rail and moved carefully away from the edge. your eyes darted around your immediate surroundings, making sure you had enough of a clearing to start skating without bumping into anyone. a big smile grew on your face, you were by no means quick, but at least you were moving!

you focused your eyes back down on your feet, watching closely as you moved one in front of the other with intention. you were getting the hang of it, muscle memory coming back from when you skated as a kid. with your attention far from the outside world, you didn’t notice a duo of young girls coming right for you—too busy laughing amongst each other to notice you drifting in front of them.

one of the girls bumped hard into your shoulder and yelped out a sincere ‘sorry’ as you lost your balance on your feet. you almost kept yourself upright, but you quickly fell back.

you expected to crash down onto the ice with a hard thump, but two arms caught you, hooking underneath your armpits and hoisting you back upright onto your skates. you didn’t have the means to turn around all that quickly, but the person who saved you seemed to realize that, so he skated in front of you and turned to look at you. he made it seem so easy to skate backward.

“you okay?” he asked, but you hardly heard the words because you were so fascinated with how beautiful he was. he had the biggest brown eyes you’d ever seen and a head full of wild curls that he obviously tried to tame. he was also taller than you, making you feel so small under his gaze, but not threatening in the slightest. all you could do was smile at him like a dork.

your knight in shining armour.

a few moments pass and the realization hit that you had been completely silent, “thank you!” you blurted out, your eyes widening in horror because of how you were staring at him like a goddamned fool, "i'm not very good at this."

"you were doing fine until you got bulldozed over," the boy smiled, unabashedly looking you up and down. he cleared his throat and held out two of his gloved hands, "hang on."

you obeyed with no hesitation, your arms extending so you could take his gloved hands in your own. you felt your mouth go dry and you had to force your hands to stop shaking. you were always so much more anxious around boys.

"oh, god," you groaned in anticipation as he started skating backward, pulling you along and forcing you to focus on keeping balance, "you really don't have to spend your time here teaching me how to skate." you looked up at him, feeling like a burden.

"i know," he replied, grinning at you as he kept pulling you along the ice, his gaze only breaking to make sure he wasn't about to skate back into anyone. those brown eyes fell back on you, watching you with a soft gaze as you kept moving with one foot gliding in front of the other, "i'm angus."

"hi, angus," you smiled, chewing on the inside of your lip after you returned the introduction. you could feel your cheeks blushing. you looked down and at your feet again, but your lack of focus got the best of you, "ah, shit!"

just as you lost your footing and balance, nearly flying forward, angus wrapped an arm around you and laughed aloud, pulling you against him so you couldn't tip over. you could've stayed like that forever, nuzzled against this boy's chest and forgetting about the outside world.

"you're clumsy," he teased, flickering his gaze down at you as he led you both to the railing for a rest.

"you only just noticed?" you retorted playfully as you leaned against the support, letting yourself exhale in relief once you could rest the entirety of your weight against it. shyly, you looked back over to angus after a few beats of silence, "you're not here with anyone else?"

angus scrunched his nose in response, shrugging, "it's a long story."

"i like stories," you mused, not ready to let this end. whatever this was.

a breathy laugh came from him as he glanced away to look at something, you hadn't been able to follow his gaze before he was looking at you again. there was something about him that kept your attention, likely the fact that he genuinely seemed to enjoy your presence. it made you giddy and your stomach swirled with butterflies.

"well, i came here with my history teacher," he said, almost sheepishly. you looked at him with slightly furrowed brows, uncertain where this would be going, "i go to a boarding school out of town, north of here. i, uh, didn't get to spend christmas with my family and so i've been stuck at school with him as my chaperone. guess i'm good at convincing people to take me places," he chuckled, his gaze looking anywhere but at you.

"i don't think i would've guessed that story in a million years," you giggled, a smile reaching your eyes as you looked over angus' face, "sorry about your family, though. must be hard around the holidays."

"it's fine," he quipped quickly, you figured it best to not bring up his family anymore.

you fell silent for a bit, thinning your lips as you looked around and focused on your surroundings to pass the time and try to ignore the awkward silence. you watched a group of kids skating together, playfully shoving each other and laughing when one of them wiped out.

"did you want to skate again?" angus' voice broke the silence and you met his eyes. with a small nod, he smiled and gave you his hands again.

the two of you had spent another twenty minutes on the skating rink, laughing together as he taught you how to keep yourself upright. you were happy to report that you'd only fallen on your ass twice, and even when he laughed at you, you felt your heart soaring.

there must've been some good karma you stored up over the year because you weren't sure why you were blessed to run into angus on a night like this. he was cute, funny and just as awkward as you were.

once you two were tired and ready to hang the skates up, you ventured out of the rink and stood at the exit. you had to catch your breath after laughing over some joke angus had made about his time at barton, something stupid that wouldn't have made you laugh in another other situation. angus was just... nice. funny, but in an endearingly dorky way.

as you bent down to untie your skates, you straightened up with a panicked look on your face. "my stuff!" you said, looking up at angus and then around the exterior of the rink, trying to spot the man you'd left your things with. that's where the bad karma came in, leaving you with nothing.

"are you looking for these?" a third voice spoke, your eyes landing on the pipe-smoking man that angus seemed to recognize. you put the pieces together.

"yes! thank you so much!" you smiled as you took the boots from him and your bag, quickly changing into the shoes that allowed you to stand steady. you sighed softly with a smile and looked between the two men, "i, uh, thank you again, sir, for keeping an eye on my things. and thanks, angus, i'm sure by next winter i'll be an olympic figure skater," you smiled, not quite ready to leave without spending more time with the boy, but you weren't sure you'd have the choice.

as luck would have it, though, his teacher, mr. hunham, seemed to have a soft spot for the boy.

"mr. tully, i'm calling it an evening and will be heading to the hotel room, i'm rather tired this evening," the older man explained. you could see the pleading look on angus's face, "i expect to see you there within a few hours or lest you deal with multiple detentions when we're back at barton," he continued with a satisfied look on his face when angus smile, "keep an eye on him for me." he turned to you, letting out a huffy sigh as he looked between the two of you once more before turning on his heels and leaving.

angus was speechless.

"he seems like a nice man," you said in awe as you watched him, growing nervous for other reasons now.

"trust me. he's usually not," angus replied, his hands shoved into the pockets of his coat as he looked down at you, "you look cold. i think i saw i coffee shop near here. they probably have hot chocolate or something."

"okay," you smiled, forcing yourself not to let your boy-crazy giddiness get the best of you again.

as you two ventured away from the skating rink, you found yourself feeling more comfortable with each passing second and talking about yourself like an open book. you spoke about everything and nothing, his favourite band was pink floyd and he was currently halfway through reading the novel dune. you shared your own love for the partridge family show, though, you kept your lips tight about your obsession with david cassidy.

you made a mental note to rip the poster of david off your wall if something were to ever come out of this night with you and angus, like hell he'd ever be in your room.

"what do you like so much about boston?" you asked angus as you two walked through one of the downtown streets in boston, your mittens shoved in your pocket as your hands cupped around the hot chocolate you sipped on. the heat emanated from the paper cup and warmed your hands. you two had been walking and talking for a while now and your drink was half-empty.

"you like long-winded answers, don't you?" angus said playfully, bumping himself against your side as you walked together. it caused a laugh to bubble up from you, your cheeks turning red at the closeness.

"what's so long about this answer?" you wondered aloud, glancing up at him.

"my dad is here," he said after taking a moment to think over his words, "he's uh, in the sanitorium," he murmured, not quite meeting your gaze, "not doing well mentally."

"you don't have to say anymore," you urged him, regretful that you asked the question in the first place.

"it's fine, i like you. you're not... judging me." angus admitted, flickering his eyes to you and smiling.

oh, god. that smile made your stomach do flips.

"why would i judge you?" you asked rhetorically, "you've been nothing but kind to me tonight. you didn't even know me and you caught me before i fell on my ass, i mean, that's the most any guy has ever done for me... and you bought me hot chocolate!" you were animated in your words as you spoke, not noticing how you lit up angus' facial expressions.

"like i said, it's because i like you." his lips twitched into a smile before he lifted his cup and downed the rest of his drink. you followed in suit, though, mostly to cover the way you had a smile stuck on your face like a lovesick puppy.

you two found an outdoor garbage bin and tossed your empty cups in, standing on a corner of the street that was near the courtyard with the skating rink. it was quiet there now, only then noticing how late it had gotten.

"so, what's your story?" angus interrupted your thoughts as he kept walking, you needing to take a few quick steps to meet his pace as he led you to a bench to sit down on. the perfect spot to watch the christmas lights flicker around the rink and people watch the last remaining people who were skating.

"it's hardly a story," you laughed, fidgeting with your fingers as you looked up to the night sky, the stars hidden because of the city lights, "i'm just crawling my way to graduation so i can get out of my parent's house and go to college," you look over at him, "are you graduating, too?"

he shook his head, "i was expelled a few times," he admitted with an amused look on his face, "should be graduating, but stuck as a junior because of my atrocious behaviour," he teased with a click of his tongue.

"expelled?" you laughed, "wow, i didn't expect such a gentleman like you to be so fond of troublemaking."

that got a laugh out of him, the smile reaching his eyes as he turned ever-so-slightly to better look at you while you two sat together, "yep, i'm the absolute worst. though, i plead my case as i've been wrongly accused of blowing up a toilet once when it was obviously not true."

"uh-huh," you smirked, "are you certain about the wrongly accused part?" you snorted a laugh.

the night was perfect. the two of you sharing so many laughs that your cheeks were hurting and you were beginning to feel like you knew angus for years and this was simply a reunion of friends. you knew at some point it would end, but you didn't want to think about it. not yet, it was too painful of a thought.

your laughter settled and you couldn't break your gaze from angus, the silence looming, but not overwhelming. as you admired him, you caught the way his brown eyes flickered down to your lips and you inhaled sharply, the breath catching.

"i, uh—can i kiss you?" his words were gentle, but they rang through your ears loudly, causing chaos and mayhem that left you feeling like a nervous wreck, "unless i'm reading this wrong."

you parted your lips to speak but nothing came out. all you could do was look down at his lips and nod, hoping that your movements spoke volumes. thankfully, they did.

angus leaned forward, hesitating for a second, but if you could will your way forward to adventuring boston alone, then you could sure as hell will your way forward to meet him halfway. you leaned forward bravely and closed your eyes just as your lips met his, a tingling sensation rolling waves over your skin.

it was a simple kiss, one that made your lips numb when you pulled away and looked up into his eyes. but it wasn’t enough for angus because you were soon pulled into another as his hand lifted and cupped your jaw, keeping you against him as your lips moved together at a gentle, easy pace. he parted your lips with his own, which gave him the space to slip his tongue into your mouth and cause a soft sound to escape your lips. you were fully entranced by him, completely malleable under his touch as you tasted his tongue on your own—sweet like chocolate.

this went on for a few minutes, maybe longer. you two indulging in the kiss you both were anticipating the moment you set eyes on each other.

“this sucks,” you murmured when the kiss finally broke, you two parting to breathe.

“why?” angus furrowed his brows slightly, his hand still on your jaw.

“because i really like you,” you said, pursing your lips into a pout, “and at some point i’m going to have to say goodbye.”

angus shared the sentiment, frowning slightly, “i’ll come to boston again, okay?” he said, just as passionate about you as you were to him, “and if you give me your number i promise to call you.”

you nodded, sighing and watching the way your warm breath fogged up in the cold air. the city was so silent and you’d never been able to experience it quite like this, let alone with a boy you kissed. knowing that it was getting late, though, left you nervous. you had told your parents you wouldn’t be out long and would go to your sister's apartment downtown for a ride back home—leave it up to a boy like angus tully to make it fun to break the rules.

“when do you go back to barton?” you asked him quietly like you didn’t want to hear the answer.

“the day after tomorrow,” angus murmured, his thumb stroking along the skin over your cheek, “i’m gonna’ try visit my dad tomorrow,” he said, “that’s the whole reason i convinced mr. hunham to bring me here, he doesn’t even know.”

you widened your eyes in surprise, “do you think he’ll let you go?”

“probably not, but i’ll find a way.” he said, but not quite fully convinced.

“it’ll work out, angus,” you said, a shiver running up his spine as you said his name, “just like you and me. i’m sure we’ll see each other again.”

he was glad that you managed to see the bright side in all of this, as the night was coming to an end he was beginning to let his negative thoughts pull through. already he could tell that you were going to be a big part of his life, even if it ended up being fleeting and short.

“come on,” angus breathed out, removing his hand from your cheek and standing up. he offered his hand for you to take.

“where are we going?” you asked him, blinking a few times as you took his hand, no mittens or gloves in the way as his fingers interlaced with yours.

“nowhere in particular,” he said, keeping you close as you walked through the quiet boston streets in the early morning hours and spending the last bit of freedom together that you two could muster.

when all was said and done, you found yourself exhausted as you curled up in your bed with the first bit of sunrise spilling through your curtains. it was a bittersweet end to your night with angus, leaving you uncertain about what the future would hold. all you knew was that you’d be waiting for that phone call he promised you.

and taking down your poster of david cassidy.

#angus tully #angus tully x reader #the holdovers #dominic sessa #angus tully fic #the holdovers fic #wordsbyspatial #spatialanswers

394 notes · View notes

pparacxosm · 27 days ago

Text

sigh like a chime

(postcanon!patrick zweig x infant halfsister’s au pair!reader; idk either man; came to me in a dream; title from the sound of music let’s all act shocked; major tw for suicide talk; tw depressive behaviour; tw disordered thoughts about eating; tw vague implication of alcoholic dependency; patrick zweig is generally not doing so hot; like at all; tw strained father son dynamics; tw grown adults projecting childhood trauma onto a baby; warning you now: this is a long one !! ; make a day of it; atp coexisting; lily donaldson being a weird little girl ™; tw airports during holiday season; whoever came up with the headcanon that patrick was late for his circumcision and it got cancelled i owe you a kidney; so cw smut obviously; cw religious ((Christianity, specifically Catholicism + Judaism briefly)) motifs; tw splicing of said motifs with the aforementioned smut; tw vomit)

“It’s not that I’m not happy for him,” Patrick tells Tashi, “I really am, you know I mean that.”

He paces her kitchen impatiently, running fingers through dark, dishevelled hair.

At such times, he still looks like the boy wonder sprinting carelessly across electric blue asphalt, eyes shimmering, as if he were part of that riot of colour. Some of his athletic maturity is replaced with the facetious, callow mannerisms of a hungry novice who wants to skip the necessary steps. Who wants to swallow experience and spit out the bones.

Tashi straddles a stool at the vast marbletop island. She’s pattering away like bulletquick rainfall on her MacBook. She doesn’t even spare him a glance.

Patrick makes an effort to rein in his temper. He drops into one of the stools. He swivels left and right and cranes his neck, staring up at the coffered ceiling moulding.

“It’s almost Christmas, Patrick. Go home.”

I am home, he wants to say, but that would be revolting and stupid and he doesn’t even really mean it. Art and Tashi aren’t home for him. Nothing is. And he likes that, he likes being a nomad.

Lily clicks in like a pony. Lily—well, Lili, Lieselotte—is also the name of his little sister. He likes the coincidence. The trick of the mind he can perform, imagining an alternative family.

Family is just being nomads together.

“Hey, I told you no tap shoes inside,” Tashi says, eyes still swimming through the pixelmire of her computer screen.

Perhaps Patrick ought to feel flattered by her attention at all. His familial woes are just as perturbing to Tashi as Lily fucking up the flooring with her ball changes.

Patrick’s still quashing his irritation. She doesn’t even fuck him, anymore. He actually doesn’t fuck much of anything at all, of late. What with how tired he is all the time, how his flesh and bones deplete with each exertion. In a way, that’s her fucking him. But it’s also just the scorn of getting older.

It gets harder to shoulder things. His patience corrodes quicker. He should lean forward, take that laptop, and lob it across the room. She’s not even wearing those stupid bluelight glasses she’s supposed to be wearing.

“Do you just not care about anything?” It’s a petulant attempt at stoking her, but it’s too meandering and abstract to really matter, let alone take effect.

She doesn’t respond for a whole five seconds, still typing, and when she does, it’s a distracted whisper of, “What?”

Her power over him is such that she can afford to be so blindly condescending. But it still stings.

He groans into the air, and it’s such a thundering sort of noise that Lily spares him a weirded out scowl on her way to the pantry. “Do you really want me in Germany? I’ll sit on my ass and start drinking beer again all day, Coach.”

Three years into their partnership, he often uses her title to signal his annoyance.

Tashi sighs like she’s disappointed. Not disappointed that he’s trying, but the fact that he’s making such meaningless, childish stabs at it. Instead of just going for it. As in, yes, smashing her MacBook over his knee and yelling pay attention to me! She’d respect that more and he knows it.

But, anyway, she lowers the screen halfmast and looks at him. “Are you jeal—”

“I’m not jealous of the baby.”

“Okay…”

“But he’s sixtyfive, Tashi! It’s ridiculous.”

Tashi does something between a scoff and a laugh, shaking her head. She rolls up the sleeves of her sweater and narrows her eyes at him. “And how old did you say the new wife was?”

“Thirtytwo, Tashi.”

Tashi laughs properly now, dropping her head and dragging her thumb and forefinger over her lashes. Patrick smiles at her amusement, albeit at his expense.

“That is pretty ridiculous.” She looks up at him again, clearing her throat, “Don’t try to bullshit me and pretend you don’t still drink beer.”

He wants to contradict her, but he decides he wants to make her laugh more. “He met her because she was his masseuse for a hot stone treatment.”

Tashi sputters, her giggles spilling everywhere, and she’s waving her hands like she’s calling timeout.

“And then he calls me,” Patrick continues, before miming a phone to his ear and straightening and dragging his voice down like an anchor with an affected distinguished rumble, “And goes, Son, I am moving back to Germany. I have love again.”

“I have love again!” Tashi wheezes, her elbows thunking on the marble and her face falling into her hands. Her shoulders are shaking with laughter.

“Like it’s a fucking disease.”

“It is.” Art’s voice still manages to quaver delivering a glib oneliner. Maybe because he doesn’t mean it. Patrick’s willing to chalk it up to his brisk stride as he enters the kitchen. Always a fucking pep in his step these days, the fucking asshole.

Patrick doesn’t turn his head. He feels a sharp instance of vertigo when Art’s hand lands on his shoulder. But both the touch and nausea are gone as soon as they arrive, and he passes off the motion of his own hand going to grab Art’s fingers as a scratch to his nose. Tashi’s too busy wiping her tears away to have noticed that, thank God.

“Oh my God, please tell him,” Tashi cackles, still gathering lost breath as Art slides her bluelight eyeglasses onto her face and enswathes her body with his, caressing her arms with his knuckles.

“He knows,” Patrick says dismissively, even though that’s a lie. He hasn’t told him.

“What do I know?”

Tashi recounts the story with the engaging enthusiasm of what Patrick is beginning to recognise as schadenfreude. But even that is still a salve, and he feels a little foolish for forgetting its effect. Not just the laughter, but all of this. He wishes they would just throw him a bone and let him stay for Christmas. He feels like a dying dog made to live too long. He offered to dress up as Santa, but Lily herself informed him that she’s far outgrown such folly and resents his assumption otherwise. She’d kicked him in the shin with the metal plate of her tap shoe. He’d let her.

Art’s smile quirks up at the image. Mean old Mr Zweig laid nude across a spa bed, cock jumping for the meek masseuse.

“Bet he slipped her eight grand to fold the towel a little lower,” Art mumbles into Tashi’s hair, the strands buttery against his lips.

She makes a face at this. She raises her hand to swat his arm reproachfully.

But Patrick only chuckles. Spares a glance over his shoulder to where Lily is sprawled on the couch, gripping the handles of her shockproof iPad case with the focus of a pilot at the yoke of a plane, her little head swallowed by a pair of AirPod maxes. Turns back and looks up at Art with a conspiratorial smirk.

“Probably had her stroke his dick with two hot stones,” he murmurs.

Tashi thinks that’s even less funny. But Art thinks it’s even more funny.

He laughs very loudly and does a less than polite impression of an old German bastard wincing and coming.

“Ah—” he hisses, “The next one up my bumhole, yes?”

It sounds like a botched Hitler lampoon, and it’s ostensibly a caricature he’s done many times before. Sometimes, they spend whole days just wading through their ancient morass of shared memories and inside references and running gags. Sometimes, even now, it's just easier that way.

Patrick laughs so hard he falls out of his chair.

They do let him stay for dinner.

It feels like they’re mocking him, but he’s hungry. So he stares into the middle distance and listens to Lily spiritedly declaim facts about deep sea turtles. She keeps surreptitiously slipping Brussels sprouts from her plate onto his. It wouldn’t be his place to mention it. And, for her part, she quaffs down her mashed potatoes like an endurance test. He tells her they’re not going anywhere. She kicks his shin again and he’s pretty sure she should have taken those shoes off by now.

He watches every gentle graze of Art and Tashi’s limbs and shoulders.

He sighs and chews his sprouts until his jaw aches.

There are worse things in his head to beat himself up with than wishful thinking.

“What’d Sassy say?” Art asks as he uncorks a Montrachet.

The corner of Patrick’s mouth quirks up almost imperceptibly. Like the reflexive twitch of a bad muscle. But he can tell Art discerns it by the way he starts to chuckle preemptively. That grin that spreads across his face like fire on dry grass.

Patrick huffs. “She said she hopes the baby chokes and dies.”

“You’re killing me, Sas.”

It’s December eighteenth at JFK. Patrick feels like a fucking sardine. Everyone is everywhere. The emetic odour of tarmac and jet fuel embues him. His fingers are red and stiff and so tightly coiled around the stainless steel handrail of the escalator that he thinks they may just pop off like caps. There’s an acetous chill to the nighttime air, and he probably should’ve worn more layers, but the sweat on his back is already soaking through the thin fabric of his shirt. He doesn’t mind. It’s better than being late.

Patrick’s dad used to enforce punctuality like a jailhouse warden. Saskia knows that.

He has his phone tucked to his ear against one shoulder.

His sister’s voice across the receiver sounds warped and liminal. His stomach is grumbling.

“You’re fucking me, Sas, you’re fucking me right over,” Patrick says. “What’s in Brazil?”

“Well, warmth, for one.”

“What about me?”

Saskia laughs. That loud, tocsin laugh she used to do when he’d wet the bed. “You boycotted the christening, Brutus.”

“Why would I fly to Germany to watch a baby take a bath?”

“Why are you flying to Germany now?”

Patrick’s teeth are on edge as he schleps his weighty duffel toward the terminal. He fishes a cigarette out of his windbreaker pocket and shoves it through his lips. He wants to spark it, even though Tashi’s psychologically tortured him into quitting, and he’d get thrown out for sure. There’s a line of security guards at every corner, and he’s seen the German Shepherd sniffer dogs.

He chews on the cigarette instead. Grinds the tip between his molars to get that stark jounce of nicotine even if it’s mostly tobacco and paper.

Saskia is saying something in his ear, and he’s only halfpretending to listen. His eyes are fastened straight ahead, singeing holes into the back of a woman’s head. Her hair is pulled into an absurdly tight ponytail. And he is so taken by the movement of the strands as it bobs with each step that he is only dragged back to reality when Saskia says his name loud enough to stab his eardrums.

He blinks. “What, bitch?”

“Paddy, I’m sorry, but I can’t do it. I don’t wanna throttle the little shit. I’m pushing forty and I cried because he bought it a fucking babysize tiara.”

Patrick closes his eyes, inhaling deeply through his nose. He swallows a bit of that tobacco wad on his tongue. He nearly gags. He belatedly catches that a couple of security guards are looking at him with some suspicion. He holds up a finger as if to say, sorry, and turns around to walk away.

Saskia’s still on the line, and she starts singing something, though he doesn’t understand why. He has to hold the phone a good foot away until she shuts up.

“Wh—” he scoffs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “What am I supposed to do?”

“Hey, maybe you’ll get along with it.”

“Unlikely.”

“Maybe you’ll get along with dad.”

“Un—fucking—likely,” he retorts.

He ducks into a corner of the empty terminal and drops inelegantly onto a hard plastic seat. He is hyperaware of the sweat fumes under his arms, the way his track pants cling too snugly to his thighs.

“Actually, hey,” Saskia says, and he can hear her perking up. He imagines her in a hammock in Rio. She’ll burn so bad. No earthly SPF could ever keep her from shedding like a crimson serpent. “She has this au pair.”

Patrick glances up at the TV monitor over his head.

Departures to Berlin 23 30, it reads, flashing jarringly in red LED lettering, accompanied by a blinking graphic of an airplane taking off.

He makes a noncommittal grunt. “That tracks,” he mumbles.

“I’m saying you don’t have to be lonely,” says Sassy, “Make friends! She’s nice. Bit young.”

“Reckon dad’ll try to knock her up next?”

Saskia laughs herself to piggish snorting. The bigeared little boy within him, tugging at the pantleg of his sister’s pyjamas for attention, is vaguely mollified by that laughter. Albeit at his expense.

He should spend the flight feeling guilty for not getting a gift for the baby, but he listens to a true crime podcast instead.

They’re talking about a young girl who was found unconscious by the side of a road. The truck driver who spotted her was a little drunk at the time, and he was afraid that if he called the cops he’d lose his job, so he just moved her body further up the road where someone else could find her.

Apparently, she was still alive, but the truck driver thought she was already dead.

It’s not certain if she would have made it, had he done The Right Thing, but maybe it would've made a difference.

“He should've just called the cops and driven away,�� one of the hosts says.

“If you’re reporting an accident, you can’t just remove yourself from the premises,” the other one replies.

“Well no, but if you report a homicide—“

“Same thing. Also, how can you just leave a person bleeding by the side of the road?”

“Was she visibly bleeding?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

Patrick closes his eyes and leans his head back. The clouds roll by like lambhide.

He can picture it clearly, driving away from this fucking mess, leaving a body by the side of the road. He’d do it if he could. But he thinks he’s the body.

He shudders with a pang of cold. He doesn’t know why this image sticks. It’s like ghosts, floating in between the clouds.

Saskia texts him. Suffocate the baby with a pillow. Also delete that text. And that one.

And he, the body by the side of the road, doesn't say anything.

The plane jostles a little in a patch of turbulence. They descend into Berlin at eight in the morning.

His knees hurt from keeping them bent at an angle for so long, his ass is going numb. He should feel sorry for himself, being alone like this.

As he deplanes, a few fellow passengers glance in his direction, their noses wrinkling. He can’t tell if it’s the bitter rot of cigarette between his teeth or his sudor stench or his mouldering heart.

People converge in the baggageclaim like a throng of cattle. Patrick shoulders through. Swallowed up and spat out and alone again.

No one pays anyone any attention. Everyone is hurrying to make this flight or get to the next. When Patrick finds a men’s room, he realises he should be glad for that. In the reflection of the large mirror above a long stretch of white porcelain sinks, he can see shadows like cosmic abysses under his eyes. Some of the veins in his arms—which are sticking out from under his sleeves like pythons—are slightly swollen and purple.

His duffle bag bangs against his hip as he shuffles onto the tarmac and joins the taxi queue.

Berlin greets him with an onslaught of sleet.

His bones rattle like clicking spoons in the cold. He’s cursing under his breath and trying to remember the last time he was sincerely back in Germany.

Not just a brief cut across for a match, a layover, a hamfisted excuse to see his sister.

He was probably nine.

Patrick lumbers up the walkway to his father’s home. It looks like it’s been shoveled already today but has endured several hours of snowfall since. That and—well—he guesses his dad’s playing humble now.

Sas had dubbed it a latelife crisis. But it’s not shabby. In fact, it’s nice. It’s no limestone portico. Far cry from the august Georgian Revival mausoleum he and Sas gleaned their nascent wounds in.

Lili gets a Hallmark ass two story colonial, strung with Christmas lights. Deep green door, ornate bronze knocker, festooned with a wreath. The doorbell echoes through his empty bones like a deathknell.

His teeth chinkle like coins as he waits.

When the door opens, he releases a protracted, puerile whine. “Fuck.”

You’ve never been cause of such overt disappointment.

It’s almost flattering.

But your smile quickly metamorphoses into a grimace.

His shoulders are drooping and he looks liable to topple facefirst to the snowswathed gravel at any moment. His eyelids keep fluttering, like he’s fighting a losing battle against the urge to just shut down.

“Is this the right house?” he groans, pained and shivering.

You’re marginally certain this is your boss’ son and not a homeless vagrant.

Either way, you’re nodding emphatically. “Of course it is.”

In the kitchen, he stands in the corner like a newly housed stray. Hands tucked into his armpits and chin touching his chest as he watches you spark up the cooktop through snowdappled lashes.

The powdered creamer, as you pour it into the teacup, reminds him, too, of snowfall. You keep flicking him conspicuously concerned glances.

“So you’re Patrick…” you say, spooning sugar.

He clears his throat and hums in a way that says, yeah, I’m not too thrilled about it either. His head is bowed, his eyes fallen shut, and he’s swaying vaguely on his feet. He looks like he’s making devotions. The kettle sings.

His fingers are bonetight around the cup and saucer. He lifts the cup and presses it to his cheek, like leaching the warmth from the ceramic. When he sips, you’re reminded of cats lapping milk.

There’s a moment of silence, and it’s awkward. And then he sneezes—once, twice. His throat clicks.

“Uh… tennis,” you try, folding closed the box of Five Roses.

The steam plumes up and curls around Patrick’s face, flushed and sallow. He clears his throat again, his eyes unfocused. He glances toward you and knows he should reply, but the only thing that comes out is a damp, congested sniff.

He wipes his nose on his sleeve. “Tennis,” he repeats, the word muffled by the cup still pressed to his lips.

You nod slowly, rapping your knuckles rhythmically against the counter. “Wimbledon,” you say then.

Patrick scrunches up his face as if he’s in pain. He’s trying to force some simulacrum of synapse action in the conversational skills faculty of his brain.

“Yeah,” he manages. He takes another gulp of tea and tries to clear his throat again. It hurts. Everything hurts. He hurts.

You nod some more. You can’t help but think that this feels a bit like a tennis game. You and he, volleying oneword utterances back and forth. “Impressive,” you offer, cocking your brows at him.

“Thanks,” Patrick mutters.

He does actually want to be witty. And he does actually want to be charming. And he wants to make a good first impression. But right now he wants to sleep, preferably through a few decades. Certainly, the last few of his father’s life. Which, speaking of,

“Hey, where is the bastard?”

He glances around, as if to see his father lurking in a crevice somewhere. You raise a brow. Could it be an affectionate nickname? Perhaps. But you’re starting to connect some dots.

You smile like you’re trying not to provoke a sabertoothed creature. But Patrick can see in your eyes that he’s amusing you, which he doesn’t mind. Of course he doesn’t mind.

There’s a vast window above the counter, pictureframing an expansive, snowshrouded back garden that, knowing his dad, is probably a rigorously manicured viridescent green in the warmer months. How warm do things get in Germany these days?

He squints against the luminous white splay as you point beyond the glass. There’s a distant brown pinprick that lets him know this property is larger than it seems. Larger than it needs to be. But the kid needs frolicking room, he guesses.

“He’s in the den,” you say.

Patrick throws the rest of his tea back like a shot, placing his cup and saucer onto the counter with a twinkling thunk.

“Alright, then let’s go.”

“My balls are gonna freeze off before we even get there,” Patrick hisses.

Every step forward sends his feet an inch deeper into the snow, and you watch him shake out his running shoes with displeasedness. You laugh at him, and he turns back to face you, and he makes this face that could either be a smirk or an indication of great turmoil. You are struck by his ability to wear that lopsided grin in his current circumstances, to look at you like that. Well, like what? You don’t know.

It’s just that the scarf and wool peacoat you’re wearing make you look like a well-loved heirloom doll. He can see the faintest wisps of your breath in the bitter air. Your smile is so kind and so warm, he thinks, smiling wider.

He appreciates you joining him on his doormat pilgrimage. A better guy would tell you that, but he just turns around and keeps footslogging.

Together, you trudge forward across the sprawling, sleety landscape.

The door to the den is unlocked.

Patrick casts a glance back at you before he pushes it all the way open, hitting the opposite wall with a hollow bang.

It creaks a little on its hinges as it opens into a long corridor. He takes a step in first.

“Hello?” Patrick yells, his voice lilting. “Armed robbery. I have guns and knives and… bombs. Got your pretty nanny.”

You feel the little smile on your face quavering with amusement as you close the door shut behind you.

The floors are clad in dark oak panels. The walls are lined with copper sconces. There’s an ostensibly hideous and probably hilariously expensive rug in the middle of the floor and Patrick makes a show of wiping his shoes clean on it.

“Sure as fuck not taking this thing,” he mumbles, digging his hands into his pant pockets.

He glances toward a long sideboard on the side of the corridor. It’s laden with antique trinkets and mahoganyframed pictures, and he reaches out to prod at an ivory figurine sitting at the edge.

You stay in silence for a few moments, looking at him.

Then, the faint creak of footsteps comes from upstairs, and you both look up at the ceiling. Seconds later, it fades to your right, and, soon enough, there appears Rupert Zweig. Cashmere jumper, tapered joggers.

There is no denying the family resemblance. And if the way Patrick’s eyes narrow as his father descends the staircase is anything to go by, he is not gonna wanna meet—

“There you are,” says Rupert, corners of his eyes crinkling. He stops at the end of the hall, hands in his pockets. The two regard each other like snipers. You have the sharp sensation you shouldn’t be here, but where would you go?

Patrick clicks his teeth wryly. “Here I am.” His hands are also in his pockets. Their deportments are uncannily kindred.

You think Patrick shouldn’t be so putout by that. Rupert Zweig is a handsome sixtyfive. Tall and broad and still in trim, despite most his days being ornamented by cognac and cigars. His silvery hair sheens like tinsel, and has not thinned much to speak of, if at all.

You figure maybe they’ll hug, as Rupert approaches. You know Rupert to be a hugger. But he only claps Patrick’s shoulder, and Patrick’s bones look like they’ve been swapped for concrete, and he watches his father give him a once over, like surveying an old car.

“I hope things are well with you,” Rupert says. Which isn’t strange paternal commentary. But his voice is tinctured with a concerned edge at the overall impression that his only son has been dragged along the pavement by the tail of a motorbike and then beaten with sticks to boot. I thought things were better, now, he’s really saying.

You think it’s concern, anyway. You, too, know Rupert to be quite concerned, and caring. But Patrick takes it as scorn.

He wears a bitter smile. “Things are peachy, Pa.”

His nostrils flare, he shifts his shoulders. Like he wants to shrug his father's hand off, but is keeping still for the sake of seeming mature.

And then it happens. A pule from the ether like the resounding stroke of a viola.

You perk up. “Oh! I’ll go—“

“Yes, dear, she’s with Giselle in the drawing room.” Rupert’s eyes crinkle, a kind brush of his fingers to your elbow.

Patrick—you glimpse, as you shuffle past him and out the passage—looks furious. And a bit queasy.

In the drawing room, Patrick stares at Giselle’s hands. She’s twisting her emerald engagement ring around her finger. The stone is big as a pebble, its facets winking.

He doesn’t let himself look to where you are. On an ivorycoloured foam playmat on the ground, doing something that is causing the baby to squeal and giggle like a strident string of bells and clap her pudgy hands together. He can hear the yarn of drool gurgling from her gummy mouth.

An angeltopped pine tree scintillates with fairy lights in the corner.

Giselle is slender porcelain. White sweater, skinny jeans, milkblonde hair. She crosses her legs at the ankles, knees to the side, like she’s the fucking queen of England. She is polite to varying degrees of genuineness.

“Lili’s so happy to see her big brother.”

Patrick’s knee shudders violently. Cut the shit, Giselle, he wants to spit.

But he knows he won’t. He doesn’t feel he can. Maybe it’d be easier, if she really was just some nympho naif. Then he could call his dad a perv and move on.

But no. Giselle is three years his junior but tenfold his put-togetherness. There are two infants in the room, and neither are her.

The room is so warm and well lit. There are bookshelves teeming with hardcover tomes whose rapiersharp corners look ostensibly untouched. A globe of the world, a framed Picasso original. Baroque vases and potted ivies and the permeating waft of jasmine and rose and leather.

It’s an intimate microcosm of his father and Giselle’s interwoven lives. Their very fumes amalgamate. And then there’s that puny thing, gossamer flesh, babbling like a brook. He doesn’t look. He can’t.

When his dad walks back in, Patrick is on his feet like a springing coil.

“You’re welcome to stay here,” says his dad, handing Patrick a set of keys.

Patrick shakes his head and feigns remorse. “Nah, Sas asked me to water her plants, so.”

Rupert looks like he’s going to say something, but decides against it.

“Right,” he nods and reaches into his pocket, retrieving a slim silver case. He flips open the lid, revealing a neat row of hand rolls. He plucks one between his long fingers. Patrick would say no, if he offered, but resents his father’s lack thereof enough to head for the door.

You think he’ll say bye to you, or maybe offer just a parting wave, but he doesn’t.

You hear him and his dad at odds like a cobra and a mongoose in the hall. You daub tender kisses onto the fleshy pink soles of Lili’s feet. You discern misty fragments of Patrick’s scathing whispers.

“... newage, hippie bullshit... nice guy act... fucking sweatpants... —christen the baby! What the fuck are you doing christening the baby? You never even took us to temple!”

However Rupert responds, on the other hand, is vaguely inaudible. It’s just a deep, cautiously placating rumble of syllables.

You hear a bit more mumbled venom before the door creaks open and slams shut.

“He thinks he’s got everyone fooled, but I’m fucking onto hi— where is your alcohol?”

Patrick’s disembowelling every cabinet in his sister’s kitchen. On all fours like a hound rooting in the snow. He can hear the hot waft of tropical winds from Saskia’s end of the receiver. Crash of surf. Squawking birds. The staticky tempo of Brazilian phonk in the background.

“Ugh, Paddy,” Saskia mumbles like she’s disappointed.

He tears the fridge door open so fervently, the cord comes loose from the socket. There’s nothing there but bottled water, yoghurt, and salad dressing. He makes a strangled noise of agony into the ear piece.

“Saskia May,” Patrick groans with a sonnet’s desperation, resting his head against the icy fridgeshelf, between the organic grassfed butter and the handcrafted balsamic glaze, “I know you may be in a fucking beachside cabana right now, dipping Portuguese cock into your piña colada with the little umbrella in it and then sucking it off, but it is late here, and it is winter, and I am dying.”

“What do you mean you didn’t see the baby?” she asks.

“No, well, I saw her, just…” Patrick’s withdrawing all her earthenware now, “I just didn’t look.”

“What, like the fucking Basilisk?”

“Sassy, for the love of God, tell me you’ve left even a drop of liquor in your home.”

Saskia laughs, and he can hear the chime of ice. “Did you meet the au pair?”

Patrick stumbles back to the stillopen, halfway gutted fridge. He identifies with it. He sticks his head back in. “She thinks I’m a mess.”

“Wow, what a stupid whore,” his sister laughs. As everything, it is at his expense. He’s in emotional arrears, but it’s okay. It’s all okay.

He hears Saskia’s inbreathe. Marijuana? Probably. He doesn’t mind her lungs. He doesn’t mind that she’s always been more beautiful than him. He doesn’t mind that she’s warm in Rio. He knows it’s harder for her. She never got to be Rupert’s little princess. He wants to protect her in that asinine way baby brothers think they can protect their sisters. In that asinine way Patrick Zweig thinks he can protect everyone.

“Have pity on me, Sas.”

She directs him blindly like a game of Marco Polo. He wades through the ransacked bombsite he’s made of her kitchen. Avocados rolling across the slate floor. Spilled milk, which feels symbolic.

He unearths the bottle of Gordon’s dry gin from under the sink. Holds it aloft like a holy grail.

Patrick can’t remember the last time he set foot in a church, if such a time has ever occurred. Part of him expects the parishioners to take one look at him and know he doesn’t belong, for them to demand he leave.

For the things he has done, the things he has felt, the things he has wanted. Certainly for the things he cannot bring himself to believe.

He is struck by the towering stonework of the cathedral. The wooden cross in the apse is immense. Behind it, stained glass windows paint the icedover morning in vivisected coloursplays. Soft motes of sunlight waft in shafts from the ceiling.

He never thought he’d see the day—the Zweigs done up in their Sunday best. His mother would laugh herself to tears.

Rupert’s broad shoulders are ramrod straight, his argent hair slicked back handsomely. Giselle is wearing a ribbed knit dress in eggshell. Princess Lieselotte—finally, a worthy heir—is wearing a knit tunic dress embroidered with blooms, a scallopcollared ivory shirt underneath, and a crocheted woollen baby bonnet.

They look like an affiche for Norman Rockwell.

At first, he’s still trying not to meet the Basilisk’s gaze, but then he gets this disarming glimpse. The peonypink hue of her. Her comically outjutting little ears. Gibbous blue eyes, lapping up the world through cornyellow lashes. Those are Giselle’s. But the rest…

Unlucky little shit, Patrick tells her telepathically. And now he is looking straight at her, like the spell has been broken. He needs to let her know he’s onto her, and her bullshit doting father. You look like dad.

But what that means is she looks like Patrick, too.

He watches you hold her in your arms, rubbing your nose against hers.

Giselle had had you press Patrick’s shirt—his father’s shirt; of course he didn’t pack a buttonup—for him this morning. He was only kind of embarrassed. But he sat carefully in the car, leery of creasing your hard work.

The linen of your skirt reaches your ankles. You’re wearing this creamcoloured slouchy knit turtleneck, and you’ve got a little lacy chiffon infinity veil halfway canopying your hair. Patrick is pleasantly amused by all this fabric. All the things he cannot see. Because of God, or the cold, or God and the cold.

The Zweigs find their pews, stopping frequently to greet their fellow churchgoers, and whisper inquiries after names Patrick doesn’t know. He shakes half a dozen hands if he shakes one, introduces himself as ‘Rupert’s son’ more times than he can count.

You, too, are pleasantly amused. Because Patrick is notably discomfited. You fish your little pewter cross necklace from beneath your collar. You hold it between your fingers and out toward him like an exorcist.

“He can smell your fear,” you whispergrowl, fauxominous. Lili giggles all saliva in your arms. That’s the voice you use when you pretend to be the babyeating ogre. She takes the cross between her tiny teeth. Patrick watches. You smile. “And so can she.”

Patrick looks at you for a moment, feigning indifference. “They’re both smelling how little they matter to me.”

Your smile widens.

Patrick—who has never endured a mass—takes his cues from the brush of your shoulder on when to stand, when to sit, and when to supplicate himself. The priest oscillates from English to Latin and back again. Seemingly on a whim. When Patrick fumbles trying to find the right page for the hymn, you tilt your book slightly so he can read along.

He thinks the rosary looks good where it dangles from your lithe, supple fingers. Looping and weaving through your pretty knuckles like drops of blood.

You are flawless in your devotion.

You slip to your knees with a fluidity that makes his tummy fasten.

You sing quietly and sweetly and when you turn to Patrick to wish peace upon him, your grin is so sweet and earnest it takes a moment for him to contend with that blessing.

Everyone falls down to the hassock again and Patrick is beginning to find the rhythm of the whole affair. At least enough to let his thoughts maunder and his body be at mercy to the motions.

It’s soothing, in its way. He can almost understand it. What blessed relief in lifting your human pains to be scoured clean.

The priest closes out the sermon with a few nice words about Jesus. Guy’s birthday’s coming up, after all.

Patrick leans forward a bit to glance at his father’s fingers, tapping on the dry leather of the psalmbook.

In the photo, little Lili is wearing a white linen nightgown that mantles her whole, like a tiny tarp. His dad cradles her, and everyone’s standing around a marble pool. He can see Saskia off to the side, hosting a very conspicuous hangover behind her mask. You’re in the picture, too. Apparently, you had been Giselle’s doula, in the beginning, and you just ended up sticking around. Which he finds more than a little strange. Patrick often sees life as a series of measures to get further away from his family.

On the edge of the photo, he can see the broad back of a becloaked man, plashing his fingers the water.

Patrick feels an inkling of discomfort at the sight of that man.

“She still sleeps in that dress, actually,” you say, rocking the babe.

The wallpaper of Lili’s room is printed with pale pink linework of woodland creatures. He’s straddling the vintage nursery rocker—a plush weathered lamb; it used to be his and Saskia’s—and his knees are hiked comically high on either side of him, his slacks riding up his ankles.

Patrick stares at the baby girl in this framed photograph. She looks too small—almost tenuous—underneath the white shift. Her eyes are flushed and still wombswollen.

“What’s the point?” he asks, trying to imagine that man softly slooshing water over her boneless head.

You smile. “It’s to protect her.”

“Protect her from what?”

You lower Lili into her French Provençal style woodcarved bassinet.

You look up at him, eyes flitting over his face. “Shame, I guess.”

It doesn’t quite make sense. A fullimmersion baptism means commitment. You have pledged yourself to God. You are bound to follow His laws. Shame is essential to these laws. Isn’t it?

You don’t know why he’s still here. Giselle is taking her Sunday nap, and Rupert’s playing solitaire or reading Guy Sajer or something in the den. Lili, too, is dead to the world. You need to do the laundry. The laundry room is too strait for him to be lingering, leaning against the doorframe, interrogating you. He likes watching the linen of your skirt gather at your feet as you crouch to the floor, depositing the armfuls of bedding into the mouth of the washing machine. All that fabric.

“It’s a different kind of shame,” you try to explain. “I can be ashamed of myself, of my body.”

“Why are you ashamed?”

You roll your eyes. “I don’t know. I’m alive.”

“Alright. And this helps?”

“A little, yeah. It takes you out of your body. Then returns you to it. And you feel brand new. Like you belong to Jesus.”

You laugh a little at the concept, but he can tell you treasure this belonging, deep down.

He walks toward you, taking the empty wicker hamper from your hands and setting it aside. “You shouldn’t feel ashamed in the first place.”

You shrug, noting his proximity. “It’s probably good to feel shame from time to time.”

He doesn’t say anything to that.

He doesn’t ask you if you feel ashamed right now. Face smushed against the top of the palpitating washing machine. If you said yes, he’d be unhappy. If you said no, he’d be unhappy.

He’s happy, now, hiking your skirt up around your waist, shucking your gauzy tights halfway down your thighs. Best not to ruin it.

So he doesn’t ask if you’re ashamed. He doesn’t ask if you’re a virgin. He does ask if you’re on birth control, and furrows his brows as his strong hands caress the flesh of your ass.

“Why not?” he laughs, dragging the beige skin down his rigid cock, rubbing the deep blush head against your hirsute pussy and bending over you. “Isn’t that shit free here?”

He burrows his head beneath your sweater, kissing your back through the cotton of your longsleeve. He doesn’t search for more bare skin, just keeps a good grip on that which he has, fingertips digging into the flesh of your hips.

He fucks into you and feels your body shudder around him with the jostle of the machine.

He doesn’t ask of shame or chastity or how long Giselle and Lili usually nap for, how far his dad is into The Forgotten Soldier. He does, however, feel it necessary to ask,

“Feels good, right?” Even though you’re drooling against the zinc and your hoarse groans are rivalling the churning noises. You roll your eyes but they stay there, your lashes fluttering.

“Yes,” you pant, clutching the edge of the machine. “It feels good.”

He bends over you, pinning you, elbow to elbow, his chin resting on your clothed shoulder. Your veil slips off your head and drapes around your neck. He quickens his pace. “It’s fucking big, isn’t it?”

You turn your head to look at him. His eyes look like they want to fuck your eyes. His mouth hovers over your drooling mouth as if to kiss you. The shaggy hair of his crotch abrades your tailbone.

“Verdict’s still out,” you say, voice quavering, and you let him lave your tongue sloppily with his.

His sister has a guestroom, but he sleeps in her bed. Reads her Audre Lorde and Laurie Colwin. Uses her toothbrush. God, she’d kill him. But he likes the transgression of violating her space. He doesn’t use her vibrator, or anything. He finds it, but he doesn’t use it.

He has his few ways of having people. So he’s always taking what he can get.

That’s why he fucks the nanny in the laundry room, and lets Art’s kid bruise him with her tap shoe, and sits on the kitchen tile drinking Saskia’s gin.

He has to hold on to the granite countertop, as he straightens from his haunches. His back is a wreck, but the ache is nothing compared to the relief and vindication and victory he feels. He can’t say for sure what the prize is. Maybe it really was just your pussy, and that’s where this all starts and ends, which is fine. The feeling of winning is so rare and precious and precious and rare and, as he unscrews the cap and raises the bottle to his lips, it’s as if he’s just slain a mighty monster.

He places the little tiara he’d filched from Lili’s room on Saskia’s mantel.

He’s less than compos mentis come Christmas Eve.

He lays in Saskia's bed for a bit, inhaling lime and ambergris, trying to figure out what to do with himself. He checks his phone: No Service.

He sighs and tumbles out the sheets like a rockslide. He figures he might as well go for a run before the blizzard clocks in since there’s nothing else to do. His feet already feel numb and damp. Everything has felt numb and damp the whole time he’s been here.

Running buzzed probably isn’t his smartest idea, but it doesn’t feel like his worst one either.

Patrick frenetically tugs two pairs of thermal leggings on. The radiotor whirrs but the house is still arrestingly gelid. He pulls on his sister’s comically inflated neon orange down jacket.

He looks at himself in the mirror.

“Oh, fuck yeah,” he whispers.

He loots and pilfers some mittens, goggles, and a neck gaiter from Saskia’s closet. She could never take to professional athleticism, but she’s a reasonably devout runner, and is partial to a halfmarathon or two most years. Which means free activegear for Paddy. He walks to the front door and slips on his dank shoes.

He steps outside once he feels decently covered head to toe, a skill he’s found refining itself as the week has shouldered past him.

Patrick strides the roadside briskly for almost a mile. His legs feel halfway atrophied, so he gives them time to warm up. The neighborhood seeps into copses of snowdusted forestry. He feels the beauty of the landscape flicker through him like a spark.

He starts jogging.

He has no mapped course, no mile time to hit. He just wants to move forward. For once. His goggles fog up with entrapped bodyheat crowning the cold air but he doesn’t fix them. The compressed insulation of his clothes, the whirring thump of his shoes to the tar—it engenders a strangely hypnotic effect. He realises, only after miles have elapsed, that he's forgotten to turn any music on. He doesn’t need it now.

He comes upon a clearing in the trees that discloses a river he hadn’t recalled.

He abates to a walk before stopping completely and removing his goggles.

He knows a breathtaking scene when he sees one. That was never his problem, the discernment of the good thing. It was never even the obtaining of it. It’s that—well—if Sas actually had left plants for him to nurture, they’d be dead by now.

But anyway. The river.

Snowfall has burgeoned somewhat, but light is still breaking through. The sun reflects tenderly off the surface of the frozen water as if it’s all being illuminated from beneath the ice.

Patrick swears he can see evidence of a current still rushing below, but he can’t be sure that’s all too possible at these temperatures.

He tries to take a picture for posterity (or Lily; she’s ‘into vistas’ lately), but all the light is so strange and coruscating. Hardly anything can be captured in earnest.

Patrick takes a deep breath and closes his eyes.

He pulls his gaiter down and doffs his hat. Allows his florid skin a few moments to feel the glacial squall, the moist sting of melting snow. He thinks he’s missed this weather, harsh as it may be.

He takes the opportunity to check his watch, vaguely hoping the GPS tracker’s been running. And hope seems to count for something here.

4.7 MILES

A surge of accomplishment and anticipation shimmers through him. He grins, breathless, at the thought of being able to tell Tashi that he’d done a cool ten miles. And the prospect of being able to eat a guiltless meal is emerging as an actual possibility.

Patrick gears back up and begins to walk again in the direction he came. He takes advantage—always taking advantage, always taking what he can get—of the trodden path he’d made in the road. The surer grip of his shoes.

His head starts feeling strange as he’s walking. As though it’s sloshy inside, like the dirty snow he sees on the curb. But he pushes forward and chalks it up to temperature. Picks up the pace again.

He finds himself less mesmerised by his own footfalls now and slips his AirPods in. Slips inside the eye of his mind. His sister used to have a ‘(What's The Story) Morning Glory?’ CD. Patrick’d scratched it, probably. He hopes Oasis can get back together some day. It's not so hard to reconcile. Mostly, anyway.

About a mile into the returning trek, Patrick feels his legs suddenly get heavier. He’s felt as much before. He assumes he’s just hitting the wall. It’s a little early for him, at such moderate mileage, but he knows inclemency and altitude can do things to a body.

He’s deliberate with his strides as he proceeds. He wants to be sure that his torpid legs are parting with the ground.

It’s around the two mile mark that his spine rattles with an odd enough sensation—sharp, like an incision down the length of it—to bring him to a stumbling halt.

Patrick’s clumsily reaching around and groping at his neck and back the best he can through his layers. It feels almost like someone has poured water on his skin. Soused him like a baptism.

He tells himself he needs a second to breathe. Starts walking again. Eventually feels very marginally centred enough to pick up the pace. His knees feel like cinderbricks. Dense and angular. But he should be capable of making it home. Or at least determined enough to do so. He’s seeing houses again. He can’t be more than a mile out.

He’s thinking of raiding Saskia’s toiletries and snorting her cornucopia of bathsalts when a billow of abject nausea rolls through him. He’s stumbling again.

He moans vaguely with turnsickness. The trees are blurring together.

He sways.

Sidesteps jerkily over the curb into a stark white alloy of fresh and shoveled snow.

Doubles over.

Dissolves to his knees, bracing himself on his palms. All fours again.

He maintains this position for several minutes. He’s heaving in and out forcefully with his eyes screwed shut. It feels a bit prayerful. He’s praying to be made to vomit. Just wants to feel better and move on and he’ll never touch his dick again, he prays. Which isn’t true, but need it be?

Things go sloshy again, and warm, this time. Overwhelmingly warm, actually. He flounders in the wet, rips off his gear, and uses his bare hands to grab handfuls of snow off the ground and push it onto his face. The heat feels like bloodshed.

Patrick tears off his jacket. Patrick lays his entire body facedown in the snow. Everything is numb and damp.

“Oh my goodness, Patrick?”

One imagines the voice of God to be a little less frantic.

He’s confused by how weak his muscles feel when he tries to push himself up. How he only sees lucent whiteness when his eyes flicker open. Shit, is this it? He thought for sure he’d end up at the other place.

“Jesus Christ, I thought you were dead!”

Oh, alright. So not yet. Not yet, and certainly not Heaven. Close, though, with how relieved you sound. He is the body on the side of the road, and you’ve stopped to triage him instead of driving off. He squints up at you. Floral puffer. Scarf and muffs. You look like a fairytale illustration.

His blood’s gone cold in his extremities, and he’s mumbling, “Sorry.”

“You’re a mess.”

There it is.

For your part, you don’t sound malicious, or anything. You say it like a forgone conclusion, a fact of the matter. The way a person in an Ionesco absurdist play would say, oh, it looks like I’m wearing pants right now.

He tries to make a stab at indignity. Like maybe if he denies that he’s a mess, that should suddenly make him clean. What blessed relief. But all he manages is a whimpered grunt of protest.

“What happened? Were you attacked?”

Patrick shakes his head, suddenly aware of just how wet he is.

“Patrick, tell me.” You sound concerned, but not in pieces. He knows this is all coincidence. That you simply happened to be driving by. But the fact that you’ve found him prone in the snow, the fact that you knew to call his name, knew it was him who’d ambled to the woods and buried himself in the ground like a coldblooded mountain climber, like a defiant zealot, staring into Earth, his back to God, taunting you with his dickish solipsism—he thinks all this should terrify you. He isn’t dead. Not yet. But maybe he’d already made up his mind. Perhaps you’re just picturing him as another baby. Something small and soothable. “What happened? Do you need to go to the hospital?”

Patrick shakes his head again and takes your assistance in getting up. All his things are gathered in your arms.

“You’re soaked, Patrick. What were you doing in the snow?”

He looks around and feebly brushes some of the debris off of his leggings and thermal pullover.

“I... I don’t know? I’m pretty sure I started feeling sick, and then I got hot, so I took all my shit off,” he explains. He’s all nonchalant about it, too.

At first, he won’t tell you where his sister’s house is. You’re going all Nuremberg on him, like he really is a baby who will drop the knife if you tell him no sternly enough. But he soaks through the polyester of your passenger seat and grins and defies you. It’s like he’s challenging you to take him back to his dad’s. Like he’s a kid acting up in school for attention.

It takes a while. You circle the block twice. Then he sees the way his fingernails tinge cobalt, and thinks of how disappointed his father’d be. Concerned, you allege, but he doesn’t buy that.

Still, he confesses like a sinner.

He asks you—as you stand on the concrete steps to the quaint, Tudorstyle home, and he holds his cap in his teeth and fishes the keys from his pocket—not to hold the state of the place against Saskia. He says there’s a lot of damage he can do in a week. He’s always making a mess. Messing things up. Has he messed you up? He doesn’t ask, but has he?

He’s even sorry for fucking you. He doesn’t tell you that, either. And he’s about to do it again. But he is sorry. That has to count for something.

You stink. Not in a really bad way, not in a noticeable way, but the stale perfume and deodorant have turned into a cool film against your skin, trapping your sweat and guilt and other gross things which you’re too tired to name. You’ve been out buying gifts all day. You’re always so last minute. You feel like you might fall asleep on Saskia’s couch.

News says blizzard’s on its way. News is all choppy static pixel kaleidoscope, too. Even if you left right now, you wouldn’t make it home before the roads got dangerous.

You’ve heard enough hypothermia horror stories to know he should be taking a shower right now, warming himself up in increments. And you’ve heard enough suicide horror stories to know you’d be wrong to leave him anyway, after how you’ve just discovered him.

Was she visibly bleeding?

He doesn’t look like he’s about to call it quits.

On the contrary, he looks relaxed, calm, selfpossessed, sitting on the arm of the couch, one knee drawn up, cigarette dangling between fingers. Also his cock is out. He’s naked.

Has he already made up his mind?

How many times has he lain like that, in the snow, lucid about his slide into the abyss?

He finishes his cig and takes a knee by your feet. Your bare feet. You shouldn’t have taken off your shoes. They stink.

You try to tuck your feet under you, but he reaches out and grabs your ankle and tugs like you’re the baby.

“What happened to your leg?” you croak, your voice a little fraught.

His thumb keeps brushing up and down the arch of your foot, like trying to ease your tension. He leans back and looks down, past the leavening weight of his dick, to the navy bruise bloomed through the hairs just below his knee.

You watch that Cheshire cat smirk spread his mouth apart. “Violent tap dancer.”

You do kind of wish he wouldn’t do the whole slapping your pussy and calling you a good girl thing. It feels weird and Freudian and it even makes you feel kind of guilty.

Not because of his stupid uncut Jewish cock all swollen against his thigh, nor the virgin’s innards mangled in a manger at this very moment two thousand years ago. You know that’s not how you measure innocence. There’s something idiotic about that, something primeval and pathetic, something no one should be proud or ashamed of.

It’s just that he doesn’t seem fully committed to the pastiche.

He spits a thin globe of saliva right onto your clit. His fingers sweep through your coarsehaired folds. Slow, methodical, like a cartographer mapping the world with his compass and pen.

Then, he raises his fingers and strikes them down against you. You flinch, you whimper. He groans straight into you.

“Good girl. Good girl.”

And it's hot, sure, but he could stand to be crueler.

You’re this nice twentysomething with no real bearing on his life. You pray. You care. You wipe his sister's shit. He suspects he didn’t take your virginity, but he could easily imagine he did, if he wanted to. That he’s teaching you something. This could all be a lot more plastic and pornographic.

But it isn’t. Not really.

He climbs over you, all over you. He’s all over you like the flu. He wants to crawl inside of you, burrow and fester. His knee is pressed between your thighs and he’s breathing into your neck, his head tucked under your chin. His nose is the colour of raspberry syrup and he drags the cold tip of it up the column of your neck.

He smells like smoke and snow. Like sweat and musk and something stale and dry.

You crane your neck with a piercing cry when he bottoms out. He cracks your hips open like a lobster claw. You feel his fevered heartbeat thumping through your body. He seems to think the heat of your flesh is enough to warm and cure him.

“You’re going to catch a cold,” you slaver into his hair.

“I don’t get sick,” he assures you, puffing throatily. “I never get sick.”

He licks Saskia’s bathsalts from the swollen underside of your tits. You gather palmfuls of warm water and pour them over his freckled skin, watching it bloom florid. Are you clean now? Are you shameless? Has the stink gone? Sort of.

Maybe, for a second there.

But Christmas day seeps in like another reek. You feel bad when you catch whiff. You feel the stroke of midnight in your bones, and you think you can hear Carol of the Bells. You feel especially bad, because you’re holding onto his shoulders and fucking yourself on his unhewn cock, the bathwater swashing tepid around you. And he licks the silver crucifix in the dewy valley of your breasts into his mouth, and sucks on it, and looks at you like he’s trying to make a point. He sees you frown.

The pendant glints between his teeth as he says, “Don’t worry, He’s not paying attention. It’s His birthday.”

And you duck your head to laugh.

The water ripples. He wraps his arms around you in a halfway embrace, halfway detainment. You can tell he is worried you will find your morals and leave him cold.

But you won’t.

He’s big enough that he won’t just slip out of you, even in the water. You’re all steamdizzy, eyes halfmast. You watch rivulets of condensation dance down the tiling.

Are you really about to fall asleep on this man’s cock in his sister’s bathtub? Perhaps. There is something grounding about his heavy presence in all four corners of you. You feel that mollifying pressure in your head. Your hands scrabble and slip all over the skin of his shoulders. You kiss all these droplets off his skin.

“I think I’m about to throw up,” he whispers in your ear.

You pull back and sigh. He does look quite waxen and wheyfaced. You feel bad. You were starting to think that you alone could break the fever.

Your knee knocks against the tub. He has to tug himself out of you. He clambers out of the water, puddles splashing everywhere. He slumps to the ground like marmalade, his arms drape the toiletseat, his head in the bowl. Runnels drip off him and sop the bathmat. He spits and heaves. Then he retches. There is nothing solid to the bile. When was the last time he ate something? His viscera slops out of him and into the water. The gin scalds twice as sore on the way up. He sounds horrifying. His lips drip with mucus.

He feels your soft, moist flesh against his back. Your arms around his toned middle. You feel his ribcage tremble against you.

He feels the bone of your chin against the crown of his head.

Patrick knows this is all very repulsive. He's not sure why you're holding him. Maybe you're picturing a baby again.

“What would you get me for Christmas?” he murmurs, his heavy breath echoing around the toilet bowl.

You can smell his puke.

“Um— well... you know, Giselle actually—”

“No,” he grunts stubbornly. “I mean, if you could get me anything, what would you get me?”

“I don’t know,” you say, pressing your wet breasts against his wet back. The humidity is starting to disperse, the trickles cooling off. You do get sick. You get sick quite frequently, actually. This will definitely make you sick. He’ll be gone soon enough, and that’s probably for the best, but who will hold you in your ailing?

“Come on, babe.”

You drag your fingertips down the hair on his abs until you reach the thatch between his legs. “I don’t know… A hot stone massage?”

And it’s cruel and stupid and funny—it’s something only a few people would ever understand. He and Art and Sas and Tash and you. Maybe Lili, one day.

You and Patrick burst into laughter at the same time. He chuckles until he’s wheezing. The sound of it catches in his throat like a fishbone. This is what constitutes a happy moment for him.

“That’s perfect,” he mumbles into the shitter.

140 notes · View notes

ursuburbanmother · 8 months ago

Text

I’m On Fire, But I’m Trying Not to Show It || Chapter One

Pairing: Angus Tully x fem!Reader

Summary: You and Angus have been best friends since you were little children. Now in high school the only thing that separates you is a lake between both your schools. Due to what was describe by your headmaster as "Unfortunate circumstances due to chance, and poor planning on our part," you are forced to stay at the Barton Academy for the holidays with the company of your best friend or maybe more.

a/n: hi guys! I’m new so try to be kind to me lol. Anyways this is probably not very good. It’s slow paced cause I wanted to establish their friendship. Not sure where this is going so if you have any suggestions let me know! Also not grammar or beta read so…

Word Count: 3k

Find: Part 2 Part 3 Part 4

Enjoy!

December 17th, 1970

You hadn’t spoken to your parents in months. You figured they would call or write a letter or something. In October they wished you a speedy little, “Happy Halloween,” before hanging up. You could hear the loud party in the background. Always the socialites, they were probably eager to get back to enjoying themselves by downing flutes of champagne and appetizers. Now it was December, and you had not received a peep from either. When the holiday plans form was passed out to the girls of your boarding school at the end of November, you ignored it. Then the deadline came, and you hastily checked off the box that said, ‘Plan to stay on campus.’

Your parents hadn’t called to dispute it and now you’re stuck at mass, sitting in a pew, watching other happy families and their daughters anxiously waiting to leave. You wondered if there was still a way for you to get away. Your friend, really only friend, Angus Tully was headed to St. Kitts and with him gone, your only true escape was gone. If he knew you were stuck holding over, he would beg his parents to take you, but you knew it would be too much of an imposition, so you kept that fact secret.

Life had always seemed to throw you two together. Even at the age where cooties were still a very legitimate fear. Born in the same snobby Boston neighborhood you two were often the only kids at your parent's parties. You remember that humid night on the Fourth of July when you had met the lanky boy with a mess of brown curls. The fireworks had begun to go off and everyone wore white dresses and suits. You had become restless and started to wander the halls of your home aimlessly. Streamers of blue, red and white hung from the ceiling and servers walked around passing out sparklers.

You found him on the patio. He tugged, annoyed, at his tie. Your own dress was stifling in the heat and for a pair of seven-year-olds, you found the best solution to your ailment was to jump into the shallow end of the pool.

“I’ll do it, if you do it,” you had promised under the hum of cicadas and floating fireflies.

“Deal,” you shook hands.

The water was cold and clear. You swam around for a while, splashing each other and playing Marco Polo. It was at the same time your mother had decided to move the party outside so people could watch the lights in the sky a bit better. You two were pulled out of the pool and shook like wet dogs.

Livid, your parents fed you the line all parents wait to say to their troublesome child, “If your friend jumped off a bridge, would you?” You decided at that moment that yes, you would.

After that you two were inseparable. Because when you're a kid all you need is one single act of solidarity to devote your life to someone. Throughout elementary school you were practically fused to one another. You’d exclude people from your game of hopscotch and eat lunch in secret nooks. When you two were headed to high school your parents enrolled you in a posh all-girl boarding school and Angus to some prep school in another rural part of Massachusetts. Phone calls rang long. You remember the groans you would get from other girls who would give up trying to use the payphone. At some point you had run out of quarters and so to save money you had begun writing letters. Angus being Angus, he’d write as if he was off at war and the letters were the last things keeping him sane.

You knew he never enjoyed school but after he was kicked out from his first preparatory, then his second and third, you had turned into a scolding mother.

“What are you going to do now?”

“Die if I’m lucky, shave my head at Fork Union if not.”

“I want to go to college with you Angus. If not college then I at least want to be able to be an adult with you. One with a diploma so we can get easy jobs as regional salespeople or something,” you mumbled, twirling the phone cord around with your finger.

“You really thought this out,” he laughed.

“I’m serious, Augie.” You heard him sigh across the line.

“Okay. I’ll do better. No screw ups next time.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

When he was sent to Barton, your sister school, you couldn’t have been more excited. It was a short walk away; you could see it from across the lake that separated you. Your mom had been the one to call you about the change. She said his mother thought having him near you would make him less fussy. Something about you being the good influence he needs. You doubted that yet bit your tongue, knowing it would create more trouble than anything. Now it had been over a year and Angus had kept his word. When the opportunity arose for you to meet up, you would take it. Football games or talent shows, you were there. To anyone outside, it would have appeared as though you two just held a lot of school spirit. Like that beach boy's song.

“Be true to your school now,” you’d sing into Angus' ear.

He’d roll his eyes but always join in, “just like you would to your girl or guy.”

“Rah-rah-rah-rah sis boom bah! I love that part!” You’d giggle.

He’d try to hide his smile, but you could always tell. He’d put his arm around your shoulder and say, “Yeah okay.”

…

Once you were dismissed from mass you sighed and trudged all the way back through the snow to your dorm building. Having it so empty was eerie, you could hear your own footsteps echoing down the halls. You made your way into the common room to wait for Ms. Orchard.

She was meant to be your babysitter for the next few weeks. She was your Renaissance literature teacher. Ms. Orchard was nice but on the older side, which meant she was traditional. You often thought she would be better suited to be a Home Economics teacher if she was so invested in being ladylike.

You sat in the corner of the couch and opened a book. Minutes passed and it seemed obvious no one was coming to join you. Not even Mrs. Orchard. She probably broke a hip trying to make her way back in the snow.

“Ms. Orchard has broken a hip while walking in the snow,” the door suddenly bursts open hitting the side of the wall so hard it shakes the room.

“What?” Your mouth drops at the news. Shit, had you jinxed it?

Your Dean, Mr. Jameson says as he walks in, covered in snowflakes. “Yup. She slipped on ice on the way here. By the parking lot. Didn’t you hear the ambulance?”

“Uh… no?”

“Hmm,” he hummed, looking around the room, “where are the other girls?”

“I think it’s just me sir.”

“Ah, right. Well that makes this easier. You’ll be spending your Christmas break at Barton. Now, it’s awfully last minute so we hope they take you. Why don’t you go get your bag ready and-,”

“Hold on. Barton the boys' school?” You could almost gag at the idea. No offense to Angus, but you could remember the endless horror stories he would tell you of life in a boys' school. The air always smelled weird, and cleanliness was the least of their worries. “Isn’t there somebody to replace Ms. Orchard?”

“This place cleared out thirty minutes ago, Ms. L/n,” he said, “And I have a family to get back to.”

“But-, I just-, isn't there a rule against this or something?”

“I have no doubt that the teacher supervisor there will ensure you have a safe, jolly time Ms. L/n.”

“But I-,”

“That’s enough. I understand this is an unprecedented situation, but the only alternative would be to leave you here alone and that just is not going to happen. Please Ms. L/n, make this easy for everyone.” With his hand he motioned towards the door.

“Fine,” you gritted out. You got off the couch and went to your room. You half-heartedly crammed anything you could into your suitcase. Some shirts, sweaters and pants. You ran out of space and resorted to carrying your books in your hands along with your potted plant. You felt bad leaving your lavender to just sit and wilt, so you took her with you.

“I made a few calls. Everything should work out. You all settled then?” Mr. Jameson said once you had made your way back to the common room. Nodding with a tight-lipped smile you headed out. You two could have walked but apparently, he was in a hurry to catch a six o’clock flight and you ended up taking his car.

It was a short drive and with reluctance you made your way inside the school. “Come on. Put a pep in your step,” Mr. Jameson clapped.

He navigated you around. You had only been in the main building, never the dorms. Blindly you let him guide you until you found yourself in a room with four other boys and Angus. Angus who was supposed to be half-way to the airport by now. His sulky face shifted into one of shock. You took a step towards him only to be stopped by your dean's arm in front of you. The other guys were looking at you with mouths wide open. It was like their eyes were about to fall out of their sockets. You grumbled, not knowing what else to do.

Mr. Jameson took the lead, “Mr. Hunham? Correct?” He outstretched his hand for him to shake. Hesitantly the older man took it.

“What’s the meaning of this,” he pointed between Mr. Jameson and you.

“Unfortunate circumstances due to chance, and poor planning on our part. This is Ms. Y/n L/n. Come introduce yourself.”

“I’m Y/n L/n,” you shrugged, looking at Angus for guidance. In unison they all say hello.

“Can we speak in private,” Mr. Jameson asked.

“Alright,” Mr. Hunham says, “no funny business,” he gives a pointed look to the boys.

The two teachers leave, and you quickly move to Angus to encapsulate him in a quick hug.

“What the hell? What are you doing here?”

“Funny, I was going to ask the same thing.”

“What the hell Angus. You have a girlfriend?” A blonde boy with a red tie says as his eyes scan your figure. You shift uncomfortably at the action. “A smoking one too…”

“Shut it Kountze, you’re catching flies,” Angus scoffs.

The door creaks open as both gentlemen return from their brief chat. You and Angus move away from each other like you were caught doing something wrong.

“It seems we will be extending you an invitation to Ms. L/n,” Mr. Hunham says, “you okayed this with Woodrup?” He verifies again with Dean Jameson.

“Yes, it’s all settled. We at Janie Patrick’s School thank you. We owe you one,” he turns to you, “goodbye L/n, you’re in good hands.”

He was halfway through the door when Mr. Hunham cleared his throat obnoxiously loudly. “As I was saying, we will be following a standard school schedule.”

“Uh, sir? We’re on vacation.” Kountze points out.

“Which means we’ll be taking our meals together. And you will observe regular hours of study.”

“Are you kidding me?”

“The Peloponnesian War awaits, Mr. Kountze, you and Mr. Tully. The rest of you can get a jump on next semester. It’ll pay off. You’ll see.”

“We’re already holding over, and now we’re being punished for it?” Angus says bitterly and on fast reflex you rub his arm comfortingly. Mr. Hunham is just as fast to notice.

“Oh no, no, no. Do not tell me this is your girlfriend Mr. Tully.”

“Wh-what. No! We’re just friends.”

“Yeah, we were born on the same street!”

“I do not intend to break apart your romantic escapades all break long.”

“We. Are. Just. Friends,” Angus reaffirms, venom on his tongue. You could see the blush rising on his pale cheeks. You could feel your own as well.

“Mhm,” Hunham hums skeptically, his gaze lingers on you two for a second before glancing back at his clipboard, “Alright… You will be afforded limited windows for recreation and supervised physical activity.”

“The gyms are not even open yet.”

“Yeah, they only lacquered half the floor,” another boy points out, this one has long blonde hair that reaches his shoulders.

“Fresh air will do you good,” says Hunham.

“It’s like 15 degrees outside.”

“And the Romans bathed naked in the freezing Tiber. Adversity builds character Mr. Tully. Uh, speaking of which, the school will be cutting heat to dormitories and faculty housing and so we’ll all be bunking in the infirmary. With separate accommodations for Ms. L/n of course.”

They all groan. You're just upset. You had thought you would spend the next two weeks avoiding Ms. Orchard and lying to Angus about your whereabouts while he admiringly described the beaches of St. Kitts to you over postcards. Although you supposed it wasn’t all bad. You could spend more time with him, under the watchful glare of Angus' teacher of course.

Together you all get ready to haul your things to the infirmary before being stopped by Mr. Hunhams tsking in disapproval.

“You philistines are just going to let the lady carry her own things? I’m sorry to see Barton has failed in ingraining a sense of chivalry into you.”

“Oh no, it’s alright really, I can do it,” you protest but they all scramble to help you anyway. “Can I carry your suitcase Y/n?” Kountze says, in an odd way, that was meant to be suggestive.

“Okay Kountze, piss off,” Tully pushes him away, leaning down slightly to get your things, “let’s go.” He walks quickly out the door, leaving the rest of you to follow him.

As you are slapped in the face by the harsh winds you curse the idiots at your school who refused to let you wear pants. You were forced to put on double the tights and your warmest coat. It did not do anything to aid you and your shivering made that clear. It was like they wanted to torture you when the boys stopped halfway down the quad and in front of a truck. You're still holding your books so it's not like you can rub your arms to help you out a little. They were complaining about Hunham, who they so endearingly nicknamed “Walleye.”

“Hey, guys, hold up for a second,” Angus tells the young kids in front of you. He sets his, and your things, down on the grimy paved road. He searched through his pockets and lit a cigarette. “Want one?” he asks you and Kountze.

“No. I got something else. Give me that,” he grabs the lighter from him and sparks a joint.

“Hey, don’t smoke that out here. I don't want to get busted by Walleye.”

“Don’t be such a pussy,”

“I’m not a pussy, I just don't want to end up at Fork Union paying for your mistake.”

He ignores Angus and instead turns his attention to you instead, “You're not like a total priss right?”

You shake your head. At least you didn’t think you were.

“Alright,” he smirks and stretches his hand out for you to shake, “Teddy Kountze.”

“Nice to meet you,” you say. The other unnamed boy is the next to greet you.

“Jason Smith.”

“We know who you are. You want to hit this,” Teddy offers the jock the joint.

Jason scans his surroundings before agreeing, “Uh, yeah.”

“You got a great arm man,” he compliments,

“Yeah, well, it’s just football.”

“How’d you get stuck holding over?”

“I’m supposed to be skiing with my folks up at Haystack, but my dad put his foot down. Said I can’t come home unless I cut my hair.”

“So why don’t you cut your hair?

“Civil disobedience, man.”

“I dig that,” you comment. “You know that when they tried to cut that tree between our schools, I organized the tree-sitting.”

“Holy shit that was you? Figured it was some hippies from Boston,” Teddy snickers.

“Nope. I sat in that tree for hours, drinking from water bottles that Angus tossed up to us.”

“Did it work?” Jason wonders.

“For now, yeah.”

“Awesome…. But no, he’s cool. It’s just a battle of wills. Still, I was hoping he’d cave first, because the powder up at Haystack is so sweet right now.”

“What about you, Mr. Moto? Why are you here?” Teddy asks one of the first-year boys.

He appears embarrassed to be singled out, “No, my name is Ye-Joon. My family is in Korea, and they think it’s too far for me to travel alone.”

“I figured it was because your rickshaw was broken,�� Teddy laughs to himself. Angus didn’t exaggerate when she said this guy was a jerk.

“What a rickshaw?”

Angus intervenes, “You’re an asshole, Kountze. Your mind’s a cesspool and a shallow one at that.”

“Who’s the asshole Tully? You’re the one who blew up history.” Jason notices the tension and brings the group's conversation back to the freshman.

“What’s your story man?”

“Alex Ollerman. I’m here because my parents are on a mission in Paraguay. We’re LDS. “Mormons, right?” Alex nods yes.

“Don’t you guys wear some kind of magic underwear?” It's like Teddy loves to hear himself talk, you think.

“Common misconception. Actually, it’s called a temple garment, and we’re only supposed to wear it when-.”

“Hey, what's with the townies?” Kountze spots two men emerging from the chapel with a large, heavy green tree in their grasp.

“Hey, what are you doing with our Christmas tree?” Angus shouts, tapping you on the shoulder in a way that says can you believe this?

“The school sold it back to us. Scotch pine, still fresh.” The stranger shouts back.

“Yeah, we’re going to put it back on the lot. We do it every year.”

“This is the most bullshit ever.”

The boys put out their separate smokes much to the relief of Alex and Ye-Joon. You fall behind the rest of them and Angus naturally finds his place next to yours. You stroll in silence until he decides to break the ice.

“You going to tell me what happened?”

“You tell me first. You were so excited to go on vacation.”

“One word. Stanley.”

You grimace, knowing what that means. “Shit. I’m sorry.”

“It’s whatever. They want to spend their honeymoon forgetting my existence then they can do just that. I’m almost an adult anyway. Then I can go anywhere I want anytime.”

“Is that what Judy said?”

“That was the bullshit excuse, yes.”

“Hey, you got me though. We’ll make this fun.”

“We have no tree, Hunham will be breathing down our back, and Kountze hasn’t stopped ogling at you since you arrived. Does that sound like the perfect Christmas to you?”

You laugh softly, “Ignore Hunham and Kountze. As for the tree, we could always Charlie Brown it. What do you think the lavender is here for?” You shake your plant a little. The purple bush sways in the wind.

He smiles, “Yeah… It’s not a bad little tree,” he begins to quote.

“Maybe it just needs a little love,” you say together and break into a fit of giggles.

#angus tully #the holdovers #angus tully x reader #i love this movie #reader insert

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mypoisonedvine · 8 months ago

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the dinner party series masterlist (18+ ONLY)

series warnings include SMUT (minors dni), age gap, angst, infidelity, and drug use. read individual chapter warnings as well!

total series word count is just under 18k

part I: 𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐧𝐞𝐫 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐲 // part II: 𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐧𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐞𝐫 // part III: 𝐬𝐩𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐛𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐤

#angus tully x reader #angus tully smut #dominic sessa #the holdovers fanfic

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kolsmikaelson · 9 months ago

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opening up requests for angus tully <3

#angus tully #angus tully x reader #the holdovers #the holdovers x reader

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yellowjackets96 · 9 months ago

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the way you do the things you do / angus tully x reader — part one

summary / chaos is only natural when barton's resident misfit strikes up a bond with the middle child of the school's most despised instructor.

warnings / none

word count / 1,300+

hii! this one goes out to the very wise anon who suggested a plot revolving around angus and mr. hunham's kid, which, i must say, is an utterly brilliant concept. however, it turned out to be a lot longer than just a mere one-shot like my first one had been, so it'll probably end up being two or three parts. i hope that's okay, lovely anon. thank you for sharing your brilliance with me!

Moreso than anything else, the relationship between the two of you started as an agreement. Well, an unspoken one, but an agreement nonetheless. Somebody had to look out for the two of you, on equal footing as outliers, as social rejects, as the odd men out. No one could be better for that role than you yourselves.

To your utter dismay, ever since your parents made the decision to ship you off to Barton Academy in order to get you “the best education available” for high school (which was made possible by your father’s half-off tuition staff discount), you found yourself under a level of scrutiny that you never once faced at your old public junior high. It was not your intention to be perceived as the offspring of the most hated man there, either, but word travels quicker than a deer crossing the road at Barton. A concept introduced to the dean on a Sunday morning ends up widely-understood knowledge by a Monday evening. You’d already been written off as the ‘spawn of Satan’ before you even started your first class. Tough fuckin’ luck.

On the other hand, Angus’s isolation was entirely self-imposed. Following several years of what his mother had promised would be a “short-lived maintenance phase,” he became fed up with the entire process — the constant shifting and forced socialization and paperwork and meetings with headmasters. Lather, rinse, repeat, over and over until he felt utterly insane. He grew to resist society’s forced conditioning of him, lashing out the only way he knew how, through acts of adolescent rebellion. Due to how much you contrast from your stickler father, you eventually saw eye to eye with Angus on this. Once you had finally worn him down to the point of dragging a tragic backstory out of him, you understood why, because, of course no teenager could possibly be interested in the art of befriending their peers and engrossing themselves in a community at their third consecutive school.

But it didn’t start off too swimmingly.

He entered your life on the strangest day of the week, during the least-interesting possible time of year — a Thursday in late February. You learned of his arrival through the grapevine, mere hours before you first saw him. Perched at a seat towards the very corner of the dining hall, you had become increasingly intrigued by the nearby nonstop chatter from a group populated by Georgie Jackson, Philip McNamara, Billy Wolfe, and Teddy Kountze, a rare sight in the seven o’clock breakfast setting, which was typically chock full of half-dead, completely exhausted teenagers.

“You wanna bet it’s gonna be another freak?” Teddy had grumbled, shaking his head dismissively at something optimistic Georgie must have said. “They’re half the school, at this point.”

He not-so-transparently nodded towards you, earning him in-sync laughs from the more agreeable Philip and Billy, and a halfhearted head shake from Georgie. “Christ, dude. And you wonder why we’re the only kids who tolerate you.”

Teddy threw his hands up defensively. “Hey, I’m just sayin’! We could benefit from someone actually cool and fun.”

“God, could you imagine how cool a girl would be?” Billy daydreamed, practically drooling.

The shaggy-haired blonde smirked. “You’re telling me. That’s all I wanted since I first enrolled here. Would be nice if old man Woodrup would do what the student body actually wants, for once.”

“Instead,” Philip piped up, wearing a dejected pouty frown. “I’m hearing this guy got kicked outta three different schools.”

Your curiosity piqued, you finally jumped in, against your better judgment. “What could possibly get a teenage boy tossed from not one, not two, but three schools? That sounds utterly ridiculous.”

The energy sufficiently changed as Teddy shot you a poisonous glare, you watched the trio of his small-time henchmen sink into their seats, seemingly anxious at how angry you were about to make him. His scrunched-up face twisted into a confident smirk, like he was one-thousand percent confident he could ensure you would never speak to him again. “What’s it to you, Walleye Jr.? You think I’d lie about some shit like that? Would you tell your daddy if I did?”

A scoff escaping your throat, you leaned back into your seat, slightly dejected. “Well, no, but-”

“That’s what I thought,” Teddy said, his lackeys chuckling in unison, practically on cue. “And you wonder why you don’t have any friends, loser.”

Just like that, enforced unnecessary social hierarchy had left you right back where you were before, with more questions than you could ever get proper answers for.

Once lunch period rolled around, you figured you may as well not try your luck again.

Wrapping a gentle fist against the surface of your father’s door, you barely had to stand by for more than a few moments before he greeted you, the smile that he saved for you and the rest of your family plastered across his cheeks as he slung an arm across your shoulder, pulling you into a casual hug. Due to the academy’s policy of teacher’s children not being allowed to take their parent’s classes to avoid favoritism, you no longer spent time with him every day as you typically did with your mother back home. The reunion was definitely something you had been yearning for since you last saw him, even though it must have been no less than a week ago last Sunday. For the first time in far too long, something at Barton brought joy back to you.

“How have you been, sweetheart?” your father asked, his reading glasses bouncing slightly on the bridge of his nose as he sat back down at his desk. He pointed to the chair on the other end of it, offering it to you. You gladly accepted, tugging the seat out and sliding into it.

You shrugged at the question, trying not to pay Kountze and his gang of blockheads too much mind. “Fine. Haven’t really done anything too notable or special.”

“Well, hey,” he offered, sliding a sheet labeled roll call across the desk to you. “Maybe this’ll brighten your spirits, despite how much the prospect of it annoys me.”

As soon as he finishes speaking, you instantly know what he was referring to, your eyes catching on the highlighted name sandwiched between Neil Sweeney and Todd Wedderling, bearing an emboldened word next to it — Angus Tully (NEW). And then, like it were on cue, the door behind the two of you swung open, revealing the sight of an instantly-enrapturing bearer of deeply brown eyes.

“Ah, Mr. Tully,” your father remarked, rising from the desk to greet him. “What a coincidence. I was just introducing them to you.”

Angus snorted. “All good things, I hope.”

“You’ve yet to prove us otherwise,” the older man quipped, before quickly turning toward you. “This is my middle child, the one Dr. Woodrup told you about. They’re a sophomore like you, so even though you won’t be in my class together, I’m sure you’ll be seeing a lot of each other.”

Picking up on the hint, you offer the other teenager a hand, which he casually shakes. “Pleasure to meet you, Angus.”

The brunette offered a crooked half-smile, enough to draw one out of you, too. “Nice to meet you as well.” Everything about him seemed natural — the way he didn’t force his grin, the warmth of his palm, the distinct waviness of his mud-shaded curls. This school left you perpetually surrounded by well-off jackasses, standing where they were currently placed via generational wealth, rather than strength and perseverance, working off of their own merits as your father had. Not to say that Tully was dissimilar in that manner, but he just felt so distinctly different, like he was not even trying to cultivate a phony persona in the effort of impressing others. If only everyone were like him. Maybe Barton would be bearable after all.

#angus tully x reader #angus tully #the holdovers 2023 #ziggy writes shit #lyric from the AMAZING temptations song #go stream that if you haven't!#anon request

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deathmybride · 7 months ago

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*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧ a hazy shade of winter | angus tully *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

Part 1 | Part 2

ship: Angus Tully x fem!OC

warnings: Angus is literally so mean, but he's like that in the movie anyways.

summary: Carol's parents send her to spend the winter break with her uncle at Barton Academy, and a certain curly-haired boy takes an immediate (dis)liking to her.

word count: 2790

a/n: I watched the Holdovers like 2 nights ago and I’m obsessed with it now so here’s this! Maybe a second chapter coming?

Misery. Absolute fucking misery. That’s all Angus could see for the foreseeable future. Just an ocean of black, sticky misery, stretching out to the horizon in every direction. As he settled his bony rear on the hard edge of the ping-pong table and listened to Hunham gleefully dole out their sentences, he thought he would vomit any moment, or drop dead. He kind of hoped he would. He scoured his eyes over the pitiful creatures he’d be bunking with this winter break; two little boys: a religious fanatic and a foreign exchage student, the school’s star quaterback, and fucking Kountze. Five little Christmas orphans. Angus would blame karma, if he believed in that hippy-dippy shit. The most unbelievably unfair part of all this was that he wouldn’t even be able to jack off in peace since all five of them would be bunking in rooms one and two of the infirmary, with Hunham in room four. God knows why they couldn’t use room three, but Hunham seemed determined to avoid any questions pertaining to that.

Just when he thought his holiday couldn’t get any worse, the girl arrived. She skittered in like a mouse, out of breath, red-faced and shaking like a handbag dog. Six little Christmas orphans.

“Ah, you’re here.” Hunham extended his hand welcomingly, and gestured to her to step forward.

She crept over, giving the ping-pong table and couch full of boys a wide berth, then nervously shook Hunham’s hand and scuttled away to sit on the floor and tuck her knees up under the frumpy men’s jumper that swallowed her whole, like a turtle retreating into a shell. She waved at the five of them, cherry lips curling into a tight smile.

“Is that a girl?” Kountze said, loudly.

“Indeed, it is. Students, this is Miss Carol Hunham, my niece. She will be joining us at Barton for the winter break.”

“Teddy Kountze.” The little freak said, practically falling over himself to shake her hand. He looked ridiculous crouching there beside her like he was about to accost a rabbit at a petting zoo. If brown-nosing was a sport, he’d be a world classer. “Wonderful to meet you. If you need a tour guide, come to me. I know this place like the back of my hand.”

She nodded in thanks, regarding him with huge puppydog eyes. Angus thought she must be dumb or tongueless. Five-foot-nothing, wearing unfashionably tapered plaid pants and Chelsea boots that were all the rage a decade ago, huge turtle-shell glasses that made her brown eyes bulge out of her head like a salmon… the only cool thing about her was her dirty blonde shag haircut, but even that came across as trying too hard. With that, and those round cheeks and fat mushroom of a nose, Angus was almost unsurprised to hear she was related to Wall-Eye. Almost.

“You’ll be taking her nowhere without a chaperone, Mr Kountze. Now, gentlemen, and lady, off you go to the infirmary building.” Hunham’s one good eye roved over the room, then settled on Angus. “Mr Tully.” He addressed him in his weasley way, voice dripping with schadenfreude. "Be a gentleman and help Miss Hunham take her bags to room three."

Now it made sense why they'd been forced to leave it empty. The little fuck had a whole room to herself.

"I'm not a gentleman." He responded, insolently as possible.

"Then play the part."

"Fine." The ping-pong table screeched backwards as he stood up, grabbed his case and stormed over to the girl who leaped to her feet, eyeing him warily as he marched her out of the room and collected one of her ridiculously heavy suitcases and set off outside with the puppy in tow.

"Um." She began, her voice a pathetic whimper. "I'm Carol Hunham."

"I heard."

"And you?"

"Angus Tully. Are you deaf or something?"

"He d-didn't say your first name." Angus grunted in response. "So, you're- you're holding over?"

"What?" The question was so insipid it made him stop in his tracks and gawk at her. "Of course I'm holding over! Are you stupid?"

"Sorry." She whispered, averting her eyes. Angus felt a rush of regret as her lip trembled, but he swallowed it and marched on.

The air was biting cold, and Angus wished he had two jackets on- or better yet, a hot-blooded model on each arm- but unfortunately he was stuck between this girl making goo-goo eyes at Kountze and her machiavellian gargoyle of an uncle. As the rest of them caught up, his simmering rage suddenly bubbled over and he broke the silence in a voice thick with hatred.

“This is the most bullshit ever! If we have to stay, why’d we have to draw Wall-eye?”

“Uh, y’know he used to be a student, right?” Quaterback drawled.

“Yeah, that’s why he knows how to inflict maximum pain on us, the sadistic fuck.”

“Yeah.” Quaterback agreed with a giggly laugh. “I mean, no offence Hunham, but your uncle sucks.”

“I don’t know him.” The girl had retreated to the fringe of the group, and when she spoke up her voice didn’t command much attention.

“At least we didn’t draw Decker, he’d be perving all over us.” Kountze sidled up alongside her and let his arm brush against her. “And we wouldn’t have Carol here with us.”

Angus rolled his eyes, but felt vindicated when he noticed her pull away from him, almost fearfully.

“Hey, guys, hold up for a second.” Angus leaned up against the pickup at the side of the road and lit up a cigarette, eager to relieve all this tension.

“No, I got something else.” Kountze pulled out a stinking doobie and gestured for his lighter. “Gimme that.”

“Hey, don’t smoke that out here.” He chided. “I don’t wanna get busted by Wall-eye.”

“Don’t be such a pussy.”

“I’m not a pussy.” Angus felt his blood pressure rise. “I just don’t want to get up at Fork Union paying for your mistake.”

Kountze didn’t bother responding, just blew out a fat drag and smiled in satisfaction.

“Teddy Kountze.” He said, offering the joint to Quaterback and trying to sling an arm around Carol but she sidestepped him to Angus’s amusement.

“Jason Smith.” Quaterback responded with a sickeningly charismatic smile.

“Yeah, I know who you are.” Fucking bootlicker. “You wanna hit this?”

He cast a glance up the road, but Wall-eye was nowhere to be seen. “Uh, yeah.”

He took a puff and offered it to Carol.

“No, thanks.” She held up her mittened hand. “I-I hear pot can give you the heebie-jeebies.”

“The heebie-jeebies.” Jason repeated, grinning. “Cute.”

She was sort of cute- Angus begrudgingly admitted now that he’d seen her up close- in that pitiful way that those fucked up little pug-dogs are cute. He wondered if she had asthma. Besides, it’s not like he cared. At least, if somebody like her could be cute, maybe he was too, with his hawkish nose, narrow eyes, five o’clock shadow, gangly limbs, scraggly hair… No, that’s ridiculous. Unless… He wondered if she thought he was.

“It’s mellow stuff, babe.” Kountze assured her.

She blushed and shook her head, then turned her massive obsidian orbs to Angus.

“C-can I…?”

He sighed heavily, arranging his face into a scowl before he handed over the cigarette. She took a dainty puff, then handed it back. He took a drag himself, savouring the knowledge that his lips were touching the same place that a girl’s had just rested.

“More?” He offered it back.

“No, thanks. I don’t really… y’know.”

“‘Course you don’t.” He scoffed and stuffed it back in his mouth. “Such a pristine girl, I bet you never did anything wrong in your life.”

Flushing, she averted her eyes.

“So, how’d you get stuck holding over?” Kountze queried, his demeanor forced casual.

“I’m supposed to be skiing with my folks up at Haystack,” Jason said cheerfully. “But my dad put his foot down, said I can’t come home unless I cut my hair.”

“So why don’t you just cut your hair?” Angus snorted, feeling a fresh rush of anger. How could you throw away a perfectly good winter break just because you’re sentimentally attached to your godamn freak flag?

“Civil disobedience, man.” He grinned.

“I dig it.” Carol spoke up suddenly. “Conformity is a dangerous thing.”

“See, she gets it.” Jason put his arm around her shoulder.

“You like Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young?” Her blonde lashes fluttered as she gazed up at him. Angus could have puked all over the sidewalk, and Kounze looked like he might actually do it.

“Man, I love ‘em!”

“Almost Cut My Hair?”

“My anthem.” He nodded solemnly. “That album was my whole life last summer.”

“Neat.”

Angus noticed her head tilt to rest on his shoulder as he offered her the joint. This time she took it, allowing herself a long drag. He gritted his teeth and fought off the urge to deck that filthy hippy then and there.

“Anyway,” Jason waved his hand, as if clearing the conversational slate. “My dad’s cool. It’s just a battle of wills. Still, I was kinda hoping he’d cave first, because the powder up at Haystack is so sweet right now.”

Jason’s hand made its way into Carol’s hair, curling a lock of it around his finger. Angus’s fist closed involuntarily while Kountze’s eyes narrowed as he looked around, lip slightly curled in frustration.

“What about you, Mr Moto?” He said, locking onto his target. “Why are you here?”

“Uh, no. My name is Ye-Joon.” The boy explained innocently. “Uh, my family is in Korea, and they think it’s too far for me to travel alone.”

“I figured it was because your rickshaw was broken.” Kountze laughed and looked around for approval, to which he found none.

“Uh, wh-what’s a rickshaw?” Ye-Joon seemed genuinely baffled.

“You’re an asshole, Kountze.” Angus said darkly. “Your mind’s a cesspool, and a shallow one at that.”

“Who’s the asshole, Tully?” He sneered back. “You’re the one who blew up history.”

“Hey.” Jason held out his hand gently, then turned to the other kid. “What’s your story, man?”

“Alex Ollerman.” He responded, his voice stronger than the other boy’s. All that faith in a higher power, I guess. “I’m here because my parents are on a mission in Paraguay. We’re LDS.”

“Mormons, right?” The kid nodded proudly.

“Don’t you guys wear some kind of, like, magic underwear?” Kountze gawped.

“That’s a common misconception.” Alex began. It seemed he had all his bases covered, and he turned to address the Korean kid too, as if he might convince someone to join. “Actually, it’s called a temple garment, and we’re only supposed to wear it when we-”

“Hey, what’s up with the townies?” Kountze interrupted, already distracted by something shiny. Angus was mildly relieved he wouldn’t be hearing any more panty-talk- he’d had quite enough for one day, what with his bathing suit and all- but, his relief quickly turned to annoyance when he noticed the two men coming down the road, hauling a Christmas tree between them.

“Hey!” He hollered. “What are you doing with our Christmas tree?”

“The school sold it back to us.” One of them responded. “Scotch pine, still fresh.”

“Yeah, we’re gonna put it back in the lot.” The other explained. “We do it every year.”

Angus turned back to the group and shook his head darkly.

“This is the most bullshit ever.”

______________________________

Angus didn’t think he’d ever be so happy to be in the infirmary, but when they stepped into the heated building, he might have sighed in relief if he wasn't in such a black mood. His arms absolutely caned from carrying that stupid suitcase, and Kountze had been smack talking the whole way up the hill. He thought the only thing worse than bunking with the two kids would be sleeping in with Kountze while he tries to tickle Jason’s balls. He’d much prefer to cosy up in the girl’s room, irritating as her face may be. He abandoned his luggage outside room two and hauled Carol’s down the hallway while she pattered along at his heels.

"Why do you need two cases, anyway?" He sneered, stealing the comfort of silence. "You can't have that much shit to carry."

"It's-" She paused and cleared her throat. "Well... well, why should I tell you, huh? You're- you're-"

"What? An asshole? A jerk? A philistine, as your mole uncle says? Y’know, I'm pretty sure there's a faculty rule against targeted insults towards pupils."

"You're mean." She admitted in a small voice. "And I don't know why."

"Yeah, well get used to it sweetheart. Just wait till Kountze gets over your gyno-gimmick and starts treating you like he does everyone else, you'll be begging for 'mean.' And by the way, you’re just antagonising him by hanging all over Jason all the time.”

“What’s Jason got to do with it?” She snapped, raising her voice for the first time.

“Aw, I hit a nerve, huh?” He delighted in watching her face turn scarlet.

"Y-y'know, when you stood up for Ye-Joon earlier, I thought you might actually be cool. I'm disappointed."

She said nothing else, just ducked her head and ran ahead to open the door for him. Baffled, he barged past her and dumped the suitcase on the nearest bed.

“Thanks.” She whispered.

"Why are you even here, anyway?" He rounded on her, suddenly tired of the way she let him walk all over her. "I mean, other than to ruin the ambience with that hideous sweater-"

That did it. She let out a choking sob and made for the door.

"Hey, hey wait!" He flailed out his long limbs and caught her around the arm, but she wrenched herself from his grip and made off down the hall, away from Hunham and the other boys to Angus' relief. "Carol, wait I didn't mean it."

She didn’t respond, just sped off and careened around the corner. Angus caught up just in time to see the door of the broom closet swing shut. He clucked his tongue and sat down on the hard floor outside, feeling a wave of disgust as he listened to quiet weeping. Gently, he rapped the door with his knuckles.

“Carol?”

“Go away.”

“Carol, I’m sorry.”

“Go away!”

He paused for a moment, and considered his options.

“Your sweater isn’t actually ugly, by the way. I was just ribbing you, y’know? Horseplay?”

“No.” She said firmly, voice muffled through the wood. “No, I know ribbing and that wasn’t it. Y-you were being cruel, and you wanted to see me cry, I know it.”

“What? No!”

“You enjoy it, don’t you? You’re so miserable, the only fun left for you is making everyone else feel as wretched as you.”

He swallowed thickly, feeling a lump of shame coating his Adam’s apple. He took another long moment to collect himself. He resented how easily she read him, but if he wanted to keep her from finking, he’d have to choose his words carefully, and eat a large portion of his pride.

“It’s true.” His stomach roiled in revulsion as he grovelled to her. “I’m sore about holding over, and I wanted to take it out on someone, and you looked like easy pickings. I’m brash, I’m rude, I hate everyone including myself, and I make it everyone else’s problem.”

She paused her sniffling, as if sizing him up.

“Well.” She said thickly. “Thank you for admitting it. That was very… self reflective.”

“I go to a shrink, I kind of have to be self reflective.”

“Ah.” She sniffled. “You can leave me alone now.”

“I would,” Oddly, it felt good to tell somebody… Good enough that he was able to go back to being sly. “But this closet doesn’t open from the inside. Every time we get a new janitor they get locked in here. Happens like twice a year.” She said nothing, but Angus heard her breathing pick up in pace. “I mean, I can always leave you in here.”

“No!” She said urgently. “Let me out, please.”

“I will, if you promise not to fink.”

“I-I won’t fink. If you leave me be, I won’t fink. Pinky promise.”

“Alright. I’ll stay as far away from you as humanly possible.” He clambered to his feet and opened the door for her. She was already standing, and as soon as she saw the light, she tried to scoot out beside him, but he moved his arm to stop her. “Pinky promise, remember?”

Begrudgingly, she curled her finger around his, then slipped out past him and returned to her room. Angus watched her go, and something broke inside his chest as the door closed behind her.

#dominic sessa #dominic sessa x reader #the holdovers #angus tully #angus tully x reader

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babybluebex · 9 months ago

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venus pt.1 | angus tully x fem!reader

𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘: after being accepted as barton academy's first female student, you didn't think it could get any worse. as the fall semester progresses, you start to form a friendship with the outcast, angus, but what happens when the holidays come and you are the last two students on campus? PART 1 OF ? 𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆: angus tully (the holdovers, 2023) x fem!reader 𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐒: canon compliance (this is a complete rewrite of the film, just with the added reader insert), lots of swearing, teddy is an asshole but what's new, 70s ideals about feminism (which YES is a warning), mentions of grief/loss 𝐀𝐔𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐑'𝐒 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄: oof here we go, part 1 of my long-teased angus fic! be aware that this is literally 11k words, so i apologize for the absolute brick wall of text you're about to encounter (but don't worry, i put a read more on it :) ) also, if i missed any warnings/tags, pls dm me and let me know if you think i should add something! other than that, enjoy!

There were worse fates than this, right? There had to be, you were sure of it. You felt every pair of eyes on you as you walked down the center aisle of the chapel, acutely aware of the overwhelming masculine energy that you were drowning in. After all, at Barton, it wasn’t every day that these boys saw a girl. You wondered how long some of them had gone without laying eyes on a member of the opposite sex (a real one; skin mags don’t count).

It also didn’t help that the priest at the front of the room had intentionally brought everyone’s eyes to you the moment you walked in. You had tried to slip in unnoticed, but he had said “Ah, here she is now: our very first Barton lady! Come sit up front with the headmaster!”

You anchored yourself in the frontmost pew, next to the headmaster with a hippie beard, and kept your head still and staring straight ahead. You had known very little about Barton before that school year— you were from nearby Boston, and had gone to a larger high school with, not only a more mixed gender breakdown, but a significantly different economic situation than Barton. You had been shocked, as you took the bus from town to campus, at how many Mercedes and Cadillacs you had seen near the school. You felt like a fish out of water, in more ways than one.

The priest didn’t end his taunting when you sat down, though. “Many of you probably wondered, when you got on campus for the beginning of the semester, what the new building next to the dormitory was,” he began, and you heard a few mumblings from the row behind you, confirming their confusion. “Well, gentlemen, this year… Barton has become coeducational. The new building, Blackwell Hall, named for the esteemed Elizabeth Blackwell, is the girl’s dormitory.”

The mumbling behind you increased to a dull rumble, and you slightly turned your head to get a glance at the boys sitting behind you. All high school boys, kids your age, staring at you and wondering what your deal was. You took notice of one boy in particular, the only one around you not gossiping with his friends, totally uninterested and picking at his cuticles. Before you could even think to wonder about this boy, someone from near the back of the chapel yelled “Is she gonna be in classes with us?”

“Yes, she will,” the priest said. “She is a junior, so, gentlemen, make sure you welcome her warmly to our school.”

You sat and endured chapel while burning from all the stares in your direction, and, as soon as the priest dismissed the lot of you, you shot up and made your way to the doors, clutching your handbag close to your body. The August air hit your face as you stepped out, and you started back to Blackwell Hall, where your things sat, ready to be unpacked, but someone called out to you, demanding your attention.

“Hey, girl!” You turned to see who had shouted, and you were met with the sight of a boy with caramel-colored hair, wearing a sports coat and tie. Come to think of it, all the boys were wearing coats and ties. You hadn’t been told anything about a uniform, and suddenly your jeans felt less than appropriate. The boy had a cigarette in his hand, and he beckoned you over to him, and you clenched your back teeth as you (for some reason) obeyed.

“You’re a junior, huh?” the boy asked, and you nodded. “What classes are you taking?”

You pursed your lips. “Precalc,” you began. “Ancient Civ. Home Ec. Bio.”

“Gym?” he asked, and you shook your head.

“There’s not a girls’ locker room,” you said, hoping he understood your explanation.

The boy ashed his cigarette, and he said, “What period do you have Ancient Civ?”

You tried to recall what you had written down, and you said, “Fourth period, I think. With Hunham.”

“Oh,” the boy said with a winning smile. “I’m in that period too. Maybe we could be study partners.”

You drew in a breath and cleared your throat. “Maybe,” you said softly. “What’s your name?”

“Teddy,” he replied. “Kountze.”

“Right,” you mumbled. “Well, um, I’ll see you around, Teddy.”

“Um, are you going to the cafeteria?” Teddy asked hastily, like he was looking for something to talk to you about. “I-I was about to head there, and, if you wanted someone to sit with, I have a spare seat at my table.”

“I’m not,” you told him. “Gotta get back to my dorm and finish unpacking. I only got in town today.”

“How did…” Teddy started. “How did you get in? Your folks hear that Barton was going coed and got you in?”

You shook your head. “I went to Central High School, in Boston,” you replied. “I was doing a research project and saw in a newspaper that Barton was going coed and having a lottery for the first female student. I sorta put my name in as a joke, and then, when I won, it… Wasn’t really a joke anymore. I had to take some academic placement tests, since Central isn’t exactly a highbrow school, and I got a scholarship that covered a lot of my tuition. The board of trustees waived the rest of it, so…”

“You’re going here for free?” Teddy asked incredulously. “Jesus, I didn’t even know we had scholarships.”

“Of course you wouldn’t, Kountze,” a voice said from nearby, and you turned your shoulder to see the boy from chapel who didn’t give a shit about you. He stood tall, rail thin, a mop of dark curls on top of his head. He had eyes like black holes, his pale skin so translucent around his eye sockets that he had purplish-red bags underneath. “Nobody’s going to tell the bottom scum about possible academic achievements. It’s cruel to tease people with something they’ll never have.”

“Fuck off, Tully,” Teddy snapped. “Don’t you have some porno mag waiting for you?”

The boy (you supposed his name was Tully) pushed his hands into the pockets of his coat and skulked away, and you scoffed under your breath. “Charming,” you mumbled, but you couldn’t tear your gaze away from his back as he left the scene.

“Jesus, yeah,” Teddy said. “That’s Angus Tully. Biggest asshole here, thinks he’s better than everyone else. God knows why, he’s such a fuckin’ loser. He’s in Hunham’s fourth period too.”

You furrowed your eyebrows at Angus Tully’s back, and then redirected your attention to Teddy, who was presently snubbing out his cigarette with the toe of his shoe. “I’ll see you in class tomorrow,” you said softly, and, without another word, departed for your dorm.

You appreciated that Barton had built a separate dorm for the female students, but, seeing as you were the sole resident of the building, you were irked by it. It was too big and empty, too lifeless and soulless. Certainly, they had built it with future generations in mind, hoping that more girls would eventually enroll and prove the building a necessity, but, for now, you found yourself aching with loneliness. You missed your mom and your sisters, in your small apartment in downtown Boston, just a few blocks from your old high school. You missed hearing Linda Ronstadt records playing from your older sister’s room (the one she shared with your mom), or the ceaseless sound of the air conditioning unit buzzing away in the window of your room (the one you shared with your other older sister). Barton just felt too… Good for you. But, it was as your mother had told you: it was an opportunity that you could not afford to pass up.

You didn’t have a lot to unpack, and you hung up your clothes as you chewed your lip. For some reason, the interaction outside the chapel was sticking with you. Not Teddy, although he certainly had made himself hard to forget. No, you were thinking about Angus Tully, apparently the head asshole of Assholedom. You would be seeing him tomorrow too, for the first day of classes, in Hunham’s Ancient Civ class. You had never taken a class like that— your old school didn’t even offer the Advanced Placement program, so obnoxiously pretentious classes like that were out of your realm of understanding— and you were almost worried that you would flunk right out.

You tossed and turned all night, dreading sunrise and morning. Breakfast was served at 7, and classes began at 8, beginning with Precalc for you, then transitioning into Biology. After third period free, you had Ancient Civ, then an hour for lunch, then Home Ec, then your last few hours of the school day were reserved for something that, on the fax paper that you had been given at the front office, was called “Secretarial Studies”. You hated to think what that meant (surely, Barton wasn’t trying to prime you for being a secretary and nothing more), but mostly, it meant that your school day basically ended earlier than for others.

You awoke early, showered and scrubbed yourself clean (the water pressure in the shower was better than the fourth floor apartment that you used to deal with), and you dressed yourself in what you hoped was becoming of a Barton girl. The dress had initially been purchased as an outfit for special chapel occasions, Christmas and Easter or whatever, but you knew that your regular jeans and wrinkled t-shirt wouldn’t be enough for your new shiny academy.

Once again, as you entered the cafeteria for breakfast, you felt all eyes on you. You scanned the room for an empty seat (you didn’t fail to spot Angus Tully, sitting at the cornermost table, not conversing with everyone else) and sighed when you saw an open chair right next to Teddy Kountze. He spotted you and waved, and you made your way over.

“Hey there,” Teddy said. “How was your first night?”

“Fine,” you shrugged noncommittally. “Kinda quiet, though.”

“Yeah, nobody else in the whole building,” Teddy sighed. “No roommates or anything; that must be nice.”

“Nah, not really,” you replied. “I got used to my mom and my sisters, and it was just too quiet. Not nearly enough chaos for me.”

“How many sisters do you have?” A boy across the table from you asked.

“Two,” you said. “Both older. And my mom lived with us too, so there was always something going on.”

“Shit, for sure,” the boy said. “Are you gonna join any clubs while you’re here? Or sports or something?”

You didn’t exactly love the way that the boy said that. “While you’re here”. Like you weren’t going to stay at Barton for very long. “I don’t know,” you shrugged. “I’ve never really been a sporty type. I might see if the yearbook needs help or something.”

“You could join chess club,” the boy laughed, and Teddy (and pretty much everyone else at the table) laughed too.

“Why? What’s so funny about chess club?” you asked.

“Nothing,” Teddy sighed as he finished laughing. “Except that Tully’s ugly mug is there.”

“Tully?” you repeated. “Angus?”

“Do you know him?” a different boy at the table asked.

“No, not at all,” you said quickly. “Just… Heard some stuff about him, that’s all. How he’s apparently a douche.”

“You’ll see,” Teddy assured you. “In class, try to challenge him on something. See how he reacts, and you’ll get why we all hate him.”

You wrinkled your nose at the thought, but decided to not let it bother you. You made your way to class, hanging close behind Teddy and not really listening to him as much as you were admiring the school building. It was so… Old. So was your old school, but Barton was beautifully old, whereas Central was just old. Dark, shiny wood everywhere, framed oil paintings of people; it was a feat. You finally separated from Teddy when you reached the classroom for Precalc, and you hesitantly stepped in. A handful of guys were there, sitting on their desks and chatting, and the room fell dead as you stepped inside. You hazarded a small smile, and quickly made your way to the back of the room, your preferred spot in any classroom, but you were stopped in your tracks.

Angus Tully. He sat in the back corner, close to the window, his tie loose and crooked around his neck. He was looking out the window, but his eyes slid over to you as you approached the desk beside him.

“Hi,” you said gently. “Can I… Um, can I sit here?”

Angus shrugged, as if he didn’t care, and you slung your bag across the back of the seat before you settled yourself down. You tapped your fingers on the desktop for a moment, wondering what the next course of action was, and you mumbled out, “I-I heard you were in chess club?”

“Yeah,” Angus grunted out. “What about it?”

“Oh, nothing,” you said, anxiously smoothing your skirt on your thigh. “Just, umm… I was wondering if there was, like… If you guys were open to new members.”

“Probably,” Angus said simply.

You nodded slowly, waiting for his next words, but they never came. “Right,” you said softly. “Okay.”

To your disappointment, Angus Tully and you shared every class together, except for your free period and Home Ec. His demeanor never changed a single bit throughout the day, sullen and curt. He didn’t speak during class, didn’t answer questions or even seem as if he was paying attention. It was odd. You were thinking about it as you settled into a desk in the back of the Ancient Civ classroom, and you yourself were hardly paying attention to the teacher, a one Mr. Hunham, until he called your name. “Miss?” he said, and you lifted your cheek out of your hand. “Would you like to introduce yourself?”

You blinked a few times, your face positively burning hot, and you cleared your throat. “I’m sure you all know my name by now,” you began. “Know that I went to a public school in Boston, got in here on a lottery and a scholarship… I guess there’s not much else to know about me.”

“Have you ever studied ancient civilizations before, Miss?” Mr. Hunham asked. He seemed well-meaning, if maybe a little sarcastic.

“No,” you told him.

“Any experience with Latin?” Mr. Hunham asked next.

You deflated. Shit. This was that sorta school? “No,” you said, a little quieter this time.

“Well, that’s alright,” Mr. Hunham said. “We’ll catch you up to speed. Now, gentlemen— Ah, and lady— let’s open our books to the first chapter.”

All during class, you felt hot tears pricking at your eyes. You were humiliated. All these words and names that everyone else seemed to know, and you had no fucking clue what any of it meant. It was all Greek to you— Latin, actually, but that didn't matter. As Mr. Hunham was mid-sentence about some sort of war, the bell to end the class sounded throughout the room, and you instantly closed your textbook and began to shove it into your bag. “Read the rest of the section tonight!” Mr. Hunham called over the sounds of your classmates packing up and chattering. “There will be a quiz on Friday!”

You shouldered your bag and tried to avoid eyes as you skated out of the room, but a voice saying your name held you back. You hoped your eyes weren’t red as you turned to see Angus standing limply in the hallway. He had stayed quiet during Mr. Hunham’s class too, sitting again in the back corner, and you had managed to forget about him as you wallowed in shame. “Yeah?” you asked.

Angus carefully walked closer to you, and he said, “The library has tutors sometimes. If you need help with Latin.”

“Oh,” you said softly. “Thanks. I just… Didn’t know people still spoke that.”

“Not really, it’s a dead language,” Angus said. “But it’s helpful sometimes in classes. A lot of Ivy League schools have Latin courses that are required.”

“Well, thank God I’m not going to an Ivy League school,” you chuckled mirthlessly. “I’ll be lucky if community college takes me.”

“You go to Barton, colleges will be fighting for you to go there,” Angus shrugged.

“But I’m not somebody,” you protested. “I’m not a senator’s kid, my dad isn’t a CEO, like… I just go here.”

“But the name is good enough for schools to want you,” Angus said. “They want the prestige, that’s all.”

You thought on it for a moment, and you mumbled, “Thanks, Angus. I’ll, um… See you tomorrow.”

The whole first week of classes progressed at a snail’s pace. Every day was torturous— all of your classes, except for Ancient Civ, were easy. Home Ec was a complete wash, since you already knew how to sew and cook, and Secretarial Studies was just as you had feared: teaching you to type, mostly, but nevertheless skills needed to do office work. You were a little offended; you were the only student in the class, which was helmed by the front office manager Ms. Crane. Obviously the boys didn’t have to take this class, so what was Barton trying to say?

Finally, it was Friday night. Your dorm building was quiet again, and, even though they had provided a rec room with a radio and a few bookshelves, there wasn’t too much for you to do. You curled a loose thread from your sweater around your finger as you considered your next move, and you sighed as you grabbed your keys and shuffled into your shoes.

You pushed your way into the boy’s dorm, and there was a palpable change in energy. The lights seemed brighter, the air thicker, sounds coming from all manner of places. Some doors were open, the residents standing and chatting, and you could distantly hear the sound of a television playing somewhere on the first floor. Much livelier, more lived in; you wished you could have been placed there instead. You followed the sound of the television down the hall, past the chatting boys, and you noticed how conversations paused as you passed by. You despised that.

The door to the rec room was wide open, and you peeked in nervously. The television was playing some rerun of Gilligan’s Island, and boys were scattered to all corners of the room. Some played pool, some sat on the couches, some stood by the open window and smoked, but everything seemed to stop as you crossed the threshold. You made your way to an empty section of the couch and sat down, grinding your teeth as boys young and old watched you. You sighed, and you said, “What’s going on?”

The boy next to you, some kid that you knew was in your Bio class but didn’t know his name, frowned. “Huh?” he asked.

You jerked your head towards the television. “The show,” you said. “What’s happening?”

“Oh,” the boy said, and everyone resumed their conversations. “Umm, don’t you have a TV in your dorm?”

“Just a radio,” you said with a shake of your head. “What episode is this?”

The boy shrugged. “Wasn’t really paying attention,” he said.

You bunched your mouth up and sighed again, and you stood up. You could sense the disappointment as you left the rec room, but you couldn’t stand being in there any longer. You knew that being ogled at came with the territory of being the only girl at a boys’ school, but you couldn’t imagine it would have been anything like this. You slipped your hand into the pocket of your jeans and found a few errant coins in there, leftover from some excursion from God knows how long ago, and you started up to the second floor. In your building, there was a bank of phones on the second floor, and it made sense to you that this building would be the same.

Luckily, you were right. There was just as much business on the second floor as on the first, but the little phone bank was a calm corner. You sighed and examined the phone for a moment, trying to find the slot to put your dime, and you frowned. What the fuck?

“Just dial nine, and then the number you wanna call.”

You jumped in fright. “Jesus Christ!” you seethed, whipping around to see Angus. He sat in a shadow of the phone bank, a book in one hand and a half-eaten apple in the other. He looked a little more casual than he did in class, his tie gone and shirt unbuttoned one or two to show the top of his undershirt. Still looked a little Grim Reaper in the face, though. “You scared the shit outta me.”

Angus huffed a short laugh through his nose. “Thought you saw me,” he said.

“I did not,” you mumbled. “Where’s the coin slot?”

“These aren’t payphones,” Angus told you. “Just dial nine for a non-school number, then dial away.”

You drew in a deep breath and shoved your dime back in your pocket, and you picked up the phone and started to rotate the dial, starting with nine, then going for your family’s apartment number. You felt Angus’s gaze seering on your back, and you cradled the phone to your shoulder as it rang. “Do you mind?” you asked.

“Do I mind what?” Angus asked.

“Scram, man,” you sighed. “I’m trying to call my mom, and I don’t want you listening to it.”

“Well, you shouldn’t have come to a public phone if you wanted a private conversation,” Angus said, and you tilted your head at him in annoyance. “Doesn’t Blackwell have a phone bank?”

“Yeah,” you said. “But I didn’t wanna use it.”

“So you came here instead,” Angus said. “I think you like the attention.”

You swallowed thickly, anger tepid but starting to rise. “You don’t know me at all,” you bit at him.

“Why’d you come to this building to make your call if you knew that every guy would stop to stare at your ass?” Angus asked. “You knew that. You’ve been here a week, you know by now that you attract attention. I think you like it, but you can’t admit it because you have that whole quiet mystery girl thing going on.”

“Fuck off, Tully,” you mumbled. “I’m not here to be some goddamn puzzle for you to solve. And I’m not gonna fuck you if you figure out my backstory, so just go away.”

“Who said anything about fucking?” Angus asked smugly.

You glared at him and that stupid crooked smirk on his face. “Stop staring at my ass first and we might get somewhere,” you told him lowly, just in time for the call to pick up.

“Hello?” your mother said, and you sighed in relief.

“Mom, thank God,” you laughed lightly. “You took so long to answer, I was worried nobody was there.”

“Oh, no, pumpkin, I’m here,” your mom told you. “I was just in the shower.”

“Is Rachel not home?” you asked. “Or Anna?”

“Rach is at work,” your mom told you. “She picked up extra hours at Neiman Marcus. She thinks they might promote her to manager at the end of the year.”

“Oh, wow,” you mumbled. “Good for her. And Anna?”

“Started taking night classes,” your mom said. “She started on Monday too.”

“Cool,” you chuckled. “What’re you doing tonight? I think ABC is showing some sort of movie—”

“I’m going on a date,” your mom said, and your mouth went dry.

“What do you mean?” you asked. “Like… With a guy?”

“Yes,” your mom said carefully. “He’s nice, I met him at work. He’s taking me to a movie and dinner.”

“That’s…” you started. “Cool, Mom. Good for you.”

“What about you?” your mom asked. “Surrounded by all those boys, there has to be someone who’s caught your eye.”

You sighed. Your lip trembled, and you closed your eyes. You were acutely aware that Angus was still sat behind you, and the fact that you hadn’t heard his book turn in a few minutes meant that he was absolutely listening to your phone call, the little shit. “No, not really,” you said. “Everyone here is either too rich, too smart, or too… Asshole-ish. Some are even all three.” You made a point to turn your head towards Angus, and you heard his little huffing laugh before you turned back to the phone.

“Oh, well,” your mom said. “Maybe you’ll find someone. How are classes?”

“Fine, I guess,” you said. “I’m taking a class about ancient civilizations, and apparently I missed the class where they teach Latin, so I’m sorta lost. And Home Ec sucks because I already know how to do all that. And they’re making me take something about how to be a secretary, and that’s so infuriatingly sexist that it makes me angry.”

“It’s a bunch of men, in charge of a bunch of boys,” your mom sighed. “They’re trying their best to adapt to you.”

“I can’t even take gym class because they don’t have a place for me to change clothes,” you lamented. “Not that I wanna take gym anyway, but you see why I’m upset!”

“I know, pumpkin, it’s okay,” your mom said.

“Why would they go coed if they can’t even integrate girls in properly?” you sighed. “I wish I had just stayed home and gone to Central. Would’ve saved me a lot of trouble.”

“You’ll be alright, you’re still just adjusting,” your mom assured you. “But… If, by Christmas, you still don’t feel like you belong there, I’ll pull you out and you can go back to Central. But I have to know by Thanksgiving, so I can start the paperwork in time for spring semester”

“Sure,” you said. “That sounds good to me.”

“Alright, baby,” your mom said. “Richard will be here any minute, and I have to finish getting ready. I’ll be at work until 4 tomorrow, but call any time after, okay? I love you so much.”

“Love you too,” you mumbled, and you held the plastic phone by your face as you listened to your mother hang up and the dial tone drone. After a moment, you hung the phone back up on the hook, and you readied yourself for Angus’s petty insults as you turned to leave the phone bank. But they never came. You eyed him, sitting there on the wooden bench, his dark eyes focused on yours, and you snapped, “What?”

“Nothing,” Angus said lightly, sliding back into the darkened corner and picking up his book. “Nothing at all.”

That was your weekly exercise. Week in and week out, all you did was classes. You wanted to avoid as many interactions with the others as possible, so you stayed quiet during class, kept to yourself, didn’t accept invites to parties or football games or to sit at lunch tables. You took to having lunch with Ms. Crane in the front office, and she seemed to commiserate with you about all the boys. “Some of these kids are real stinkers,” she told you. “But they’re teenage boys. I think it’s a law that they have to be.”

Your saving grace was the deal you had made with your mom. If you could just wait until Christmas break, you could go back to your old school, to your old friends, and you could forget about the hell that was Barton. You kept your grades up, so that Central could see that you hadn’t turned into some kind of slacker, and you consistently got B’s and A’s in your classes. Except for Ancient Civ.

The exam booklet slapped down on your desk, a red F blazoned across the front. You sighed and started to thumb through it, trying to figure out where you went wrong as the other boys also realized their grades were low, and your heart sank when you saw all of the multiple choice questions without a flaw. So it was your essay question that led you astray. On the very last page of the booklet, you found your essay, handwritten yesterday on something about ancient philosophers, and a red note in Mr. Hunham’s handwriting. See me after class.

You could hardly pay attention to the conversation between Teddy and Mr. Hunham. Your mind was racing, wondering what he wanted to talk to you about. You should have gotten a perfect score, but something held that back. Surely he didn’t think you had cheated? Or copied someone else’s work? You thought that you and Mr. Hunham got along (as well as any student can get along with their strict, hardass teacher) and your heart sank at the thought that you had definitely somehow disappointed him.

“... Offer a makeup exam” got your head out of the clouds, and you focused on Mr. Hunham at his podium. “You’ll all get a second run at this after break.” The class muttered and mumbled, only to be cut through by Mr. Hunham’s next words: “Of course, it will not be the same exam. You will now be responsible for new material as well. Your grade will be an average of the two.”

As Mr. Hunham instructed the class to open their books to a new chapter, you were shocked, along with everyone else, when Angus spoke. “No offense, sir,” he began, and you sucked in a breath. You had learned that, whenever any of the boys at Barton didn’t intend offense, that offense was certainly on its way. “But is this really the best time to be starting a new chapter? I mean, we all appreciate the, uh, makeup exam gesture… But our families are here.”

You rolled your eyes. Speak for yourself, Tully. Your mom had to work that day, as did both of your sisters, and you gotten instruction to take a Greyhound into Boston and someone would meet you at the bus station to bring you home. It wasn’t exactly the best plan, but it was what worked. Your mom had arranged with Barton to let you back on campus during break to empty your dorm room, and you sighed a thing of relief. Almost done. You were so close to leaving Barton in your dust and washing your hands of the entire school.

“Most teachers have already canceled class,” Angus continued. “We have chapel in forty minutes, then we’re out of here. I mean, our heads are elsewhere.”

“And where exactly is your head, Mr. Tully?” Mr. Hunham asked, and Angus shrugged.

“Uh, I don’t know. St. Kitts.”

Jesus. Of course Angus Tully was going to fuckin’ St. Kitts for Christmas. You would be lucky if your family could afford to have the heat turned on for Christmas.

Your annoyance turned to dire anger when Mr. Hunham decided to scrap the idea of a makeup exam and dismissed the class without another word. You hurried to shove your exam booklet in your bag, and you glared at Angus as you edged out of your row. “Thanks a lot, dick,” you mumbled, then left the room, not even waiting to see Angus’s response. Your heart raced as you tailed Mr. Hunham, and you finally called his name as he approached the door to his private office.

“Ah, Miss,” Mr. Hunham chuckled. “Yes, yes, let’s sit down and discuss your exam.”

“I-I didn’t do anything wrong,” you said hurriedly as he unlocked the office door. “I didn’t cheat or plagiarize, you didn’t even mark off any points. I don’t understand why I failed.”

Mr. Hunham said nothing as he led you into his office, and you wrinkled your nose. God, it smelled bad in there. Nevertheless, you sat down in one of the chairs across from his desk, and you waited with bated breath as he sat down in his seat. He examined you for a moment, for long enough for you to start to feel weird under his walleyed gaze, and, finally, he said, “In actuality, Miss, you didn’t fail. You got the highest score in the class.”

“B-But I got an F…” you protested. “Angus Tully got a B!”

“I wrote an F on your paper, but you actually got a 98,” Mr. Hunham told you. “Near-perfect score, I only took off in your essay question for misspelling ‘Periclean’.”

“Oh,” you mumbled. “Then, why’d you write an F on my paper?”

“Because I was disappointed in you,” Mr. Hunham said. You felt sick. Your skin was hot and your stomach roiled, and hot tears pricked at your eyes. “I heard from Ms. Crane that you were leaving Barton.”

You nodded silently.

“And why is that?” Mr. Hunham asked.

You sighed. “I miss my old school,” you admitted with a thick throat. “My old friends. Nobody likes me here, and I… Just think I’d be better off back home. I’m not a Barton person.”

“What is a Barton person to you, Miss?” Mr. Hunham asked. His hands were clasped at his chin, his bifocals in his fist. He seemed genuinely concerned about you.

“Someone not me,” you said. “Rich… Smart… Important. All those guys are gonna go to good colleges, and I’m gonna be stuck waiting tables my whole life.”

“You are smart, Miss,” Mr. Hunham told you. “You passed all your classes with flying colors, you made Latin look like a piece of cake. If you wanted to, you could go to any college in the country. Or the world!”

“I wouldn’t even be here if it wasn’t for that stupid lottery,” you mumbled. “I don’t belong here, sir, we both know that.”

Mr. Hunham fixed his mouth in a thin line and sighed, and he said, “Of course. Well, I do hate to see you go. Your essay on the siege of Troy was… Very good.”

“Thanks,” you mumbled. “Umm, have a nice Christmas, I guess… See you around.”

Chapel that day felt exactly the opposite to your first chapel at Barton. The dread that had filled the air at the beginning of the semester had now changed to an excitement about going back home, and, even though you still felt like everybody was staring at you, you couldn’t shake the feeling. You were done. You had made it. After you moved during break, you’d never have to lay an eye on Barton or any of those boys ever again. You had to admit that you were going to miss Ms. Crane, and maybe even Mr. Hunham too, but the positives far outweighed the negatives.

After chapel let out, you hurried back to Blackwell Hall and grabbed your suitcase and changed out of your nice dress, and you made your way to the front of campus, where a Greyhound bus sat, waiting to take kids into the city. You stepped on board, taking a seat towards the back of the bus, and you looked out the window at one last gaze at Barton Academy. Although, you couldn’t admire the architecture or the pretty way the snow glistened in the midday sun. No, you could only see the tall, lanky, dark-haired kid standing on the steps of the chapel, waiting for someone.

Even though you despised Angus Tully and didn’t really care if he lived or died, it was a sad sight to see him waiting like that. He looked so dismayed and forlorn, his suitcase at his feet, his hands in the pockets of his winter jacket. Maybe in another world, you and Angus could have been friends. Your mind wandered, thinking of meeting Angus somewhere else— your mind conjured the image of a bookstore, reaching for the same book and having a little back and forth on who should have it, before Angus acquiesced, but not before writing his phone number in the book.

The rumble of the bus nearly lulled you asleep on the two and a half hour drive to Boston, and you roused yourself as the bus pulled into the station. Gathering your things, you departed, along with a handful of other Barton boys. They quickly found their families that were waiting on them, and you wandered through the station. Your mother hadn’t indicated who would be picking you up, or where in the station to meet them, and you made your way to a payphone. You were sure she was at work, but you wondered if you could call the restaurant and ask for her. Before you could put your dime in the phone, though, you heard your name being called, and you looked to see an older man smiling at you from across the room.

Fear flashed hot in your face, but you kept your composure as the man approached you. “Hey, you look just like how your mom described you,” he laughed. “I’m Rich.”

“Who?” you asked.

“Rich,” he repeated. “I’ve been seeing your mother for a few months. She’s working the afternoon shift, and your sisters are both busy, so your mom asked me to get you.”

“Oh,” you nodded. “Right, yeah. It’s nice to meet you.”

“You seem tired,” Rich told you. “Long day?”

“Like you wouldn’t believe,” you chuckled. “I’m just glad to be done with Barton, that place can go to hell.”

“I thought Barton was a boys’ school,” Rich mumbled.

“It’s a long story,” you sighed. “But whatever, that’s in my rearview now.”

“Alright,” Rich said. He seemed confused, but he took up your suitcase for you. “We already put fresh sheets on the pullout, so when we get back, you can take a nap if you want—”

“The pullout?” you repeated. “Am I not sleeping in my room?”

Rich winced. “Ah, well,” he began. “You see, my daughter is sleeping there, and—”

“Your—” you started. “Why is she in my room?”

“The bed was vacant,” Rich shrugged. “She’s lived there for a few months now.”

“And why is your daughter living with my mom?” you asked. “Do you… Did you move in?”

“Well, when your mother and I got married, we figured it was the logical thing to do.”

Your heart nearly stopped. Married. Your mother had gotten married, and hadn’t told you a single thing about it. No wedding invite, no pictures, not even a ‘hey, Rich and I are getting hitched!’ You felt sick and lightheaded, and you tried to take a steadying breath. It just sounded all shaky and unsure, though, and it made you feel even worse. “I, uh…” you began. “I…”

“What’s wrong, pumpkin?” Rich asked, and the camel’s back broke. Nobody can call you that but your mom.

“Who the fuck do you think you are?” you asked. “Rolling in here, doing all this bullshit, and for what? Are you trying to prove something? Win an award or what? Let’s see how quickly we can marry the single mom, that’ll go down great with her three adult children!”

“Rachel and Anna said they were okay with it,” Rich said.

“But you didn’t ask me!” you cried. “God, this is exactly what she wanted, huh, throw me in a boarding school and forget all about me? Fuck this, I don’t need this.” You snatched your bag from Rich and turned on your heel quickly, and you didn’t even hesitate when Rich called “Where are you going?”

“Anywhere but here!”

You begged and pleaded with the Greyhound driver to take you back to Barton. He said that he had to stick to a schedule and was really sorry, but he changed his tune when you dug into your bag and grabbed your pocketbook, pulling out a few 20s. You didn’t have a lot of money in the first place, and watching those bills go in his pocket hurt, but, in the end, you got back to Barton just as the sun was starting to set. You knew that whoever was staying over break would be shocked to see you (maybe even elated, depending on who it was), but you didn‘t care about reactions. You just didn’t want to think at that moment.

You followed the low din of boyish muttering to the cafeteria, and you steeled your nerves for entering. You could discern only two voices, maybe a third if you listened through the thick door hard enough, and you quickly pushed on the metal handle in the middle of the door to slam the door open.

Heads whipped towards you. You didn’t recognize a lot of them— some younger kids, and a guy that was on the football team and was a senior— and your heart sank into your stomach when you saw Teddy Kountze sitting at the dinner table. So you would be spending Christmas break with Teddy. Great.

But the bad feeling got worse when you saw who was sitting one seat down from Teddy. Angus fucking Tully. He stared at you with no joy or humor in his eyes, and you huffed out a breath.

“Miss?” Your gaze went to the head of the table, and a little bit of relief washed over you as you saw the face of Mr. Hunham. Was he supervising the holdovers? “What’re you…?”

“Got room for one more?” you mumbled, approaching the table and securing the seat between Teddy and Angus. You instantly reached for the serving dishes, wanting anything to occupy your shaking hands, and you slowed to a stop as you noticed the whole table staring at you; even Angus wasn’t trying to hide it, his black eyes as big as dinner plates. “What?” you barked, and the energy resumed at the table in a snap.

Dinner was finished soon after, and Mr. Hunham pulled you into the hall as the boys were cleaning up. “I thought you were going home to Boston for the holiday?” he asked gently.

“I can’t…” you started. “It seems like I don’t even have a place in my own family.”

“What do you mean?” Mr. Hunham asked.

“My mom got married without telling me,” you told him. “And the guy and his daughter moved into our apartment, which could barely fit me and my mom and sisters in the first place, and now they’re there, a-and she’s in my room! That fucking bitch is in my room, and I-I—”

“Easy, easy,” Mr. Hunham said, putting his hand out to placate you. “Calm down. Listen, I understand that this is hard, it’s awful, but resorting to that is not what’s going to help you. We’ll find a place here for you tonight, and tomorrow we can call your mother and try to get this straightened out.”

“Can I not go to my dorm?” you asked.

“The school shut off heating and plumbing everywhere except the main building,” Mr. Hunham explained. “We’re sleeping in the infirmary.”

“Jesus Christ,” you huffed. You were so angry that you could kick something. “So now I gotta bunk up with them?”

“It’s definitely not ideal,” Mr. Hunham mumbled. “But it’s just for one night. We can put up a partition, if that would make you more comfortable.”

“Fuck it, whatever,” you sighed. Your eyes hurt, and a headache was starting to throb at your skull, and you said, “I don’t care.”

The boys were split into two rooms, the youngers (and Angus) in one, and Teddy and Jason in the other. The only other empty bed was in Teddy and Jason’s room, and you were quick to settle in and start off for the bathroom. Just as you were leaving, though, a beanpole in a white shirt and flannel pajama pants stopped you in the doorway.

“Hey,” Angus said curtly. “Where’re you going?”

“Shower,” you told him. “Brush my teeth, stuff like that.”

“Why did you come back?” Angus asked. “A little birdy told me that you were quitting Barton.”

“I…” you started. You wanted to tell him everything, but you were worried about the leverage he’d have if he knew. “I don’t think that’s any of your business.��

“Nah, I think it is,” Angus said with narrowed eyes. “We know why everybody is holding over. His parents are on a mission trip, his family is in Korea, Kountze The Cunt’s having his house remodeled, and Jason’s dad is waiting for him to cut his hair. Why’re you here?”

“Why’re you here, Angus?” you asked. “I thought you were going to St. Barts or St. Kitts or something.”

“Obviously not,” Angus said quickly.

“Then, I’m obviously not quitting Barton,” you said, and instantly regretted it. “I might be… Haven’t decided yet.”

“What, don’t you like it here?” Angus asked. “Isn’t it a glorious beacon of education and brotherhood—” He stopped himself, dramatically clenching his fist in front of his face. “Oh, that’s right. Brotherhood.”

“Shut up,” you huffed.

“C’mon, man, leave her alone,” you heard Jason start from the room behind you, but Angus either didn’t hear or didn’t care.

“You left, and then came back,” Angus said. “What’s wrong? Mommy decided she didn’t want you anymore?”

You couldn’t help yourself from letting your tears spill over your lashes, and you clenched your teeth. Angus held your eye contact for longer than you thought he would, and he only averted his eyes when your tears gathered at the corner of your mouth. You drew in a shaking breath, aware that everybody was staring at you, watching you cry, and you sniffled and left the room without another word. The showers were empty, and you jerked the handle to start the water, then locked the door to the room.

Your tears flowed freely then, and you sat on the tile floor and sobbed into your hands. You hoped that Angus could hear you crying from down the hall, and you hoped that he felt bad about his words. Knowing him, though, he had forgotten about you as soon as you left his eyeline.

By the time you finished your crying and your shower, the lights were off in both the rooms, a soft snoring coming from Teddy and Jason’s (and your) room. Your pajamas didn’t feel like they were enough for the cold in the infirmary, and you edged by the snoring Teddy in his bed to get to yours. The sheets were crinkly and dry and rough, and you bundled the wool blanket up to your chin as you tried to sleep.

That was destroyed, though, when you heard a “Psst!” come from the doorway.

You sighed. “Fuck off, Angus,” you mumbled sleepily.

“Just— Can I—?” Angus huffed. “I’m trying to apologize to you.”

“I don’t want your fuckin’ apology,” you said. “Just leave me alone.”

“I shouldn’t have said that to you,” Angus whispered. “I was… Out of line. Or projecting or something, I don’t know. My mom and stepdad went to St. Kitts, but uninvited me so they could celebrate their honeymoon. I guess I’m just familiar with how it feels to not be wanted.”

You sighed and rolled over to face the doorway, and you settled yourself up on your elbows. “Can you just…” you started. “Think before you speak? I know it doesn’t really seem to matter to you, but sometimes, words hurt. Like, really hurt.”

“I know,” Angus mumbled. “I’m sorry.”

“You really have to work on not being a huge asshole,” you told him. “You know, nobody here likes you. They all call you names and shit.”

“I know,” Angus said. “I don’t care. But you’ve gotta try to not be so judgmental. I think you write off everyone here because we’re from different tax brackets. Some of us don’t have it easy.”

You pressed your lips together. “Fair enough,” you said finally. “I’ll, um… Keep that in mind.”

“Alright,” Angus said. “Good night, then.”

“‘Night,” you said, and you watched Angus stalk out of the doorway and back to his room. You sat for a few moments more, thinking about how easily Angus had read your thoughts, and you wondered if the other boys could see right through you as easily. You were almost humiliated all over again at the thought that everyone could read you like that, but it didn’t matter. When the morning came, you’d call your mother and work out whatever the problem was, and you would be home in Boston by the next night.

It didn’t work out that way. You called your mother twice in the morning; the first time, she didn’t pick up the phone, and the second, she would hardly talk to you. “Mom, I just wanna know what happened,” you pleaded. “Why didn’t you tell me? I-I would’ve been supportive!”

“Would you?” your mother asked.

“Yes!” you sighed. “I wouldn’t have been happy, but I would’ve accepted it if you were happy!”

“Then, why can’t you accept it now?” she asked.

“Because you didn’t tell me!” you replied. “You didn’t ask me how I felt about it, if I wanted it to happen, if I even like the guy— I hadn’t even met him once before you did it!” You paused, chewing your lip, and you said, “Mom. Tell me the truth. Are you pregnant?”

“No, pumpkin, I’m not,” she sighed, but you could tell she was nearing her wit’s end.

“Is that why you hurried to marry him?” you asked. “I-I’m telling you, I don’t care that you got married, I’m just upset because you didn’t tell me!”

“Okay, stop,” your mom said firmly. “I thought you’d be happy for me, baby.”

Anger flared in your stomach. “Dad hasn’t even been gone for a full year yet,” you mumbled. “And you’re already replacing him.”

“We all mourn differently, pumpkin,” she said. “I’m sorry that you can’t see that Rich makes me happy. I... I don’t feel lonely with him.”

“Well,” you sighed. “If this is how you mourn Dad, I don’t think I wanna come home. I think I’ll stay at Barton.”

“Where are you gonna go after the holiday ends?” your mom asked.

“Staying here,” you said plainly. “I can personally go up to Central and withdraw my paperwork over break. If you want to erase me and my father from your life so bad, then you’ve got your fuckin’ wish.” You slammed the phone back on the receiver with shaking hands, and you turned to leave the front office, only to run straight into—

“Fuck off, Angus,” you sniffled, side-stepping him and starting down the hall, back to the infirmary.

“Wait, wait, wait,” Angus said quickly, snatching your wrist in his hand and tugging you back. “What happened? Are you going home?”

“No,” you sighed. “I’m staying here. I never wanna see any of them again.”

“You said something about your dad…” Angus mumbled. “Is that true? Your dad’s dead?”

You wiped at your eyes, and your chest went hot. “I don’t wanna talk about it,” you mumbled.

Angus sighed, and, for once, he did something nice for you. He pulled you into an embrace, not too tight but not so loose that it felt like he didn’t care, and you pressed your cheek into his shoulder. “My dad’s dead too,” Angus whispered. “You don’t have to talk about it, but… I sorta get it.”

You sniffled again, and you finally let your arms wrap around Angus’s thin body. You sat in silence for a moment, hugging each other, and you only parted when you heard a small scuttle from down the hall, near the infirmary door. Your head turned to see the youngest kid, Alex, standing, watching you two, and you stepped away from Angus and wiped your face. “Guess I’m staying,” you mumbled.

“Guess so,” Angus echoed.

The days were monotonous. Hunham would wake you up when the sun rose with a declaration of “It’s daylight in the swamp!”, and you would go through the routine of studying, then exercise, then more studying, then a little bit of free time. In the absence of gym class for months, the exercising was a little difficult, and you were left exhausted and panting every time, and you felt awkward with the guys around. However, after that brief moment with Angus, he had started to be… Better. He was still a dick most times, but he would do little things for you now; pass you the lunch dishes instead of sliding them in your direction, offer to sharpen your pencil during study time. It seemed that finding a similarity had broken his shell for you a bit, and you appreciated it.

You had taken to helping the cook with meals. Mary Lamb was a good woman that you had minimally interacted with (she had come and given a lesson in Home Ec about cooking, which really nobody paid attention to, but you had made a point to), and you felt a special kinship with her because of her Curtis. She was the only one you told the truth about your father to, and you knew that Mary wouldn’t say anything to the others about it. She seemed as if she appreciated the help in the kitchen, especially from someone who was competent there like you were. You liked talking to Mary, hearing her stories and letting her hear yours.

Just as you were starting to think that maybe break wouldn’t be all that terrible, less than a week into it, things changed. You shivered in the cold library, despite your sweater, and you tried to focus on the textbook in front of you, but it was nearly impossible. Angus was sitting next to you, and, every so often, his hand would inch out and he would doodle a little figure in the corner of your notebook. You rolled your eyes jokingly at him, trying not to laugh so Hunham wouldn’t fuss at you, and you shifted in your seat a bit to reach Angus’s notebook. You began to crudely sketch him, big dark eyes and messy hair, and he stifled a snort. Mean, he wrote underneath your sketch.

Accurate, you countered.

Before either of you could write anything else, there came an odd sound from outside. It was quiet at first, but it grew louder and louder, and you looked upwards, as if the ceiling of the library would allow for any sort of view of what the noise was. It was a loud chopping noise, growing ever louder and louder, drawing the attention of all of you, and even Hunham closed his book and said “What the hell is that?”

But, from across the table, a smile grew on Jason’s face, a knowing grin, and, all at once, everybody stood from their seats and went to the window. You couldn’t see as well as the others, being shorter than everyone else, but Angus put a gentle hand on your side and pushed you in front of him, letting you get closer to the window. His hand, positioned just above your hip on your torso, made a shiver run down your spine, but you attributed it to the sight of a goddamn helicopter buzzing overhead, lowering itself onto the snowy, abandoned football field. “I knew it!” Jason exclaimed. “He finally caved, the big softie!”

“What the fuck is that?” you asked quickly.

“Jason’s dad owns a helicopter,” Angus explained under his breath as Jason pushed away from the window with excitement.

“Any of you guys like to ski?” Jason called as he left the library, and the younger boys gasped with excitement. You all caught onto the idea at the same time, and the boys filed out, following Jason, but you stayed still at the window, watching the helicopter’s blades slow to a stop.

“Miss?” Hunham asked, and you closed your eyes. “Aren’t you going with them?”

You shrugged, hoping to seem less hurt than you actually were. “I can’t,” you said. “I don’t have any skiing gear or whatever, I’ve never even done it before… And anyway, I’m not about to call my mom to ask for permission to do that.”

You sat in the hallway outside the office as Hunham called all of the boys’ parents, being granted permission for the excursion, listening as each boy reacted with glee. It felt like a sick joke; of course you were left all alone again. Before you could ruminate on it for too long, the beanpole came and sat himself next to you, quiet as he scratched absently at his chin.

“Want me to get you anything from up there?” Angus asked. “Fridge magnet or postcard or…?”

You shook your head. “No,” you managed with a heavy, thick throat. “Thanks, though.”

Angus sighed, his eyebrows furrowing together as his jaw tightened, and he tilted his head towards you. His dark eyes looked soft, kinder than you had ever seen from him or thought was capable, and he said, “Sorry.”

You couldn’t help yourself. Your tears spilled and you clawed your fingernails into your palm, trying to stop from sobbing and heaving, and Angus moved closer to you, until his hip touched yours. He slung a skinny arm around your shoulders and pulled you into his body, his hand gently pressing into your head and ushering you to hide in his neck. He shushed you, whispering “If Hunham sees you crying, he’ll think I did it”, which did nothing other than make you laugh a little and sniffle hard.

You quickly parted from Angus’s warmth, wiping your eyes with your hand and seeing your mascara smear on the back of your hand. “Gonna go to the bathroom…” you mumbled, and Angus nodded, keeping his seat as you stood up and hurried down the hall. The women’s bathroom next to the office was hardly used, only ever you, Ms. Crane, and the lone visitor using it, and you clutched the porcelain sink as you gasped for breath. Jesus Christ. Would anything ever go your way? Being stuck at Barton over the holidays with the other boys sucked, sure, but now you were all alone with Hunham and Mary. Alone again. You wondered if you’d always be alone.

You ripped off a paper towel and dabbed at your eyes, trying to fix your makeup, and you pressed cold water to your face to try to calm yourself down. Fuck everything about this. It was unfair. Maybe Hunham would take it easy on you, loosen the reins a little. You trashed the paper towels and adjusted your sweater, trying to seem put-together, and you stepped out of the bathroom to see Hunham and Angus standing outside the office, embroiled in an intense conversation. “... Just one more time, please,” you heard Angus say, and Hunham put his hand up.

“There’s no point,” Hunham said. “The front desk says they’re not answering. He says they’re away on some excursion.”

You started closer, and you watched Angus’s face fall, his eyes narrowing. He mumbled something under his breath, and Hunham harrumphed. “I’m as disappointed as you are, if not more so,” he said. “I could’ve been spending the rest of my vacation reading mystery novels.”

“Angus?” you said, and he slid his eyes over to you. “Are you… What’s happening?”

Angus shot Hunham a deathly look, and he side-stepped your teacher, brushing past you, his arm knocking your shoulder. You locked eyes with Hunham, then quickly turned and started off after Angus. His long legs had carried him down the hall quicker than you were capable of, and you sped up a bit. “Angus!” you called for him, and you finally came up on him at the door to the infirmary, taking his arm in your hand. “What’s going on?”

“I’m staying here,” he said bitingly. “Mom and Stanley aren’t answering their phone.”

On some level, you were glad Angus was staying. At least it wouldn’t be just you there. And you were glad it was Angus, as opposed to Teddy or someone else. “Oh,” you managed. “Well, umm…”

“You don’t have to say anything,” Angus said flatly. He leaned up against the doorway to the infirmary, listening to the other boys packing up, and he added, “In fact, I’d rather you didn’t say anything.”

You sighed, flicking your eyebrows. “Got it,” you mumbled. Your eyes lifted from the floor to see Ye-Joon, bag in hand, and he softly bid Angus a happy holidays, giving you a curt smile as he edged out of the infirmary. Jason lightly touched Angus’s arm as he told him to take care, doing the same to you before he departed, and you made eye contact with Teddy as he shouldered his bag. He didn’t have his sights set on you, though; he spoke to Angus.

“I guess that just leaves you and the chick, huh?” Teddy asked. “Be sure to do all your homework— and no funny stuff while we’re gone.”

If you could have swung a punch at Teddy, you would have. All the boys at Barton were the exact fucking same— Secretarial Studies, sex jokes, it was never-ending and never-changing. You watched Angus’s neck go flushed, and Teddy added, “Oh, almost forgot! I found that picture you were looking for.” Quickly, he stuck a square Polaroid in Angus’s shirt pocket, and a smile crossed Teddy’s face. “Merry Christmas, Mr. Tully. You too, Miss. See you after break.” He winked at you, making your skin crawl, and he departed the room with a chuckle as Angus snatched the picture from his pocket. From your vantage point, you couldn’t see what it was, only the back that read HAPPY HOLIDAYS, but Angus’s mouth screwed up at it, and he flicked it down onto the ground. Your eyes followed it, and you saw a portrait of a family, a mom and dad and a boy, and you recognized the dark eyes and sunken features of the boy. But, in a blank space of the picture, in Teddy’s handwriting, an arrow pointed to the boy and declared “Fuckwad”.

The cold was biting, even through your coat, as you stood on the football field and watched the boys load into the Smith’s helicopter. Your hands were deep in your pockets as you stared into space, wondering if it could get any worse. As the helicopter took off, the wind blew your hair back, and you watched as it rose, up, up, and away. A heavy energy fell over you three, and your teacher let out a heavy sigh. “Well, let’s make the best of it,” Hunham said, flat but trying to put fake life into his words. The look in Angus’s eyes was harsh enough to kill, and Hunham averted his gaze from him over to you, his two little wards, the holdovers. “Shall we?”

#angus tully #angus tully x reader #dominic sessa #dominic sessa x reader #the holdovers

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