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thisisjustfanfic · 1 day ago

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Cleaning up the Timeline

{My contribution to the fandom. The obligatory "everyone lives together in one big house and they kiss kiss kiss, and they love love love each other.}

Read on ao3.

Tags: Reader/L&DS Men, Romance, Maid AU, Eventual Smut. SFW (For now)

Chapter 4 : Weirdos

You set an alarm for early in the morning, wanting to beat Zayne. Getting ready felt weird in the spacious bathroom, and it took you longer than you’d like to figure out what to wear.

Maybe you would get a uniform…something practical like some overalls or coveralls.

With your coziest sweater and simple dark pants, you scurried downstairs, hoping to make breakfast to impress your childhood friend and prove that you would do a good job.

The common area was quiet and empty, and you kept the lights to a minimum because 1) the sun was barely risen and 2) you couldn’t find the light switch. You wouldn’t be surprised if a place like this had a remote to control it all– or voice controls. You were tempted to try it, but the embarrassment if there weren’t voice controls wasn’t it.

In the oversized but poorly filled fridge you found a few eggs in a carton in the back and a half eaten loaf of bread in the pantry. Some sugar, milk and cinnamon later and you had some French toast.

You heard ruckus down the hall and then footsteps, turning with a smile you expected to see Zayne but instead found Xavier. He was already dressed in his hunter’s uniform. You had wondered about it when you saw him last night– what rank was he? His white uniform was completely different from the hunters you knew. The long grey mauve gloves and neatly folded lapels were more formal than practical. Elegant instead of utilitarian.

Overcoming your momentary surprise, you smiled and placed two slices onto a plate. “Good morning! Off to work?”

Xavier seemed just as surprised to see you if not more so. His blue eyes a bit wide as he walked over to the barstool and the plate you slid towards him, “Good morning…I have patrol in the morning. Then I have to catch up with my reports.”

You gave him an understanding smile, “Yikes, those are always so tedious. How far behind are you?”

Xavier blinked, staring down at the simple plate in front of him like he couldn’t believe it was there. “Three weeks.”

“That’s not so bad.” You try to assure, “The reports are always my least favorite part and— between us?— I ask Patrick on the fourth floor to help me. He prefers desk work.”

The blond man looks up at you and the galaxies in his eyes sparkle. A hint of a smile appears on his face and without another word he begins to dig in.

Zayne appears in a mild rush, examining his watch on one wrist while his other hand holds his phone. His hair was neatly groomed and he smelled like soap and mildly of mahogany cologne.

“Good morning!” You greet as you finish the next pair of toast for him. “Extra syrup?”

Zayne’s face is stuck in his phone but he glances at the toast and frowns disappointed, “I’ve got an early surgery scheduled. They posted it late last night, I have to go.”

His phone buzzed a few times– messages arriving in rapid sequence. His thumb tapping away furiously, he barely seems to notice himself walking over to you, placing a hand on one side of your head and pulling you over to place a quick kiss to your hair. A soft squeak leaves you, and your face blooms with heat.

Hurried steps take him away from you, and he pauses by Xavier at the bar and does the same to him. A hand on one side of his head and a chaste kiss on the other side. Xavier, unlike you, seems prepared for the action and leans into it.

“I’ll be back around six.” Zayne mumbles in goodbye as he rushes away, the ding of the elevator signaling his escape.

A soft chuckle pulls your attention back to the living world and you find Xavier resting his chin on his hand and elbow resting on the counter, “You look startled.”

You shake your head, just barely catching the toast before it burns, “He was in a hurry. He probably just wasn’t thinking.”

The blush on your face feels here to stay as you finish making the last plates and the clean up.

Xavier takes his time eating and then puts his plate in the sink, sidling up next to you with his scent of fresh cotton and teak.

“Do I get one too? Miss housekeeper?” Xavier’s voice in your ear makes you shiver and your breath hitches.

“I’m sorry?” You blurt looking down at the hand he has braced on the counter next to the sink.

“A kiss goodbye? Was that part of your contract?”

You scowl, “No, that’s not part of my contract. And I don’t like what you're insinuating.”

Xavier hums and shifts to lean a little further away from you, “I didn’t mean it like that. I’ve heard that a kiss goodbye is good luck. Make sure the one leaving returns home safely.”

You set down the plate you were rinsing and then look up at him, “That’s usually only for couples. Not for…us.”

Xavier blinks and you think you see an asteroid in his starry eyes. A shimmer of stardust that sparkles with mirth at you, “Maybe next time then.”

His tone is yielding and he steps away and out of your personal space. He thanks you for the breakfast and bids you goodbye, much more than you thought you’d get as a housekeeper.

Alone again, you deflate with a heavy exhale. That was too weird. Zayne had never been physically affectionate before, and never done something like that. A kiss on your hair could hardly be called scandalous but it burned you like stoking embers with a handful of dry grass.

It was hard enough finding Zayne attractive and staying platonic. You didn’t think your heart could take even that little show of affection— you’d burst for sure.

Not to mention Xavier. What was his deal? If you didn’t know any better— and being honest you don’t— you’d think he was jealous. The sharpness in his eyes as he asked for his own goodbye kiss. He’d gotten one from Zayne, was that not enough?

That too… the puzzle of this strange living arrangement was becoming a bigger and bigger mystery. More pieces showing up and too many corner pieces to decipher the shape of it,

Was Zayne in a relationship with Xavier? Or were they just friends? It wasn’t out of the question for Zayne to swing that way, and you weren’t going to judge him for it.

You supposed it was the mystery of it that bothered you the most. What was the deal here?

Rafayel woke up a bit before noon, and you heard him scuffle about above your head while you finished the living room. Fluffing the pillows on the couch and folding the throw blankets.

The artist dragged himself downstairs, yawning and wilting. You watched him mild amusement at his theatrics, as he walked to the kitchen and laid his head on the counter.

“Hungry….” He whined softly more so to himself than to you.

You couldn’t help but sigh and take pity on the man, “I made French toast for breakfast.” You tell him as you finish folding the last blanket and place it into one of the compartments in the coffee table. “But you missed it.”

He responds with a groan, muffled into the countertop.

The living room and dining room were done. After some exploring you had found the trash chute in the pantry and had been able to dispose of the boys’ collection of take out containers. The stale smell was gone and replaced with the lemony scent of wood cleaner and the sharper ting of window cleaner.

You pick up your remaining cleaning supplies and turn to return them to the closet, but instead find yourself facing a wall. The ‘wall’ being a moody artist with his attention on his phone but his body too close to yours.

You jump and step back, a harsh comment at the tip of your tongue but Rafayel’s voice stops you, “Do you have a coat?”

The quip you had loaded disappeared and you scowled in confusion, “A coat?”

“Yeah, a coat. You know, a outerwear garment that keeps you warm–”

“I know what a coat is.” You hiss, “It’s upstairs, why?”

“Go get it.” Rafayel orders, looking at you and tilting his head, “I wanna get some lunch but I’m not going alone.”

“And you want me to go with you?” You hear the incredulity in your voice and know you must be looking at him like he’s insane.

Either he’s oblivious to your stare or he doesn’t care because he nods, “I’m a public figure. I need a cover if I go out. So~” He sing-songs, motioning to you, “Go get your coat. I’ll pay, don’t worry.”

Your shoulders sag, “You need someone to go with you? Are you five?”

“No. I just know there’s no food in this house and I want to eat something yummy.” Rafayel slides his phone into his pants’ pocket and places his nimbl;e hands on his hips, “No, go. Or I’ll fire you.”

You can’t help the disbelieving gasp that escapes you, “Are you serious? You’ll fire me if I don’t go to lunch with you?”

“Yup.” Rafayel’s lips pop on the last p, and while his eyes swim with amusement you know he’s not joking. You have a sneaky suspicion that the quick turnover of housekeepers might be Rafayel’s doing.

A heavy sigh escapes you and you give in. “Fine. Give me five minutes to put this away.”

“I’m hungry. You get two.”

If this were a different situation, you think you’d clock him. Send one good jab to his gut and knock the wind right out of his billowing, cocky sails.

Free lunch did sound good, and surely you were allowed a break during work, right? God only knows the real reason why Rafaeyl wants you to come with him, because you're certain he’s not being honest.

You fiddle with your hair for a moment in your bathroom mirror and spritz a little perfume to hopefully hide the cleaner smell. You don your coat as you scale the steps back to the main floor and find Rafayel waiting at the elevator in a knee-length overcoat with a cherry red scarf neatly tucked into it. His hands are covered in cozy wool gloves, and he wiggles his fingers at you in a wave when he sees you approach.

You smile at him, the boyish look on his face hard to resist. However, his smile fades.

“Where’s your gloves? And scarf?” His tone is harsh– harsher than it should be for a simple lack of winter accessories.

You glance down at yourself and your coat, “I don’t have any right now. They must all be in storage.”

Rafayel huffs, “How are you supposed to protect me if you can’t even take care of yourself?”

He turns over to the sideboard near the elevator and opens some of the drawers with a stern expression on his face. He pulls out a long cream colored scarf and some charcoal gloves.

“Okay, ouch.” You wince, “But is that what this is? You’re bringing me to protect you?”

“It doesn’t match,” Rafayel notes as he wraps the scarf around your neck and tucks it up to cover your chin, “And the gloves probably won’t fit, but you won’t lose fingers at least.”

“Are we hiking in the snow?” You joke as you slide the gloves on. They’re a little roomy, but worn enough they’re perfectly soft. “I’ll be fine.”

Rafayel just hums to disagree. “We’ll take my car. It’s not far.”

Alright, so not answering your questions then. Rafayel punches the button for the elevator and enters it, raising his brow at you to beckon you to follow him. You sigh and follow him, wondering if this is some game he plays with all the housekeepers, or if there is something particularly fun about tormenting you.

Rafayel’s car is a deep silver two seater with deep red and black interior. It’s more compact and sleek than Zayne’s more broad and cozy sedan. Rafayel grips the wheel like one grips the reins of a horse and he drives like it too.

Once you arrive at the secondary location, you pull out your phone to text Zayne. A quick little heads up that ‘Hey, one of your weird roommates has brought me somewhere. If I don’t return, you know who did it.’

Rafayel keeps his head low as you scurry through the parking garage and down the street of the bustling city center. Wherever he’s leading you, he seems truly concerned that someone might recognize him.

He ducks into a little cafe nestled between two larger businesses, and you follow behind him.

Shaking the flurries from his hair, he sighs in relief. Like making it from the car to here without something happening was like dodging a bullet.

“Are you a celebrity or something?” You blurt, as a hostess and finds you a seat. Rafayel doesn’t reply, too busy rejecting the first and second table the hostess offers before finally accepting a spot near the back near a window.

Rafayel sits across from you and settles in his seat, taking off his scarf and gloves. You mimic and set the garb aside, a small pile on the windowsill.

“I’ll order for you.” Rafayel says before you can even look at the menu.

“Really?” You reply, a touch disappointed. You’re not necessarily picky, but letting a stranger order for you could end in disaster.

“I’m very good at predicting these things.” Rafayel assures as he glances at the menu before tossing it aside, “Like how I know you’re not really a housekeeper.”

His jab doesn’t land the way he intends, as you only roll your eyes, “Pretty sure I am. Signed a contract and everything.”

“That’s not what I mean.” Rafayel says with a wave of his hand, “I mean you’re not a housekeeper by trade. What did you do before this?”

That lands a little closer to its mark, and it takes you a second to find the words. “I was a Hunter. I am a Hunter. I’m just…exploring other options.”

“Uh-huh…” Rafayel drawls looking unconvinced. “I knew you must be something combative. Just the way you hold yourself– housekeepers don’t do that.”

You narrow your eyes, “What does that mean?”

The waitress comes over and pours some water into the stemmed glasses in front of you. Rafayel waves her off when she tries to take a drink order, and you hear her scoff of irritation when she walks away.

“It means you stand like you’re ready to jump at a moment’s notice. Or like something might jump you.” Rafayel sips at his water and then motions with his head to yours– silently telling you to drink.

You do, but only so you don’t argue reflexively to his statement. “You’re generalizing people too much. Housekeepers need to be on their toes too.”

“Yeah, sure, but you’re not really a housekeeper.”

You sigh, “If you have such a problem with it, then I’ll stay away from you. I made a deal with Zayne, that doesn’t need to affect you.”

“Hey, come on cutie, I’m just trying to get to know you.” Rafayel sits up a bit straighter, “How does a hunter become a housekeeper?”

The perpetual lump in your throat that’s lived there for months returns, and you have to look away. Look at the softly drifting flurries as they scatter among the manicured trees along the street, and sparkle between pedestrians. Winter is so beautiful in Linkon, but all you feel is the cold.

“I don’t–” You’re not sure where that sentence was going to take you, but the waitress gratefully returns and asks about your order.

Rafayel huffs like a diva being asked for an autograph and curtly tells the poor woman an order. She doesn’t linger– quickly jotting it down and walking away.

For some reason, Rafayel doesn’t press about his unanswered question and instead leans forward, resting his elbow on the table and his chin in his palm, “I named that color, by the way.”

“Oh yeah?” You ask a little hoarsely, quickly taking another sip of water.

Rafayel’s eyes watch you closely, and you wonder if there’s something on your face. His multi-colored eyes follow the line of your throat as you swallow and the movement of your fingers as you set the glass down, “Yeah, I named it bond.”

You’re only gone from the house for a little over an hour, but you already feel guilty for slacking. Rafayel relinquishes you back to work as he retreats to his studio– mentioning something about inspiration from the cafe.

Rafayel is confusing. One moment you’re sure he’s finding a reason to fire you, and the next you think he might be trying to befriend you. Maybe both? Probably neither.

You decide to head to the gym and get started there while your mind wanders. If it were nicer, you’d open a window but the snow is picking up again and you’re not fond of frostbite.

As you pick up the discarded towels that reek of sweat and musk, you come to the conclusion that Rafayel is a classic eccentric. He probably doesn’t have a goal at all, only following the whims of whatever desire strikes him at the moment. He had wanted to eat, and he didn’t want to go alone– you were there. That was that.

There wasn’t any use in thinking about it further.

Tomorrow is Friday, which means you have another day to get through before shopping on Saturday, but maybe you can talk to Zayne about going early? Or maybe you could order some groceries ?

By the time five o-clock rolls around, the gym is in much better shape. The equipment has been wiped down and sanitised. The floor swept and mopped, and even the free weights were put back where they belong.

You find yourself eager to see Zayne. It’s such an odd sensation, this little fluttering of excitement that’s only riled up further when you recall his little slip this morning.

Before, you’d see Zayne once a week– if you were lucky? He was busy and you were busy and so it was rare that the both of you had the spare time to find one another. Now? Now, there weren’t plans to be scheduled and agendas to be juggled, he could just come home and you would be here.

It tickled something deep and domestic in your tummy. You were one step away from a rom-com, but that train of thought had to be quickly pushed away. Entertaining outlandish fantasies of “Honey, I’m home!” and welcome-back-kisses would only drive you further into insanity.

You retreated to your room to clean up and change before anyone else got home. You knew you smelled at this point, disinfectant clinging to your sleeves and your knees damp from kneeling on the wet gym floor.

The bathtub still called out to you, but you ignored it. Sunday. Sunday you would spend at least four hours in that bathtub.

Once clean you went back downstairs and found Rafayel laying on the couch, tapping on his phone while Zayne stood in the kitchen. He had brought more food again, which was a relief. The containers were bigger and smelled like garlic and oregano– Italian? You wondered if they had a schedule. Thai one night. Italian the next.

“Welcome home.” You call, pulling Zayne’s attention from where he was unpacking the bags. He smiled softly, his eyes almost imperceptibly creasing.

“What about me?” Rafayel said from the couch, “Don’t I get a welcome home?”

You can’t help but laugh, “You’ve been here the whole time?”

“Doesn’t mean I don’t deserve one.” Rafayel is downright pouting now and in favor of avoiding a further headache you walk over to him.

“Welcome home.” You say thick with sarcasm, but he smiles smugly anyway.

“I couldn’t remember what you favored,” Zayne tells you as you enter the kitchen, “I hope bolognese is alright?”

You nod, “Of course. Thanks for thinking of me. I really appreciate you feeding me too.”

Zayne shakes his head like you’re silly for even saying that, but he doesn’t outright argue with you.

“Oh, I was going to ask,” You say as you remember, “Where is the laundry room? I haven’t found it and the towels are piling up. “

“It’s downstairs,” Rafayel says loudly before Zayne can answer.

“It’s near the elevators,” Zayne says, “I’ll show you after we eat.”

You nod and sit down, digging into your food and pleased when Zayne sits beside you again.

After a moment, Rafayel joins you, sitting on your opposite side, and starting up a conversation about how aggravating it is when his manager orders him the wrong mixing mediums.

You finish eating, and retreat to the couch deciding to linger a bit longer than you did yesterday. After spending the beginning of the day cleaning it, it feels only right that you enjoy the clean living room now.

Zayne finishes his meal and hangs his coat up near the door. You’re nearly asleep on the couch when he comes up behind you, cold fingertips against your shoulder, “Let me show you the laundry.”

You perk up, “Right! Show the way.”

Zayne grins and motions with his head, leading you back to the elevators and down to the bottom floor. The floor with the sex dungeon and the storage.

It’s a door tucked away right next to the elevators, and you kick yourself for not noticing it before. It’s a decent sized laundry, with a large washer and dryer and plenty of counter space for folding. There’s a stack of used baskets on one side, and three filled baskets of awaiting laundry on the other.

Zayne closes the door behind you as you exit and you peer down the hall towards that room.

“Hey Zayne?”

“Hm?” He hums, low and almost sleepy.

Even though there’s no one here, you still cup your hand to speak behind it, “Why do you have a….sex room?”

Zayne’s head jerks back from where he’d leaned forward to listen to you whisper, and you watch as red rises to his cheekbones and ears. “W-what?”

“You have a sex dungeon!” You tease him more, keeping your voice at a whisper but relishing in the startled beet he was turning into.

Zayne glances up, looking down the hallway and then back to you, “T-that’s not– I mean.” He practically pants, “That is Sylus’ room. Not a– a sex dungeon.”

“Oh?” You press, not really believing him, “Then why were there whips on the wall?”

Zayne’s fully red at this point, but that’s all that gives away his flustered state. He places a hand to your mid back– not pushing but guiding you down the hall and to the bedroom.

He opens the door and lets it swing open, “There are no whips on the wall.”

You giggle and turn, examining the darkened bedroom and its very sex-dungeony vibes. The red velvet and overstuffed leather furniture. The dim lighting and four poster bed still aren’t convincing you that this isn’t a sex-dungeon.

You point to the other wall where five long handled weapons were displayed, “Look! See? Whips.”

“Those are ceremonial weapons from a tribe in northern africa.” A darkened voice coos from behind you, “The whips are elsewhere.”

You turn and freeze. The silver-haired man hovering just behind you and Zayne. He’s not much taller than Zayne, but there’s something in his gaze that’s so very predatory that you can’t help but shiver.

“Welcome back.” Zayne greets, bypassing the comment his roommate had made. “She believed your room to be some kind of fornication den–”

“Sex-dungeon.” You blurt.

Zayne’s eyes find yours and you feel even more like a butterfly pinned to a board. Had he ever been that piercing? That utterly provocative? You’d only been joking– sort of– but you felt like you tipped the first tile into a domino effect.

A pair of hungry wolves crowding into your space, leaving you nothing but a fragile, bleating lamb.

“How presumptuous,” Sylus drawls, mirth laced in his voice like a drug in wine.

“I’m sorry,” You say lamely, caught in the headlights of their eyes and unable to move.

The hand Zayne had placed on your back moves, trailing upward to linger in between your shoulder blades. You notice Zayne’s expression turn away from you to Sylus, the playfulness fading into something unknown. Something guarded.

“It’s late.” Zayne remarks, his guiding hand drawing you closer to him and away from the doorway. You step away from the darkened bedroom and find a spot next to Zayne at a respectable distance– too much closer and you’re sure he’ll hear your hammering heartbeat.

Sylus chuckles, something low and rumbling as he watches the two of you. “So, I take it you don’t want to come inside?”

“She’s tired.” Zayne replies for you, and you're so stunned by the iciness in his voice that you let him.

“Some other time then.” Sylus replies, adjusting the coat on his shoulder and stepping into the room.

Sylus closes the door behind him, and you’re led– a little starry-eyed — back upstairs. Zayne makes sure you go all the way up to your bedroom, not pausing even for a moment when you spy Xavier in the kitchen, the microwave running and the sharp tang of something burning in the air.

Once at your door, Zayne stops and you turn to him.

“If any of them bother you,” He begins, voice soft.

“They’re alright.” You say quickly, holding your hands out, “Sylus is a little scary and I think Rafayel might hate me, but it’s not bad. I’m not bothered.”

“Don’t let them push you around.” Zayne’s voice drops a little lower, “I brought you here. It’s my responsibility to make sure you’re taken care of.”

“Zayne..” You can’t help but whisper his name, unsure of why that sentence has struck you so severely.

This was supposed to be a temporary fix. A few weeks until the colder months passed and you could convince Jenna to let you come back. You felt bad for pressuring Zayne into this, but he was taking it so seriously.

But that was just how he was, wasn't it? Zayne wasn’t known for taking things lightly or letting things slide. Perhaps he felt obligated as not only your friend, but your doctor to care for you. It made you feel shameful and opportunistic. Maybe this was a bad idea.

“I appreciate everything you do for me.” You reply to him, “I’m sorry I’ve put you in this position.”

Zayne shifts until you're pressed against your closed bedroom door and he’s crowding you there, “You wouldn’t let me do anything else.”

Though you can feel his body heat, you feel more at ease seeing his faint smile, “No, I didn’t. But you can still end this, if it makes you uncomfortable.”

Zayne seems to debate his answer for a moment and very lightly he brings up his hands to brush the backs of his fingers over your jaw, “No. It doesn’t. Does it make you uncomfortable?”

This cannot be good for your heart– is what you almost reply. His hands are always cold. Shimmery with his Evol that remains at the forefront almost all the time. This close to your face, you can almost feel the brisk air of it– the threat of frost like standing in front of an open freezer.

But his cold fingers ignite like flint against steel. Sparks flying against long-awaiting kindling and you’re a helpless fool eager for it to burn. A rational part of you tries to talk some sense into the rest of you. He’s just a friend. Just a good man looking out for you. It doesn’t mean what you think it means.

But oh, what if it did?

Zayne bids you goodnight, and you feel wound too tight to reply. Retreating into your bedroom with a knot in your belly and drumbeat between your legs that goes in time with your hammering heartbeat.

The lock on the door can hardly get switched fast enough and you're stripping off your clothes for bed and tossing them to the ground. The cool air of the room eases the fire under your skin, reminding you of the contrast more than soothing it.

It’s just been a long time. You try to reason with yourself as you go into the bathroom and turn on the shower. You aren’t some lascivious virgin turned on by a brush on the cheek!

But god, you might be?

A knock on the door comes only ten minutes after you and Zayne left, and Sylus assumes that the curious little cat had returned.

He’d already changed out of his outerwear and into something more comfortable, but for the sake of your red-face and hammering heart, he puts on a sweater before answering the door.

Only, you’re not there. No sight of your flustered face and the sound of your heartbeat he could tap along to. Disappointed, and visibly so, Sylus leans against the doorframe and frowns at the other blond that stands there.

“Can I help you?” Sylus asks with a single raised brow.

They’ve overcome the majority of their differences, but he and Xavier aren’t the closest. For the most part, Xavier just avoids him– only seeking him out when matters that only he would know about come up.

“Have you met the housekeeper?” Xavier asks, his airy voice sharp and low. He looks downright grumpy, which is odd considering you’re nothing but a ray of sunshine.

“I have.” Sylus replies, standing up and crossing his arms, “Why? Not to your liking?”

Xavier levels him with an icy stare, edging into the ire and hatred he used to stare at him with not very long ago. The blond man’s jaw is tense and his voice is quiet like he’s worried someone might hear, “She looks familiar.”

Ah, so that’s it. Sylus thinks.The disappointment on his face dissolved, to be replaced with amusement. Xavier was unsettled by your uncanny appearance, and maybe even connected some dots?

“She does? How so?” Sylus says instead of being upfront. It’s clearly taken some courage for the previous prince of Philos to come to him, but Sylus isn’t keen to bend to his whims so easily.

Nothing has been confirmed. No suspicions made clear, but Sylus knows what Xavier means. Unlike the others, only Sylus and Rafayel have the senses to know for certain. Rafayel’s sense of smell is better than his, but Sylus beats him in other ways.

Zayne, the poor bastard, is probably completely oblivious. Blindly following some gut instinct he doesn’t understand.

“Don’t play games,” Xavier hisses, “Have you noticed it or not?”

Sylus blinks, suddenly seeing the truth in Xavier’s eyes. The thinly veiled desperation he was trying to hide behind anger. Confusion for what he felt to be true, but wanted to deny.

“It could be a coincidence.” Sylus says, offering an out in pity for the prince. They’ve all been torn up, chewed up, and spit out in one way or another– all for love. Xavier’s been alive a long time, and sometimes Sylus forgets that. “She looks like a lot of people. If it makes you feel better, I could have Mephisto run a facial recognition search?”

Xavier deflates, turning on his heel to face back down the hall. “No. No. I– I’m just seeing things. Things that don’t exist.”

Sylus hummed, head cocking to the side, “We don’t know for certain she doesn’t exist–”

“We know.” Xavier’s voice is deadly. “We agreed that we wouldn’t search for her. We would attract attention by seeking her out. Especially since she doesn’t exist here.”

The words are harsh, but they’re not for Sylus. He knows that Xavier’s trying to convince himself. Remind himself of a mantra that’s gotten him this far. Held him upright when the ache in his chest got too much.

“It’s late for you.” Sylus says a bit kinder now. “Go to bed. Don’t worry about such things.”

“If you notice something,” Xavier bites out, “You’ll tell me.”

Sylus debates that for a moment. “Sure.” He decides to allow it, if it gets a grumpy Xavier out of his face, and soothes the disgruntled prince, why not?

#love and deepspace #lads #lads x reader #lads sylus #lads zayne #lads rafayel #lads xavier #xavier x reader #zayne x reader #rafayel x reader #sylus x reader #reader insert #long reader insert fic #lads fanfic

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bratbarzal · 5 months ago

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On Your Side (NH13) / Chapter Three

Pairing: Nico Hischier x Fem!OC Poppy Jensen*

*I say it's an OC, it's just a name and third person POV. I use minor character descriptions because I don’t get on with writing vague reader inserts/YN for long-form, story heavy fics, but I will generally try to avoid including race and body type or really any physical descriptors. I’m always open to feedback on my writing, or how to be more inclusive.

WC: 13k

Chapter Warnings: angst obviously what would this story be without it, poppy and nico having an overdue conversation, nico moping again with his big sad brown eyes, nico being jealous again, drinking, cursing, meddling friends, being stood up, mentions of controlling parents as always, a little touching maybe a little more kissing too and even more meddling friends

Summary: Poppy Jensen’s job with the New Jersey Devils was supposed to be her first big step into adulthood - a way to prove to herself and her overbearing parents that she could make her own way in life. She was never supposed to become involved with any of the players. Becoming best friends with their captain was stupid. Getting her heart broken by him was tragic. Getting knocked up with his child was just plain messy.

Series Masterlist

Previous Part (Chapter Two)

A/N: I have nothing to say honestly just hope you enjoy I really don't know why I struggled writing most of this despite knowing what I wanted to do with it I think just figuring out how I want certain conversations to go and how to get from a to b is pure stresssss I'm not entirely in love with it but what can you do also proofread her? I hardly know her

but if you have anything to say pls send it my way lmao I'd really like to hear any thoughts or opinions 💓

Poppy

Poppy was once told by her good friend, Kelsey, that she would be able to tell everything she needed to know about a guy by the way they answered one very simple question.

If you could have any superpower, what would it be?

She thinks about it more often than she really should, if she’s honest with herself, but Kelsey’s rationale behind each potential answer is actually a stroke of rare genius - and Poppy often finds herself applying the logic to most people that she encounters.

Guys who say super speed are the ultimate red flag. No one wants a quick finisher, no matter how fast they may be in any other aspect of life. Some things specifically require time and patience. Sacrificing your partner’s satisfaction all to say you can run the world record fastest 5k is the ultimate ick.

There’s an argument to be made for the endurance choosers, it sure has its perks, but Poppy thinks it’s a boring pick. To be given the option of any superpower, and to choose perseverance, of all things? Get a life.

Anyone who chooses x-ray vision is a certified pervert, obviously. The same could be said for those wanting to read minds, although most of the guys Poppy has seen in her life struggle to comprehend the things she says in plain words, never mind whatever nonsense is circling through her inner thoughts.

Those who choose flying are one dimensional, rarely able to see beyond what’s right in front of them, because, if they could, they’d choose the much better option of teleportation.

Who chooses flying when you could just think about somewhere and instantaneously arrive? With your hair in tact and no risk of bumping into any territorial birds.

Teleportation is what Poppy would have picked if anyone would have asked her a week ago, for the mere fact that commuting anywhere is the bane of her entire existence, and if she thinks too hard about it or looks to much into it, it always has been.

She associates it with sitting in the back of her dad’s Bentley as a child, a tangible, frosty silence lingering in the air between her parents after one of their many even-toned arguments disguised as discussions, the fresh pine scent making her car sick and the leather seats making the back of her thighs sticky.

Or the fragile bones of her hand being crushed by her mother’s tight grip as they rode the Amtrak over to Manhattan, Priscilla sneering at anyone who dared step too close on the crowded carriage, Poppy being dragged throughout department stores in the name of mother-daughter bonding time, and clutching to a tiny consolation Macy’s bag housing a sparkly lip gloss like her life depended on it the whole way home.

She thinks of all the hours of her life she’s wasted on the Palisades Parkway, no longer able to enjoy the scenic route whenever she has to drive back to her parent’s house in Alpine after having watched one too many crime shows where a broken down car leads to a girl’s face plastered all over the news.

Even driving to work can feel like hell when the traffic is bad, what should be a 30 minute drive sometimes turning into an hour, Poppy’s fingers cramping around the wheel and her feet itching to touch solid ground after too long.

Teleportation sounds perfect.

And, there’s even a romance element to it. Being whisked away to Paris in the blink of an eye, suddenly sitting outside a boulangerie, decadent, rich hot chocolate on a table in front of her and a plate full of pastries, all because she mentioned a slight craving for a pain au chocolat.

Teleportation has always been the only correct, green-flag answer to the question.

Until Poppy properly considered time travel, that is.

The concept of it has always been a little too much or her to handle - too many strange loopholes, too many bad examples from the sci-fi movies her brother had loved as a kid. Travelling back in time to when her parents were her age and accidentally capturing her adolescent father’s attention à la Marty McFly? Sounds like hell and horror to Poppy.

But that was before she screwed everything up.

If she could have any superpower right now, currently weighed down with the burden of hindsight - which people have always told her is a funny thing, but she thinks is actually somewhat diabolical - she would pick time travel a thousand times over.

Because if human beings have a specific part of their brain that is dedicated to forcing them to sit and stew on their every poor decision for days on end - lets them rethink and regret everything until they’re blue in the face, and can’t think of anything other than how idiotic they have been - it should also offer the kindness of being able to go back and change what they so royally fucked up.

That’s what Poppy thinks, at least, as she throws herself down onto her bed, her back hitting the duvet in a whoosh and all she can do is stare at the ceiling and wonder how and when she became such a certified moron.

There’s a part of her that suspects it’s in her genes. Inevitable. Unavoidable. Nature and nurture, she was born and raised to be a full blown fool.

Poppy comes from a long line of privilege, and while it does take a certain element of intelligence to amass the wealth her family has, it also tends to go hand in hand with ignorance in its many forms.

Behind every fortuitous business move her father makes are a million other mistakes - failed ventures, bad investments, shoddy pieces of advice accepted from the untrustworthy snakes he surrounds himself with. Hidden beneath every rung of the social ladders her mother has managed to climb, there are the ugly faux-pas’ slipping through the cracks of a former, more unsavoury life she can never run too far from. And her brother - well, she suspects he’s just an idiot, there are no two ways about it.

She knows that she needs to stop blaming her family, though. This time, it’s all her.

She can’t blame her father for the way she overthinks, the man who makes every decision in life with the littlest regard for how anyone else feels about it. She can’t blame her mother for the way she places such little value on herself, the woman who walks into every room like she owns it and refuses to let anyone make her think otherwise.

Except maybe she can.

If she had the nerve to talk to a therapist, they might disagree - might say her overthinking comes from her dad’s lack of communication skills, a part of her brain always filling in the gaps of a half-assed, other side of any conversation with him. Or they might say her insecurities come from her mom constantly putting Poppy down while telling her to be more sure of herself - stop slouching, Poppy, no one will take you seriously with the posture of a candy cane.

She’d love to know where her need to repress her feelings so deep that she becomes an impenetrable, cold, dark fortress comes from. The need to push and shove when someone tries to get too close, because God forbid anything is ever easy when it comes to her affections.

It would have made the past 4 days since Nico had walked into her apartment and kissed the life out of her a whole lot easier.

4 days spent reminiscing, rethinking and regretting every single thing she had said and done since their lips parted, since he had put his heart on the line and she’d whacked it away, full swing, as if too desperate for the victory of a last-bat home run.

If she could time travel, she’d do the whole thing over.

“Don’t go on that date, Mohn.”

She had read the words on his lips before they registered through her ears, the sound of her blood rushing throughout her body occupying every sense for a brief moment.

What the hell is going on?

Nico had kissed her. He’d grabbed her, pulled her into him, and she’s pretty sure he had made her heart stop for a good second - there’s no other justifiable reason for the way it had been reverberating against her ribcage ever since.

And then he stood before her, a desperate, pleading projection playing in his dark irises, lips still slick from where her own had just been, cheeks flushed, shoulders rising with subtle panting breaths, waiting for a response to a question she couldn’t even remember hearing.

“W-what?” She’d stuttered, blinking hard and shaking her head as if to rattle her brain into whatever semblance of cognisance she could muster.

Nico had kissed her, and then wanted to talk? As if she had the brain power left for any kind of discussion after that?

He seemed proud of the mess he had made of her, lips lifting at one side, drawing her gaze immediately to every movement they made, so focused on the memory of how pillowy-soft they had felt against hers that she didn’t notice him stepping a little closer, raising a large hand to tuck her hair behind her ear until she flinched at the contact.

“Sunday, Poppy,” he had uttered, unfazed by her skittishness, “Your date, don’t go.”

She had blinked again, completely overwhelmed on every front. She could still taste him on her tongue, he was so close she could smell his cologne, tunnel vision only seeing him in front of her and the hand that cupped the side of her face in her peripheral, her heartbeat echoing through her skull and every nerve, every slight hair on her body, standing as if trying to close the distance between his body and hers.

It was the sensory overload that made her go against all other instincts.

“I can’t.” Her voice had sounded like it hadn’t been used in weeks, croaky and unsure, her next words stammered, “I can’t not go, I mean. I have to go.”

“You don’t have to go, Poppy,”

“No, I do.” That had sounded a little surer, the fog in her brain slowly clearing only for something more tumultuous to pass through in it’s place. “I don’t understand what’s happening.”

Nico blinked once, then again, frustration clear in the furrow of his thick brows as he seemed to stew on his next words, desperate to say the right thing. There was a prolonged, tense beat, before he had asked, “Have you ever thought we could be more?”

“More?”

“More than friends.”

If her heart hadn’t stopped when he had kissed her, it must have stopped then.

His back straight, eyes looking directly into hers, a hopeful, inquisitive gleam shining from within them - he had never seemed so sure of something for as long as she had known him.

Poppy couldn’t stop the little voice in her head questioning, where the hell has this come from?

“Have you?” She had asked with a eyre of disbelief.

Not once in the years she had known him had he ever made it seem like they could be more. There had always been an unspeakable, undeniable barrier between them. They were friends. They’d always been friends. Just friends.

Friends who spent most of their free, personal time together, friends who bought each other sentimental gifts they’d never get for anyone else, who shared intimate details about their lives and their pasts, and kissed each others heads like a goodbye ritual. Friends who broke each other’s hearts, seemingly beyond repair, without explanation.

“I think so.”

“You think so?”

“I mean,” He had paused, breaking eye contact for a second as if wracking his brain for the right answer, sensing a teetering tension between the two of them. “Yeah. Yes. I have.”

She had narrowed her eyes at him, weighing up the possibility in her mind that she wouldn’t have liked any response he gave to her, every prospective answer causing a flood of doubt and uncertainty to crash in rushing, destructive waves through her mind. “Since when?” She’d asked, trying to level her bite.

If he’d ever thought they could be more, what the hell have they been doing all this time?

“Since I met you, I think,” he had shrugged.

Wrong answer, again.

“And you only bring it up when I have a date with someone else?”

She watched a series of antithetical emotions pass through his features, understanding, confusion, acceptance, denial, resilience, cowardice. He had seemed to find the small margins between all of them, when he had come back with, “It’s not because of your date, Poppy.”

“Then why?” She tilted her head as she continued to analyse him, again not sure what she was looking for, or what she wanted to find. That something tumultuous was already whirling within her, too late to be stopped, and Nico could seemingly see the warning signs.

“Why are you getting mad at me, right now?”

“I’m not mad,” she had denied, not even knowing if she was lying or not, “I’m confused. 2 weeks ago, we weren’t even talking, Nico-,”

“You said you forgave me for that.”

“I didn’t-.” She’d cut herself off before she could say something that would upset him, the conversation spiralling so far out of control from the momentary bliss he had provided only minutes ago - but she was too far up shit’s creek without a paddle, there was no turning back. She’d been wanting to have a proper conversation with Nico all week, what better time than the middle of the night on what was now his birthday? “That’s not exactly what I said.”

He had taken a step back, lips parting with an unreleased gasp, the once-hopeful glint in his eyes transforming into hurt. “You don’t forgive me?”

“I didn’t say that either,” she sighed, wanting answers, not to cause him anguish. “Please don’t put words in my mouth.”

“Then tell me what the hell is wrong? What are you saying?”

“I’m saying I don’t understand where this has come from, Nico! You come in here and kiss me out of nowhere and tell me not to date other people and I’m just supposed to blindly follow along when I don’t get what the hell is happening with you!”

“I think me kissing you makes it pretty obvious what I want to happen, Mohn.” He had tried to ease the tension, his voice level and steady, stepping forward with his hands raised in an attempt to calm her, but she had taken a slight step back, clearly unaffected.

“It doesn’t.” She’d stopped looking at him at that point, keeping an eye on his feet to watch his encroaching steps. “Nothing about you is obvious. You don’t tell me anything and all I can think about is what I did wrong.”

If he couldn’t see the tears pooling at her lashes, he had to have heard the break in her voice - a sure indicator that she was close to crying - but his steps had stopped, feet seemingly stuck to their place on the hardwood flooring of Poppy’s apartment, and she could feel her heart shatter knowing he wasn’t persisting again.

“You didn’t do anything wrong.” He tries to reassure her, but it’s no use.

Maybe she would have believed him if he’d held her while he said it, transferred the meaning through touch to her skin, gripping her with every word until she truly understood the weight of them.

“It had to have been something. You don’t just stop wanting to know a person for no reason, Nico, so what was it?” She made her way to her couch, perching on the edge of the seat with her knees pressed together, and looked over to where he remained standing.

She could feel her temper flaring again.

How could he have the nerve to do this to her - to turn her world upside down in a matter of minutes - and not have the answers she needed to accept it?

“Poppy-,”

“I need to know. I can’t drop it and forget about it, and I’m sorry that I made it seem like I could, but if you want us to move on from this, if you want to come here and kiss me like that, and tell me you don’t want me seeing other people, I need to know what happened.”

“I-,” Nico sighed heavily, shoulders drooping, any confidence and bravado he had displayed after their kiss now a distant memory. “I don’t know.”

She had an immediate, striking thought, that maybe if she asked closed questions, he could give her an answer, and so, with misplaced courage, she asked, “Was it her?”

“What?”

“Your girlfriend. Did she ask you to stop talking to me?”

It was a thought that had been plaguing her for longer than she’d like to admit - unable to shake the idea that maybe Talia had seen one of the texts she had sent, had gone through Nico’s phone and seen any of their older messages, any photos he might have kept on his phone, maybe a memory had come up from snapchat, maybe someone had mentioned Poppy and her curiosity had been piqued.

Poppy had always thought if she was dating someone, and they had a Poppy, she might feel some type of way about it.

But her and Nico were just friends.

Nico rounded the couch, sitting on the cushion beside Poppy, their knees knocking as he reached into her lap and took her shaking hands in his.

“Do you really think I’d stop talking to you just because someone asked me to?” Their eyes had met again, sadness brewing in the dark coffee colour surrounding his dilated pupils, and a glassy film coating her own. “Poppy, I would never.”

“I don’t know what to think, Nico, because you won’t tell me.”

“Because it doesn’t make sense! I try wrapping my head around it, try coming up with some kind of explanation, but nothing I say is going to change what I did to you, Poppy.”

Her question before had gotten her an honest response, had elicited something real and undeniable within him - he’d never stop talking to her because someone asked him to. So it was his own decision, subconscious or not. Maybe she could help dig further, she thought.

“Why did you kiss me?” She asked after a beat.

“I,” Nico pondered over it before rushing his answer, a wave of emotion flashing across his face before his eyes locked on hers, ready to let her in. “Because I wanted to.”

That was a start - a simple question, a straightforward answer.

“Was that the first time that you wanted to?”

“No.”

Poppy could feel some semblance of confidence coming back. Closed questions, concrete answers, she could keep this up.

“When was the last time you wanted to kiss me?”

She could have asked the first - she sure as hell wanted to know it, but if he’d thought of being more the entire time they’d known each other, there was a lingering possibility there were many times - and they would be there until sunrise if they started from the beginning.

“Finnegan’s.”

“The bar?”

“We went there when we came back after we crashed out of the playoffs, do you remember?”

She remembered.

It had only been a couple of days before Nico had left for his summer back home in Switzerland.

Their loss in Carolina had been devastating, the boys came back broken and defeated, and all just wanted to drown their sorrows before they broke for their off-season. Poppy had been out with Nia and Kelsey and a few other friends at another bar when Jack had responded to her instagram story, saying they’d be at the Irish pub that was a staple within the team, and she should come over and join them.

She had made her way over pretty late, wanting to make sure her friends were okay without her, and arrived when most of the boys were completely shit-faced, past the point of tears and moping and deep into a mass state of hysteria and loud jubilation for the successes along the way.

She had found Nico in a booth in the far corner of the bar, head slumped over the back, eyes seemingly tracing the cracks in the ceiling until she crawled into the bench behind him, leaned over with her elbows resting on either side of his head, and took up his entire view.

“What’cha doin’?” She’d asked, lips twisting at the sight of his dizzy eyes trying to correct themselves to focus on her.

He’d quickly given up, pressing his eyes closed to shut out the risk of nausea taking over, the outer corners crinkling, the sides of his nose scrunching and his eyelashes fanning a shadow over his cheekbones - her own eyes were level with his lips, so he couldn’t really hide the way they curved at the quick glimpse of her.

“Suffering,” he had muttered, squinting one eye open to catch a brief, upside down glance of her. Nico was never this down after a few drinks. He was giggly, he was loud, he was touchy and clumsy - he was never the hide away in the corner sad type. “Wanna join me?”

“Always.” She affirmed, making her way around to his side of the booth and sliding in beside him until her bare thigh pressed against the somewhat scratchy linen of the pants he wore.

“I’m probably not the best company tonight,” He remained in the same position, neck craning so the base of his head could rest atop the back of the seat, and his eyes closed - giving Poppy the perfect opportunity to properly look him over.

The few moments they’d had together, alone, over the past few weeks, he’d been pent up, stressed, overworked and on the brink of eruption, so this was the first time in a long time she’d managed to catch him without the weight of the world on his shoulders.

Only, that weight wasn’t so easy to shift.

She saw it in the bags under his eyes, in the unkempt playoff beard he was yet to shave off, in the stuttered way his chest rose and fell with his attempts at deep, calming breaths.

As she watched him, the corner of her lip tucked between her teeth in contemplation, she knew there was nothing she could say to make him feel better about this. He just had to feel it out, process it in his own way without her interference - but she wanted to be there, at least.

And as much as she wanted to tell him it wasn’t his fault, that he did the best he could, and led his team through one of their strongest seasons in recent franchise history, she wanted to provide him comfort in the quiet, too.

“I don’t mind.”

And so, with little trepidation, she placed a hand on his chest, over his heart, and rested her head next to it, glancing up to see the push of a dimple forming on his cheek as his arm stretched around her and welcomed her into his warm embrace.

“You wanted to kiss me then?”

“Yeah,” he nodded, “Didn’t seem like the right time, though,” he followed up with an answer to a question she hadn’t even asked, yet. “I was leaving too soon and I didn’t want you to think I’d just kissed you because I was drunk and upset.”

Her eyes moved to his lips, a question for herself whirling around in her head. Would she have wanted him to kiss her then? What would have happened in the aftermath? Where would they be now? Would she have thought that? Would she have spent her summer stewing over what it meant, and how his lips had felt against hers?

Before she had much time to think it over, Nico continued, being spurred on by such a distinct memory that he was rolling towards the answer she had been waiting for, and she wasn’t going to stop him to try and decipher her own feelings.

“I couldn’t stop thinking about you when I went home, thinking about wanting to kiss you, or not kissing you, and what it all would mean, and I kept trying to distract myself thinking I could just figure it all out when I came back here but then I met Talia, and I felt wrong for thinking about you when I had her.”

That had made sense. Nico was always a guy that would do the right thing. If he had a girlfriend, he wouldn’t think of the prospect of something with someone else, even if that someone was Poppy, and that something was a culmination of years of pent up feelings finally coming together to form something potentially wonderful.

She didn’t quite need or want to hear the rest. Didn’t want to hear how he’d gone looking for a distraction, and found just that.

Nico was loyal, and for him to maintain that essence of himself, he had to ignore the possibility of Poppy. Some subconscious part within him saw her as a threat to the stability he had with the perfect girl from back home, and he boxed her away to make room for what could be with Talia.

It stung, but he was right. Neither of them could change what had already happened.

“Do you think you could ever forgive me?”

She’d nodded after only a second, barely even thinking about it.

Jack’s words from New Years Eve rang through her, suck it up and move on.

Nico had his reasons, she had her answers. He wasn’t bored of her, wasn’t tired of her or annoyed by her. He’d been so caught up by his unspoken, untranslated feelings for her that he twisted himself into untangle-able knots that were only just starting to loosen up enough to be picked apart.

“Could you maybe say it?”

“Yeah, I could.” she had said through trembling lips, the hurt in his voice burrowing through her eardrums, lodging itself in her own throat, and dripping slowly but surely into the depths of her chest. “I will.” She had to be more sure, needing to erase any doubt she had planted within him. “I do.”

“You do?”

He still held her hands in his from when he had sat down, palms warm and slightly perspirant from his tight grip around her knuckles.

“I forgive you.”

His mouth twitched into a shaky smile, his eyes catching the soft light and twinkling with emotion, and she definitely wanted to kiss him, then.

She had wondered if this is what he felt when he’d kissed her before, this burning need. Her fingers twitched in his hold, her heart thudded in her chest, and her lips parted in anticipation, until she could finally slam the breaks on her torpedoing thoughts.

“It’s just a lot to process, and I don’t really know how I feel.”

She had wished she could take it back as soon as the words left her mouth, and Nico’s features had folded as he took them in. He broke eye contact almost immediately, head dropping to look down at their hands until he released hers back into her lap.

“I get it.” He uttered, forcing a smile as he glanced back up at her, briefly. “I sprung this on you out of nowhere, I’m s-,”

“Please don’t apologise,” she interrupted before he could go there, knowing it would send her brain into overdrive if he let even the thought of regret fester between them, “I’m glad you did. I don’t want you to be sorry about it.”

Relief washed over the both of them in a warm, steady stream as he nodded, leaning into the back of the couch, legs spreading as an elongated sigh wracked through his torso.

He ran a hand through his hair, and Poppy’s eyes flickered to the flex of his fingers, the strain of his wrist, the flash of protruding veins where his sleeve had pulled up with the stretch of his movements.

His eyes closed, and she took him in just like she had that night in Finnegan’s bar.

She’d had an urge then, a desire even, to provide comfort - to share his burdens, make him forget the pain he had just endured, wash it all away with encouraging words, gentle touches. A shoulder to cry on, two ears to listen, and, albeit she didn’t entirely know it at the time, a whole heart that was his for the taking.

And take it, he did, held it all summer, bent it all sorts of ways out of shape up until New Years Eve, and it was still in his hands. Smushed, dented, squeezed to within an inch of his life, her heart was his.

It was up to her now to figure out what she wanted him to do with it.

“I made a promise to my mom about the date, Nico, I have to go.”

“Yeah,” he sighed, seemingly resigned to the fact he had maybe been a little too lost in the moment to make such a crazy demand of her.

“And I think maybe we both need a little time to properly think about what is happening here.”

“Time?” He practically shot up, alarm in his eyes.

“We’ve barely been apart all week, Nico, I think that might be why we’re both so,” she struggled for the right word - pent up, emotional, strung out, “Intense.”

She had known she was emotional, overthinking to the point of ruin, but maybe he was too. Maybe that’s what had led to the kiss, to the outburst of sentiment. They were both in the depths of a pressure cooker of emotions, and some space might do them good to gain a little clarity.

Maybe with a little more time to think on it, to consider what he was admitting to, have a little breathing room, and act more on something concrete than a fleeting in-the-moment feeling, he might change his mind. He deserved the opportunity to do so, she wouldn’t hold it against him.

“How much time do you think you would need?”

“I’m driving up to my parent’s house on Friday, so I would have been away for most of the weekend anyway, maybe we check back in on Monday and see where our heads are at?”

“4 days,” he muttered as if he’d just counted them in his head. “I can do that.”

“Yeah?” He had nodded in response, and there was something like hope that lingered between them, sharing small smiles and gazing through glassy eyes. “You’ll be so busy you won’t even get the chance to miss me.”

She believed it to be true - Nico had his family over, would be spending the latter end of the day with them, and had 2 big home games in a row to worry about. Poppy would be the last thing on his mind.

If she had blinked in the moment, she might have missed the way his observation slipped to her lips, lingered there for a brief second, and glanced back up to flicker between her eyes again. “Not possible.”

“Poppy, have you suffered some kind of brain injury I don’t know about?” Nia’s voice rings through the speaker of the phone pressed to her ear, already supposedly-styled hair fanned out around her as she lays staring at the ceiling, willing herself to get up and go before she’s late.

No matter how much she doesn’t want to go on this date, her mother will kill her if she hears anything other than a glowing review. On time, preened to perfection, polite and sociable.

“Maybe I hit my head in my sleep at some point,” she thinks out loud, glancing back to the sharp edges of her bedside table and wondering if she could have thudded into it in the night.

Surely she would have a scar or a bruise.

“You must have,” Nia agrees, “That’s the only logical explanation why you’d ever consider telling the guy you’ve been hung up on since you first met him that you need time to think about how you feel,”

“Ni,” Poppy groans, “I called you for advice, not a lecture.”

“If you play stupid games, you win stupid prizes, and you my friend, are a dumbass.”

“In my defence-,”

“Nope!” Poppy doesn’t know what Nia is doing on the other end, but she hears something clatter as if being slammed down on a table in protest, “There is no defence, you’re an idiot.”

“I didn’t know how I felt about it, Ni,” Poppy sighs, sitting up and catching sight of herself in the mirror. She doesn’t know why so much of her time tonight has been wasted trying to look so good when she doesn’t even want to. When she’d gone to visit her parents, her mother had practically given her a full blown rundown of the guy she was meeting.

Tucker Lyon, she can’t help to instinctively roll her eyes at just his name, works in investment grade finance for one of the Big 4 - she hadn’t cared enough to ask which one. His family are property people, her mom had said, and own enough Manhattan real estate to hold some serious power. Priscilla had met his mother years ago at some luncheon in the city, and apparently the two had been in cahoots since then to set their children up.

Poppy doesn’t want to be set up with some walking red flag, biting her tongue over a plate of food too small to satisfy her hunger while he mansplains stocks and shares to her.

She wants to be in whatever bar the guys are holed up in, tucked under Nico’s arm, side practically glued to his, sipping cocktails and celebrating him like he deserves to be celebrated.

But instead, she can admit, she has been a royal idiot.

“I still don’t know, it’s all come at me full force and I don’t understand my feelings.”

“Bullshit!” Nia scoffs, “You knew you were into him the second he first flashed those dimples your way.”

She isn’t entirely wrong.

Poppy had once harboured a slight crush on him. In the very early stages of their friendship. One small enough that when she realised it was completely one-sided - and she was being delusional to ever think his cute nickname for her and his insistence on spending time only with her was anything more than his attempt to make a friend - she could swallow it down until it was barely anything.

She trained her heart not to stutter when he approached her, told her brain to shut up when he flashed her one of those perfect, all consuming smiles, and could cross her arms to restrain her hands from wanting to hold his whenever they walked side by side.

She’d become so good at suppressing her feelings, she’d forgotten she had them.

She had forgotten all the times they had hung out alone over the years, never second guessing all the looks and the touches, the times he’d let her stay over if it got too late to go home alone, and the times he’d waltz into hers like he owned the place.

She’d forgotten when she had seen him with Talia, always claiming the feeling in her gut was one of loss and reminiscence, not envy and bitterness.

She’d forgotten when the Hughes brothers had helped her move a couple months ago, and Luke had questioned the amount of Nico he was helping to scatter throughout her apartment. Pictures on her bookshelf, pictures stuck to her fridge with souvenir magnets from Swiss gift shops, a couple hoodies, Devils branded shorts and big t-shirts of his he’d come across in the boxes.

“I didn’t realise you and Cap were so close,” Luke had picked a frame out of one of the boxes, the picture of Nico and Poppy at the Halloween party inside, and waved it in her direction as she stood with her hands on her hips, figuring out if she wanted to alphabetise or colour code the books she was displaying.

“Huh?” Poppy tilted her head towards the tall boy, watching as he shook his curls back into place and ran a hand through them. He’d worked up a bit of a sweat lugging her boxes upstairs, and now that everything was finally moved, Jack had gone to get them food, and Poppy and Luke were getting started on unpacking the easy stuff. She looked to the picture in hand, reaching over and taking it to get a closer look. “I guess we were, I don’t really know.” She wasn't a good enough actress to properly pull off the nonchalance she was aiming for.

“You don’t know?” Luke scoffed, rifling through other pictures in the box - all framed, mostly of her and Nico, some just the two of them, some of them in groups, but always side by side. Always grinning ear to ear. “You’ve got like a shrine in here, PJ,”

“It’s not a shrine,” she had argued, “You don’t keep pictures of your friends? Sounds kind of cold, if you ask me, Moosey.”

“I keep pictures on instagram and my phone like a normal person.” He chuckled.

“Generational gap, you kids are done for when the cloud goes down, you know. Physical media is forever.”

“You sound like my mom.” Luke jibed, and true to his nature, unable to stop himself before he inadvertently crossed a line, he asked with a weird wiggle of his eyebrows, “So, you wanna keep Nico forever, huh?”

“Shut up, Luke.” If Poppy had something soft enough, she would have thrown it at his head. The photo frame in hand seemed like overkill, and she didn’t want to hurt the kid, just make him stop. She didn’t much like talking about him, what they once had, what they once were. Even if he did have the wrong impression of what they were. It was upsetting, and she didn’t want to get upset - not in front of Luke. “You can keep those in the box.”

Luke had reached out for the frame in Poppy’s grasp, had watched as she hesitated giving it back, as she looked down and took in the huge smiles on her and Nico’s faces, and as she made the decision not to put this one back. Maybe she could phase it out, wait until she took a nicer, more meaningful picture with someone else before she replaced that one.

“I’ll keep this one out. I look cute.”

"Sure." His sarcasm was not entirely appreciated.

She had heard him chuckle to himself as she stood the frame on one of the shelves, placing it between a scented candle she had no intention of ever lighting and a small faux lavender plant. Not shrine-like at all.

She’d forgotten about any suppressed feelings until Nico kissed her.

Until he opened up Pandora’s box, releasing all her pent up emotions to roam freely, creating chaos and causing havoc through every corner of her entire existence.

For the past 3 days, she’s thought about him with everything she has done.

On Thursday afternoon, sat alone in her office, going over emails and wondering what he would be up to with his family. Was he happy, were they having fun, did he think about her for a second?

On Friday evening, driving alone on the long winding roads to her parent’s house and listening to the commentary for the game on the radio. Making it to the house in time for the 3rd period, and seeing the team celebrate. Was he well rested, excited for his family to watch him play at home, did he look up into the staff suite at the Rock and wish she was there cheering him on?

On Saturday, retreating to her childhood bedroom after another tense family dinner, snuggling up with the dogs on her bed as she watched the game. Was he beating himself up, had he gone straight home on his own after the loss, did he have the same urge to call her as much as she wanted to call him?

Did he, on any of those nights, lay awake thinking about that kiss?

About how right it had felt? How he had exerted his subtle dominance over her with such ease, large hands encompassing her face and holding her to his lips like his life depended on it?

Did he think about where it could have gone if she hadn’t shut him down? Where they could be if he’d made a move before?

She’s been thinking about it. Non-stop thinking about it.

Thinking about that kiss, and the possibility of others - the moment in the bar, all the other potential moments he had wanted to kiss her and hadn’t. The fact that maybe her feelings had never been one sided, and she’s wasted years pushing them down for nothing.

“Do you think I made a mistake not cancelling this date?” She asks her friend in a moment of vulnerability, her mind reeling with the possibility that she has already fucked up what could be.

“No.” Nia assures her, surprisingly. She’s been calling her an idiot all night, what does she mean, ‘no’? “I think he needs to sweat a little, let him think about you out tonight with another guy, and come tomorrow, his mind will be made up.”

“You don’t think we might be overestimating how much it bothers him?”

“Don’t make me call you a dumbass again, Pop.” Poppy can hear the rolling of her best friend’s eyes through the phone. “And send me a picture of your outfit before you leave.”

Nico

Nico has never been so physically uncomfortable in his life.

For a man who plays contact sport for a living - has played it for a good chunk of his existence, and has suffered countless knocks and injuries, slept in one too many uncomfortable positions in planes, buses, trains and even hotel beds, and who’s face has had more than enough encounters with the wrong end of a pair of skates - that is saying a lot.

But every inch of him, every fibre of his entire being, feels irritated in some way.

It’s a feeling like unforeseen static shocks passing over every surface of his skin. Like little bugs crawling all over him and he can’t swat them away. Like random strands of fine hairs that can’t be seen by the naked eye but God, can he feel them. He feels them everywhere.

From the top of his head to the tips of his toes, he feels something prickling, stinging, burning.

Itchy.

Like a scratch he can’t reach in the very middle of his back.

And it’s not like he doesn’t know what it is.

He’s felt it ever since he left Poppy’s apartment in the early hours of Thursday morning. He had hardly slept, getting maybe 3 or 4 hours in before his alarm shrilled from where it charged on his nightstand.

He has tried to use the same coping mechanisms that get him through his bouts of homesickness - where he closes his eyes and tries to provoke a memory for each sense.

He pictures the views from one of his many hikes, endless fields of green grass, crystal clear lakes, winding footpaths and mountains that stretch as far as the eye can see. He imagines gathering around a fondue table back in his favourite restaurant, and can smell the freshly baked bread, can taste the melt-in-the-mouth flavour once it’s been dipped in oozing, melted cheese. He can feel the softness of the freshly washed sheets back in his childhood bedroom and can hear the chorused chirps of the birds outside his window in the early mornings.

It’s a technique that has helped ground him in the past, and he had thought that maybe if he applies the same logic, it will dull the ache in his fingertips that yearn to reach for his phone and text the girl who has asked him for space.

If he thinks hard enough, he can still taste the sweet but subtle vanilla of Poppy’s lip balm. He can smell the fresh-cotton essence of her laundry detergent, can hear the melodic sounds she had hummed into his lips, can feel the softness of her skin on the pads of his fingers, can see, clear as day, the dazed expression etched into her features like she had gotten caught up in the fantasy too.

If it wasn’t so easy for him to mentally transport himself back, he wouldn’t have been able to make it 4 days without seeing her.

He had known it would be hard, but, thankfully, he thinks he got himself enough of a fix to make it to Monday.

He’d taken all he could with just one press of his lips to hers, had taken more of Poppy than he had ever dared to take before, and his subconscious was clinging onto it for dear life, hoping with everything in him she could decide to give him more.

4 days.

He has never known time to be so cruel. For it to drag out every minute like it was an hour.

If his life had a remote control, best believe he would be jamming the hell out of the fast forward button. 4x speed, skip to the next chapter, not wanting or needing to know what happened in the in-between.

He’s always thought himself to have patience - good things come to those who wait, after all - but this had become the ultimate test.

He had tried to immerse himself in whatever was going on each day, hoping they would pass quicker, less painfully, but it had been no use.

His birthday had passed by in a dizzying blur. He’d had a late morning skate, had come home to his family waiting for him, had gone to dinner with them, caught up over Italian food in one of his favourite spots by his apartment, and had driven his parents, his sister and her boyfriend back to their hotel with the promise of dedicating some time to them before the game on Friday.

Every single thing had reminded him of her.

Being at the Rock and wondering where in the building she might be, and if she was reminded of him with the littlest things. If she was thinking about him, what she was thinking about him. Seeing his family, imagining her place at the table as they all exchanged laughter and stories over pasta and wine. Thinking about what she might contribute to the conversation, how she would get along with his sister, how they’d gang up on him and poke fun, but she’d hold his hand under the table and squeeze to let him know it was all in good humour.

In the locker room after the win against the Blackhawks, trying his best to get involved in the celebrations but just wanting to call her, to hear that she had watched, and was proud of him and the team. And even after the loss against the Canucks, he wanted to hear the same. He wanted to go straight to her place, the passenger seat of his car painfully empty as he drove himself home in complete silence.

And he had tried his best not to get too into his head about the whole space thing.

Poppy was right, after all. Things had gotten intense.

He had been intense - marching over to her place and kissing her out of nowhere. As right as it had felt, it was stupid. It was hotheaded and impulsive and it wasn’t considerate of her feelings.

But, God, he was so caught up on her he couldn’t help himself. He should have seen in the days they had spent together prior that they needed to speak more about everything before he threw himself at her like a neanderthal.

He’d only considered what conclusion he had reached, and as much as his conversation with the guys on the plane gave him an idea of Poppy’s mindset, some words needed to be exchanged before he planted one straight on her. The whole thing could have gone so much better if he just knew how to communicate everything with her properly.

Even before the kiss. Before New Years, before Talia, before Summer - if he knew how to speak about his developing feelings for her, this whole mess could have been avoided.

He wouldn’t be sat alone in a bar, yet again, as his friends surround him, partaking in the celebrations that are supposed to revolve around him, wallowing in self pity.

He wouldn’t be thinking about Poppy, out in some fancy restaurant somewhere else in the city, with some stick-up-his-ass loser who doesn’t deserve a second of her time, and imagining her giving him one of those earth shattering smiles - the one where her the outside of her eyes crinkle in the corners, and every time he sees it he imagines the lines settling there as she ages, and it’s always a version of the two of them, old and grey, side by side, smiling together.

He imagines her taking him back to her apartment, curling up with him on the couch Nico helped her haul up the stairs after she had found it for crazy cheap off of some sketchy ad on Facebook marketplace. He sees her slowly replacing all those pictures she has of her and Nico with pictures of her and him, phasing him out of her space like she would eventually phase him out of his life.

He thinks about her taking him to her bedroom - the one he had yet to see in her new apartment, but imagines it’s just like her old one; way too many pillows and throws, a thick, plush duvet that looks like she’s climbing into a cloud, and a beat up stuffed toy her grandmother had given her when she was young.

He doesn’t want to wish that Poppy is currently welcoming someone into her life that doesn’t suit her, but he can’t help himself.

He hopes this guy is late - and doesn’t even apologise for it. He hopes he orders off the menu for her, or criticises her choice of wine for not pairing with her choice of food like a complete snob. He hopes he’s awful to wait-staff. He hopes he’s type of guy who writes a suggestion on the tip line of his receipt instead of leaving a minimum of 20%. He hopes he chews with his mouth open, spits when he talks and scrapes his knife along the ceramic of his plate as he cuts his food, causing that toe curling sound that makes Poppy want to scream.

He hopes he doesn’t offer her his jacket, because she always refuses to take one out. He hopes he doesn’t think to give her a piggy back, because she always wears shoes out she knows she doesn’t want to walk in, but always wants to walk home if it’s nice out. He hopes he walks on the inside of the sidewalk, leaving her to the dangers of walking roadside, and walks too quick for her to keep up with little regard for how she likes to take her time on a night and stretch the evening out.

He even hopes he smokes. Poppy hates smokers. And if, God forbid, they kiss, he’ll have smoker’s breath, and she won’t want to do it again.

She won’t stand in front of him, eyes glazed over, lashes fluttering, brows furrowing, lips still pouting and fingers twitching to reach back out, yearning for more.

She won’t even kiss him back.

Not like she had kissed Nico. Not like she had clutched at his shirt like she wanted to hold him close to her forever. He wouldn’t get to hear that sweet, subdued sound she had made when his tongue had swiped tentatively at hers, or feel that slight pressure of when her lips had closed around it, sucking almost at the muscle before opening back up to allow for more of a taste.

No one else can get that.

No one else will savour it like Nico has, thinking about is for days on end, replaying the moment over and over until he has perfect recall of every small detail.

It’s probably a good thing she hasn’t shared much detail about this date, Nico thinks as he swirls the ice around his empty drink, sat right at the bar away from the sectioned-off area that Timo had rented out for the party.

If he knew more about it - about the who, about the where - he probably would be in a cab by now, knowing he was crossing a line but unable to do anything about it, his will outweighing any common courtesy just as it had a few nights ago. Or he would have spent the last few days in a google deep-dive, trying to figure out the kind of man her mother would approve of. Enough to set her up, at least - he doubts Priscilla Jensen entirely approves of anyone.

Nico finally makes eye contact with the bartender, and as she starts to make her way over, he feels like a divine intervention occurs - an arm falling onto the bar top beside his, a glimmer of metal flashing into his dark eyes - the reflection bouncing from a bracelet that is welded around the base of a slender hand.

“I’ll take another of these,” he lifts his glass when the bartender arrives, gesturing to the old fashioned he’d somehow landed on over beer tonight, “And whatever she’s having, please.”

“Vodka diet coke, please,” a voice rings out from beside him, and once the bartender busies herself with the order, she asks, “Shouldn’t I be the one getting you a drink? I heard it’s your birthday,”

“Why should either of us pay when it’s going on a tab?” He chuckles, angling his body better to face her.

“Ooh la-la, a tab,” Nia mocks, “Now I feel like I’m a part of an elite club!”

“I find it hard to believe you’ve never had your drinks put on someone else’s tab before.”

“Not the New Jersey Devils captain himself, it’s such an honour!” She raises a manicured hand and presses it to her chest, a playful smile etched into her features.

“Did you come over here just to poke fun at me?” Nico asks, touching on the dynamic that has long been between the two of them. She mocks him, mostly all bark and no bite, he takes it on the chest, knowing she’s doing it from of her warped version of almost sibling-like love, and Poppy usually acts as the mostly-unnecessary mediator, dividing her attention between them both.

“Of course I did,” she affirms, “You looked all mopey and miserable, how could I not?”

“How is me waiting for a drink ‘mopey’?”

“Uh, let me think,” she taps her finger to her chin, before lifting it to point at each feature she references, “The huge pout on your lips, your giant caterpillar eyebrows all slanted and frowny-,”

“Forget I asked,” he mutters, lifting his lips into a quick smile and thanking the girl behind the bar as she brings them their drinks. “Didn’t know you’d be out tonight,”

“I’ll be sure to send you an e-vite to my google calendar when I get home later.”

Nico’s throat tightens slightly at how similar Nia and Poppy are - always quick with a response, most of the time sarcastic, most of the time able to elicit a genuine laugh to rumble from the depths of his chest. “I see why you and Poppy are so close.”

“Hm,” she hums, making a show of checking her phone, “You barely made it two minutes, but it could be a new record.”

“A new record?”

“For how long you can go in conversation without mentioning her.”

“She’s your best friend, the one person we have in common, it’s normal for me to bring her up, Nia.” He reaches for his drink to take a gulp, hoping the ice might make his throat feel a little better.

He doesn’t even know why he’s denying his lack of willpower when it comes to Poppy - 2 minutes actually seems like quite the achievement when he thinks about how long he’s restrained himself from reaching out over the past 4 days. Nia approaching him like this has been the perfect excuse to think about her - to talk about her without feeling like he’s overstepping or assuming.

He could use this to his advantage.

“Is she a good kisser?”

Or not.

He chokes on his drink, thankful the liquid isn’t coming out of his nose with how much he hadn’t been expecting that question.

“She looks like she would be. I’ve always thought about it but there’s never been a right time to try it out. Maybe I should take a leaf outta your book and lay it on thick and fast when she least expects it.”

How he even thought he could gain advantage in this conversation is beyond belief. He’s out of his depth with Nia, as usual. She isn’t afraid to call him out - she never has been - and she’s the one person in the world Poppy would confide in. Of course she knows about the kiss.

“Is that what she said, I laid it on thick and fast,”

“Wouldn’t you like to know, lover boy.” She chuckles, picking up her cocktail and stepping away from him, “Thanks for the drink, Nico, try to enjoy the rest of your birthday party.”

“Wait!” He reaches out to stop her, not wanting to let a golden opportunity slip from his hands so easily. “You would have bought me a drink before, for my birthday?”

“I think you earn about 5 times my annual salary in a month, so probably not.”

“How about you answer a question for me?” He proposes, “As a gift.”

“I could,” she sighs, sitting down in the stool beside him, “But I heard you get touchy after gifts.”

He immediately regrets asking, but not enough to let her go. He’s come this far, and he has 4 days worth of questions he desperately needs answers to.

“Funny,” he gives a condescending smile, which clearly pleases her as she gives a genuine one back, lifting her spare hand to gesture for him to carry on. As if it’s that easy to narrow down all the things he wants to ask her.

One question.

What did she say about the kiss? Did she like it? Would she do it again?

What did she say about him? About how she feels? About what she wants?

Where is she right now? What did she tell Nia about the date? About the who?

“The guy she’s out with,” he can’t even bring himself to say the D word, “Is he nice?”

The look she gives him is almost pitiful. In fact, there is no almost about it. She clearly thinks he’s pathetic, but it’s too late to retract the question now that it’s out there.

“I don’t think so.”

He doesn’t like the way his stomach turns at her answer.

He had wanted this, right? For him to be a gratuity-withholding, uncouth slob with bad breath.

But the thought of her being out with someone that has the potential to hurt her, hurts him. His chest feels tight, his head feels muddled, and that everlasting itch returns to the tips of his fingers - the weight of his cellphone becoming that much heavier in his back pocket.

“I mean,” she carries on with a shrug and reaches for her own phone, “He was a no-show, so we’ll never actually know for sure.” She swipes at her phone until she brings up her message thread with Poppy, turning up the brightness to show Nico the picture she had asked her to send earlier.

It’s a selfie taken in the overly tall mirror she had once made him pick up from Ikea, claiming it wouldn’t fit in her car and his was much bigger, and he doesn’t know why his first instinct is to scan the background just to confirm his earlier intuitions about her bedroom. Too many pillows, cloud-like duvet. He can’t see the stuffed toy, but he assumes it’s somewhere in there.

Poppy looks unbelievable.

Her dress is short, like the one she had worn on New Years, fits snug around her waist and emphasises her curves in all the best ways. Her legs seem to go on for miles, adorned in knee high boots no doubt to provide some semblance of warmth. Her hair is pulled back, and she wears gold jewellery - rings, some small hoop earrings, and he’s only just able to stop his fingers reaching out to pinch at the screen because he can see the gemstone bracelet without the need to zoom in.

“Can’t be that nice if you’re standing up a girl that gorgeous, huh?” Nia asks, suggestively, leaning her chin into the palm of her spare hand as she looks up at Nico. “Some guys just don’t know how good they’ve got it.”

He figures he actually should be embarrassed about the relief that floods through him - washes over his entire demeanour, expression changing from defeated to victorious in a matter of mere seconds.

The crease that seems to have permanently formed between his brows smooths out, posture corrects itself, and his lips even almost turn up into a smile.

There’s a childish, territorial voice within him that wants to exclaim, Thank God! But he’s grateful that he’s able to mute it.

And, despite being privy to Nia’s games - despite knowing exactly what trap he is being lured into, what he’s about to fall for - he can’t help but suggest, “You should tell her to come out.” Because, despite knowing he had taken the bait, he can’t find it within himself to care. “I think I asked her one too many times to ask again.”

The one thing he had twisted himself into knots over since first hearing her utter the word date, hadn’t actually come to fruition.

There is no date. There is no uncouth slob.

There is Poppy, dressed as pretty as she is, practically waiting for someone to show her a good time.

He can do that. He wants to do it - to be the someone that’s good to her.

“Oh, should I?” Nia asks, a knowing smirk causing her lips to twitch mischievously. She’s been playing him this whole time, and once again, he doesn’t care. “I don’t know, she seems resigned to spending the evening on her couch watching New Girl,” she sighs dramatically, clearly looking for incentive - once again, reminding him too much of the girl he longs for. “I don’t know if there’s much convincing to be done.”

“I’ll add you to the tab for the night.”

Rookie mistake, offering something up so quick.

“Is that all my efforts are worth to you, Nico, a few measly drinks?”

“What do you want?”

“I’m actually out with a client tonight,” she looks back somewhere toward the other side of the bar, Nico can’t even bring himself to follow her gaze. “Been trying to sign them to my agency for a while, and if I can fix this deal, I’m up for a promotion.”

“Nia,” he warns, not liking how long this story is becoming. Forget good things come to those who wait. He’s waited long enough. “What do you want?”

“They’re big Devils fans, I think a night with the team could really open them up to the benefits of working with me.”

“Bring them into our section.”

“And maybe some tickets, too.”

“Fine.”

Nia gives him a triumphant smile, “Great, I’ll let them know.” She salutes him as she stands back up, gathering her drink and phone between the fingers of one hand before backing away. “Nice doing business with you, Captain.”

“Aren’t you gonna text her?”

“Oh, Nico,” she jeers, using her free hand to grasp him by the chin. “Dear, sweet, naive Nico,” she gives his head a subtle shake before patting at his shoulder condescendingly, “She’s already on her way.”

If anyone asks, Nico isn’t admitting to keeping an eye on the door since Nia had made her way back over to her side of the bar, but he knows as soon as Poppy has arrived. He watches her make her way over to her friend, watches the two of them embrace and talk between themselves for a good minute. He watches and waits until her eyes meet his from across the crowded room, and it’s like everything else stops.

He’d somehow managed to immerse himself in the party spirit since he had found out she was coming, fitting back into the group, toasting along with them, engaging in conversations with his teammates, his mood vastly improved in comparison to earlier in the night - of which he’s sure Timo is relieved after his short-lived exile from Nico’s good graces — but everything fades to black when he sees her lips curve upwards from afar.

Someone is talking beside him - hopefully not to him, he thinks, he doesn’t remember being mid-discussion with anyone - but it’s just drowned out mumbling right now, and all he can do is tilt his head toward the doors that lead to the bathrooms, and wait for her to respond. When she nods and separates herself from Nia, he excuses himself from the group, edging out of their section and following her path, losing her a little in the thick crowd of people - the bar still packed from where they had played the Giants game earlier.

When he gets through the doors, he’s thankful no one else is lingering back there - no rowdy queue for the bathroom, no staff, no one but him and the girl who seems to be holding his heart like a hot potato, not knowing the best way to carry it without getting burned.

“Hi.” It’s a weak starter for a heavy conversation, but if he’s honest with himself, she’s taken his breath away.

The picture from before hadn’t done her justice. She’s a little worn into her look for the evening now, hair not so neat, skin a little shiny, lipstick faded - but this is exactly how he likes her, especially when he takes in the way her eyes gleam and her cheeks puff out with her smile.

He makes a conscious effort not to let his eyes drift directly to the smile - to her lips, which even the thought of them elicits such a vivid memory.

“Surprise!” she sings quietly, arms outstretched and hands shaking theatrically.

He steps toward her with his hands behind his back, fingers clasped together until he’s confident that his knuckles turn white, fighting the urge to curl his arm around her waist and pull her into him, needing to be closer. He watches intently as her eyes flick down to where his hands should be.

She backs into the wall behind her, not to escape his approach, but more to prepare herself for it - like she’s settling in and embracing it.

She isn’t running. She isn’t pushing.

She’s waiting.

“I’ve missed you.” Nico wastes no time in telling her the truth - telling her what she’s refused to believe every other time he’s said it, but he can tell with the tilting of her head and the rounding of her eyes that understanding has settled within her. She has no comeback, no it’s only been a few days, and he thinks she must have felt the drag of them in the same way.

“I’ve missed you, too.”

Whatever anxiety has rooted itself deep inside him for the past 4 days dissipates almost immediately.

“I haven’t stopped thinking about you.” He admits, without shame or reluctance. After Poppy had helped him overcome whatever had been censoring him before, there is no point now in holding back or beating around the bush. “You look so good, Mohn.”

A rush of confidence allows for him to close the gap, standing right before her as she leans against the wall, neck craning ever so slightly to look up at him. He still won’t touch, hands laying against the stone at either side of her hips, not daring yet to let even a sliver of his finger graze at her flesh.

“You look good, too.” She breathes, eyes glancing down to do an appreciative once over of his outfit, and he doesn’t miss the glint of pride cross through her eyes when she catches the glimpse of the gold that peaks out from the neck of his sweatshirt.

“I’m sorry about your date.”

“Are you?” Her lips twist into a knowing smile. It’s an example of one of her many traits that he loves - she can detect his bullshit a mile off.

“Mmhm,” he nods, “I’m sorry a world exists where any man is stupid enough to stand you up, Poppy.”

“I’m the stupid one,” she argues, and he misses her gaze as soon as she takes it away, eyes darting to the floor in embarrassment. “I should have listened to you and cancelled in the first place.”

“I was stupid to ask that.”

“Maybe we’re both stupid.”

“Definitely.” He probably shouldn’t be agreeing to her calling herself stupid, but it comes out before he can think too much on it. They’ve both wasted too much time.

“Did you have a good birthday?” She asks, and a slight movement between them catches his eye, her fingers twisting together as if she’s withholding her touch, too.

“It’s better now.” He smiles fondly as she rolls her eyes.

“How are your family?”

“They’re good.” He doesn’t want to go into too much detail about how shamefully miserable he has been over the past few days - doesn’t want to tell her how his mom had called him out on his lack of contribution to conversations, and he’d managed to pin it on the stress of the season. She still raises a brow at his insufficient answer, and he expands before she can tell him off. “Everyone but Luca made it out, my sister had to go back already for work, but my parents booked a trip to Halifax to visit the Phillips’, I lived with them when I played up there, they have a few friends to visit in Canada but they’ll drop back to see me again before they fly home.”

He feels the tickle of soft fingertips at the inside of his arm, slowly grazing down as he speaks, and as he watches Poppy, he thinks she must not realise she’s doing it - letting intuition take over as she’s distracted by the conversation. He lets her take the lead on initiating any touching, and it takes all the restraint he has left not to barge through the door she’s attempting to slowly eke open. She’s the only person in the world who could make him audibly hear the metaphorical creaking.

“Did they get to watch you win?”

He doesn’t even know why he finds himself grinning at the question, but the tone in which she asks it bears a hint of pride. She had watched the game on Friday.

“My dad was pretty much in the stands in full gear, everything but the pads and skates, and my mom was repping Foundation merch, she’s run off across the border with my beanie.” He likes the way her face lights up.

“I’ll get you another.” She raises her other hand to card her fingers through his hair, and, for once, he’s thankful not to be wearing any sort of hat. The soft scratch of her nails is soothing, and he just about manages to stop himself leaning into her touch and purring like a cat.

That would be embarrassing.

He feels outnumbered, both of her hands on him, and it feels unfair not to be touching her - so when his thumb extends itself on the wall just beside her hip and strokes at the soft fabric of her dress until it’s softly digging in, he watches intently for any hesitation before he lays a palm flat against her side.

It feels like things are progressing both torturously slow and overwhelmingly fast at the same time. His heart feels like it’s slamming into either side of his ribcage, and like nothing else occupies his chest, the sound of it echoing as if banging on the walls of a deep, empty cavern.

“Did I already tell you how much I missed you?” He honestly can’t remember, but he’ll tell her again if he needs to.

The hand that had run through his hair rests now on the side of his head, her thumb swiping softly at his cheek as she cups the side of his face, and before he can even make sense of what is happening, he’s being pulled forward.

He bends to her advances with quick reflexes to avoid clashing, and their noses bump just before their lips meet.

Her chest rolls forward until it presses into his, and both his hands grab at her sides to pull her flush against him, legs tangling, hips pushing together, bodies touching everywhere possible all the way up to their mouths.

He gives her all the control otherwise, allows her to determine the pace, responding to her every move and every touch with fervour and heat. She pulls at him, one hand grasping at his sweatshirt and the other cradling the side of his neck, and he quickly lifts one to stifle the blow to her head as she collides back with the wall, barely noticing the pain where his knuckles meet the stone.

Their tongues press together at the same time, and Nico doesn’t even realise his lack of patience got the better of him until their battle for dominance kicks off between their lips.

He can taste the same vanilla lip balm, can smell her signature coconut scent, can hear soft, subtle moans, can only see the back of his eyelids, not daring to open them, just wanting to feel. And he can feel everything.

He feels the softness of her hair beneath the hand that is protecting her head from the discomfort of resting against the hard surface behind her, can feel the skirt of her dress bunching up in his grip, can feel her touch, fingertips dancing at the the base of his skull, thumb pressing into his jaw, her other hand making that same grabby gesture at the thick fabric covering his torso, squished between his heart and her chest, and he thinks he can feel the thump of her own heart on the other side.

He can feel her thigh pressed between his, the friction causing a heat to build deep in the pit of his stomach, swirling and whirling down, down, down until it culminates into the hard press of his hips into hers, and a rushed gasp combined with a guttural groan causes their lips to part.

They take deep breaths in unison, their chests bumping with every inhale, and he tries otherwise not to move.

He opens his eyes to find hers still closed, scrunched shut, even, and he tries not to be selfish - ignores the need to get a good look at her, to have this version of her ingrained to his memory too - and attempts to coax her back to him.

“Poppy,” he sounds just about as breathless as he feels. “Are you good?”

She hums in response, a subtle nod given, but he needs to hear her say it, and he tells her as much with a quick squeeze to her hip. Her eyes flutter open, gleaming and bright, framed by thick lashes and crinkling slightly at the outer corners as her lips turn up into a mischievous grin. “Better now.”

His chest feels like it’s about to burst open, like there’s a bear within him that is going to break out and pull her into its clutches, dragging her back safe to her home in his heart.

“Do you want to get out of here?” He asks, because he has to - he doesn’t care if it’s rude to leave his own birthday party, doesn’t care that he’s been the most ungrateful person in the world all night.

He’ll make it up to Timo, get him something big the next birthday of his that rolls around. Throw him a party. Or he’ll take care of the tab the next time they’re out. Maybe even let him have the window seat the next time they’re on the same plane home.

Except, he won’t be doing any of that. He’ll be taking the reins on booking flights and putting Timo straight into economy, smack-bang in the middle of a row surrounded by a family of 5, screaming kids, arguing parents, the back of his seat being kicked the whole 8 hours to Zurich.

Because, just as Poppy’s swollen lips part to accept his advances - as her chin lifts, about to drop with a big affirmative nod, and he’s about to get everything he’s wanted the past 4 days and beyond - the doors to the back swing open, and his 6 foot teammate stumbles through, arms outstretched as he notices the two of them practically intertwined.

“Here you are!” He exclaims, voice booming in comparison to the soft breathy tones he and Poppy had been previously speaking in. “Poppy, you made it!”

“Hi Timo,” Nico feels her retreat, feels her legs brush past his and back to her own space, her hand on his chest now the only part of her that touches him, and he follows her lead, taking his hands back and trying not to clench his jaw or his fists as she converses with the man who was once his friend. “How are you doing?”

“I’m alright, should be back on the ice in a couple weeks.” Timo had suffered an injury in one of their games at the back end of December, and hasn’t been fit to travel, and Nico finds an unspeakably bitter part of himself wishing it was something to do with Timo’s legs that were injured so he couldn’t have interrupted their moment. “Glad you’re here, this one has been miserable all night.”

He can’t be this oblivious, Nico thinks. Why is he still here? Why isn’t he retreating back to the bar and leaving the two of them to whatever he had clearly barged in on.

And when Nico looks back to his teammate, his long time friend, he sees the oh-so-evident glint of mischief and disobedience in his grey-blue eyes.

He is getting his own back.

Nico knows he was petulant to blame Timo for Poppy not being invited, knows there was nothing he could have done to change her going out on a date, or them not speaking for months while he was with Talia.

He doesn’t need him to enact his revenge to see he was wrong to ignore his texts, or to mope around at the party he had put so much effort into.

He tries to give him a pleading look to stop whatever he is trying to do, but it’s no use.

“The guys will want to see you, Poppy, Jack’s beating himself up about his shoulder, could use a friendly face.”

“Oh,” Poppy casts a glance back to Nico, and he gives her a nod, implying that she go see to her friend. “I’ll go find him.”

He can wait. He’s waited 4 days. He’s waited years, in fact.

And, after that kiss, he knows he won’t have to wait much longer.

“You’re a real dick, you know that?” Nico mutters in their shared native language once he’s watched Poppy disappear through the doors to the bar, with a quick glance back and an apologetic smile before they closed.

“Just saving my brooding captain from being arrested for public indecency,” Timo shrugs with a shit-eating grin as he passes Nico and heads toward the bathrooms further down the hall. “You’re welcome!” He calls back in English, raising his hands and giving a patronising thumbs up.

Nico runs a hand through his hair, pushing it out of his face and wishing it was Poppy’s in its place.

It’s just an hour, maybe two, in the presence of his friends. Drinks, music, everyone in a good mood for the most part. It’s hardly like he’s walking out into a press conference after a 5 game losing streak and about to have all the blame placed upon his shoulders.

It’s a party.

Poppy’s here.

He can do this.

He can wait.

Next Chapter

taglist: @alwaysclassyeagle @bunbunbl0gs @idgaf-if-youre-here @youflowerr-youfeast @thearchersstuff @bellsdi0r @wonderheartz @jjgsunflower @butterflies35 @kenziepickle @josierosie @laheyxlover @mrsmattytkachuk (sorry if your tag hasn't worked btw or if I forgot you I'm a muppet tbh)

#nico hischier #nico hischier x oc #nico hischier fanfiction #nhl fanfiction #*writing #*oys #anywayyyy!!!!!!#sorry for the wait on this one I had poppy's half written really quick and then I couldn't figure out where to go with Nico's part #which is why the beginning is sort of rushed #and also the middle #and the end #I have a big chunk of the next chapter written so hopefully I can get that up soon #I keep trying not to say specific timeframes because do I ever meet them no #like I said Thursday night for this it's currently 2:30 Friday afternoon #so not !!that!! late but what a weird time to post I just want it out lmao #anyway if you ever read this far into my tags I say this not to spoil anything but to prepare you #the next chapter will be smut (potentially poorly written I will leave that up to you to decide)#omg I just remembered and have to include this because my manifestation powers are out of control #I wrote that little random fondue line before I left for my holiday last week and then within days the pics came out of him eating fondue #what should I write next who wants more workout vids I'll make it happen

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batsplat · 8 months ago

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You cannot imagine how giddy I get when I see you've posted a nice long thesis on the riders. And the timezones work as such that I see it during breakfast and it MAKES MY ENTIRE DAY. The content just keeps tumbling around in my brain the whole day. Thank you!!!💛💛💛

this is so incredibly kind that I really don't know what to say... so I'm going to fire off a random undercooked take that is very very far away from thesis territory. featuring the 2015 season

in 2022, jorge gave one of his own regularly scheduled takes on the 2015 season. he offered up a bit of an unusual opinion by focusing on the argentina clash that year - which he that "crucial" in the collapse of the marc/valentino relationship:

(god, can you imagine having a workplace falling out so bad that seven years later it's still an active topic of speculation what exactly the precipitating event was, and several of your coworkers enjoy regularly weighing in with their thoughts? like man they'll never be allowed to rest)

I find this really interesting coming from jorge. one of the fun things about that season is the degree of genuine ambiguity that exists about all of the major on-track flashpoints. was one of valentino or marc responsible for the argentina crash? was the cutting of the chicane at assen premeditated by valentino? and, of course, did valentino really kick marc at sepang? that being said... the argentina one has always been the one where it just seemed... unfortunate timing, shit happens. it's more on marc, he made a misjudgement and also just took a bit too much risk in the context of the title fight, but complete racing incident. that's the reason why this is a slightly odd take from jorge. it's the one incident nobody really has pinned on valentino, certainly not the commentators or the commentariat or otherwise or anyone

to be clear - this post isn't about figuring out what 'really happened' at argentina 2015, it's more about... well, how it was perceived at the time, and what that tells us. but, just to quickly get this out of the way: from the outside (and with the obvious caveat of 'what do I know'), it's a little tricky to see how you'd solely blame valentino for the collision. valentino is by this point clearly ahead of marc, he's literally just been bumped into by marc so may also not have been 100% in control of the bike, and he's taking a regular line into the next turn... when marc essentially rides so closely to him that valentino turning the bike takes out marc's front wheel. even if vale's deliberately trying to ride defensively against marc, he's perfectly entitled to do so. I know jorge doesn't actually specify valentino crashed marc out deliberately, but given the specific situation, I feel like that's what you're implying when you're saying he's "responsible". you're suggesting valentino knew where marc was and essentially purposefully moved the bike across to wipe out marc's front wheel and... look. I suppose it's possible, though valentino's also allowed to some extent to deliberately make the life of the guy behind him harder. more likely, this is just what happens when two hard racers race each other and insist on practically sitting on each other's bikes when they're on track together - sometimes it'll go wrong. except, of course, that won't stop controversy from breaking out... especially not when it's these two. here, from one of the write ups of the race, is a description of the two of them I've always been fond of:

which is very them, yes. same type of guy, slightly different flavour, both with carefully cultivated reputations. but look, the main takeaway is this: we don't know their actual intentions. I don't know if valentino deliberately made contact with marc. let's be honest, marc doesn't know if valentino deliberately made contact. only valentino knows that. jorge lorenzo certainly doesn't know that. so why is this the incident he brought up?

in part, I'm curious how jorge even got that impression that marc was mad, and also why he thinks valentino was to blame. the latter, okay, jorge isn't naturally inclined to be generous towards valentino's particular style of racing, not least because he's fallen foul of it a fair few times over the years (though I'd say valentino on occasion was rather less subtle than that against jorge lol). but why is this the thing jorge brings up? I mean, you'd think he'd point to assen as the turning point, given he was literally sitting in that extremely awkward post-race presser and clearly very much enjoyed the whole thing. does he know marc was mad at valentino for argentina? that marc "didn't like it"? was this some kind of paddock rumour at the time? would there have been any basis for that rumour?

so, marc himself was quick to publicly deny that he was angry at valentino, something he reiterated at the next race in jerez. immediately post-race, he said the following:

and the official statement:

it's still far from the snarky digs of the post-assen presser, but to me this is a little open to interpretation. I always find 'learn' a very interesting verb. casey over the years was particularly keen on using that word, typically in relation to valentino, to the point where when you see that his tweet commemorating valentino's retirement includes the phrase "I learnt a lot from you".... well, that can be read in lots of ways, not all of them positive. it kind of depends on what you're learning, right? when casey uses it, the implication is basically that valentino was an asshole and casey had to learn to play his games and be more selfish fighting vale. marc uses the word four times in the interview, plus again in the statement. valentino has a certain reputation, a reputation marc is of course more than aware of. he is known for... not being a cheat, necessarily, but being a little underhanded in his tactics, a little devious. yes, valentino did a good job in managing the race, but also in the "melee". "you learn different things and different strategies". what kind of different strategies, marc? are we sure he's talking about tyre preservation here?

(speaking of tyre preservation, one of the reasons why marc was probably feeling particularly disinclined to let valentino go without a fight was the fuckery with the tyre choices. long story short, tyre choice was a big talking point due to the extreme wear they'd had the year before and the extra compound bridgestone had developed. marc made a bit of a show of faffing about with a late switch that he kept concealed until basically the last moment, presumably to fuck with his competitors who were tensely waiting to see what he'd pick. valentino, who had opted for the hardest option, said after the race that he'd ignored what marc was doing because he knew there was only one choice for the yamaha anyway. so in the end it didn't really work to unsettled his key rival and also... well, I mean, marc was two laps away from the tyre choice working in the race, but not quite! just couldn't build up the lead he needed to prevent valentino from reeling him in)

also, "in the end you can see perfectly what happens" is not technically the same thing as saying valentino was not to blame for the incident. it's a phrasing that shies carefully away from actually giving marc's own take on the incident. basically telling the viewer to draw their own conclusions from what they've seen on tv - even though of course marc does make clear he sees it as a racing incident. it's the kind of vague statement that marc has occasionally popped out over the years, at times perhaps implying more than outright stating he has a problem with a certain incident, which does make you maybe raise an eyebrow or two at how he words it here. it's just... listen, it could be 100% innocent and the whole thing isn't flirting with disaster as much as assen is, far from it, but it's the kind of thing where with 20/20 hindsight you do kinda go. hm.

there is a little more evidence that marc was indeed mad at valentino for what happened at argentina... if valentino is to believed and marc's manager told him so directly after sepang:

(why, if you are marc marquez's manager, do you go to valentino rossi after sepang 2015 to tell valentino you think marc was angry at him for losing him the title. why would you do this. what are you trying to accomplish here)

do I believe this conversation happened? yeah, kinda, because it feels like an odd and very specific thing to make up. that's just a gut feeling thing - I have zero evidence either way obviously. I think at most it's plausible valentino misinterpreted what alzamora was saying. of course, the words "as much" do set off an alarm bell or two, maybe suggesting alzamora didn't directly tell him the bits about argentina and assen. but, y'know, it's also entirely possible marc did think valentino had deliberately taken him out in argentina, especially in the heat of the moment - and his team would very much have been aware of his feelings on the matter. not fun to crash out of the penultimate lap. not when clashing with the championship leader, who is also your hero and who you've generally gotten the better of... not easy not easy

anyway, again, this is definitely a bit of an undercooked take, but it's always nice to get a little bit of insight into what the paddock vibes were at the time. if there are many people - and if there were many people back then - who think that valentino had deliberately taken out marc, that he should have apologised to marc, that marc was mad at valentino.... if it got back to valentino through alzamora, did he hear it from other people too? to what extent was this kind of thing common wisdom within the paddock, or are these takes literally nobody but jorge believes in? we don't know, but it's interesting! argentina is kinda the unloved child of 2015 divorce incidents. partly because it does look so innocuous, partly because it's harder to ascribe ill intent, partly because the two parties are far more pleasant to each other in the aftermath. that's why jorge coming back to this specific incident has stuck with me... in all honesty, I don't really trust jorge to be a particularly good judge of marc and valentino's interpersonal chemistry at any given moment in time, but did he see the cracks beginning to emerge so early in the season? to what extent did argentina already make things visibly less comfortable between the pair of them? why does jorge think marc wanted an apology?

if marc really was particularly angry, then it does go to show how quickly he flipped the switch himself when it came to valentino, swiftly reappraising him as a serious rival who should be treated as such. also, let's put aside a minute what valentino's actual intentions were... it's revealing if marc did think valentino was deliberately fucking him over here. (which, given he's repeatedly using the word "learn" - if he does think valentino's responsible as jorge suggests, then he also doesn't think it was just an innocent lil mistake. you don't 'learn' from your hero making an error, you learn from them riding in a way that wins them the race by crashing you out.) like, y'know how in this post I was saying marc obviously was perfectly aware of valentino's past history, including the feuding and controversy of it all? I mean, if you want proof of how aware he was, look at assen 2015! he's clearly immediately suspicious of valentino and his motives... because he knows what valentino's like, because he knows that 'planning to exploit a grey area in the rules by deliberately allowing marc to make contact before cutting the chicane' is absolutely the kind of sneaky shit valentino is renowned for. what if marc does share jorge's belief that valentino is responsible for the argentina crash? if marc thinks valentino did so deliberately, then that tells you something about how marc sees valentino, no?

obviously they both massively over-correct when they arrive at jerez, which is how we get 'in bed remains the same' and lingering hugs feat. hip-stroking in parc fermé, all that stuff. if it did plant a little seed of suspicion, a little seed of doubt, then that maybe helps explain why they were focused on each other more than they were on the guy who won the next four races - even when it became increasingly clear jorge was the championship favourite. which is what it comes back to for me - the fact that such a seemingly innocuous incident was allowed to blossom into so much more shows there was already something there between the pair of them. the championship might be one thing... but somehow, if given half a chance, they were always going to see each other as their number one rival

#this is so lovely to read seriously... I'm awful about compliments but it really is appreciated #all I have to offer is lukewarm takes in thanks #yoro #//#brr brr #this isn't really relevant but jorge's 'on race day something always happened' like 'rain'... buddy that. that is part of the game. come on #silverstone was WET wet misano flag to flag motegi drying track. it's not like Big Yellow got out the rain machines #he's right that the 2015 season shouldn't have been close given he was fighting a washed up 36 year old but like. buddy that's on you #also I'm gonna be honest the time stamps are completely misleading... all scheduled or when the insomnia wakes me up too early #'why schedule for the middle of the night' idk it's a slightly silly habit I picked up as a teen for a different blog and never kicked #something about spreading out posts without distracting myself during the day by making last minute edits #I find athletes easy to understand because I operate on a similar wavelength of natural neuroticism #batsplat responds #idol tag

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