#very PROUD of this one fellas... (lights cigar)

[skullrock]

the partners, chapter 5 - Steve x Reader

chapter 5 - I know it’s over 

series summary: you and Steve are police apprentices at Hawkins Police Station in the fall of 1986. you get along famously, but there’s something Steve is hiding, and there is an unknown evil lurking in Hawkins. [friends to lovers, angst, hurt/comfort, fluff]

chapter summary: You and Steve head to Bartini to investigate; you pursue your feelings for Steve with devastating results. 

warnings: swearing, angst!!!!!!!!!, drinking, mentions of getting sick 

word count: 4k (oof!)

a/n: here’s the Spotify playlist that goes with the series, and you can catch up here. pirate door scene from this and make sure you buckle up for this chapter fellas

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Saturday comes around, and you prep for the night. You throw on your disguise, which is just a dress that you typically would not wear and a wig from Halloween a few years ago. You attempt to do some makeup that you wouldn’t typically do as well – Steve said it had to be good.  Steve also recommended carrying a weapon, just in case – you grab a switchblade and tuck it into a garter that your mother had given you years ago. You find yourself obsessing over how you look, and you’re not sure if it’s because you’re worried of being caught or worried that you won’t look good enough for Steve.

Your palms get sweatier the closer you get to his house, and your heart rate picks up. You mentally kick yourself over this, but it’s not like it helps.

You pull up to his house around 10 pm, honking the horn once to signal your arrival. Steve steps out a few seconds later. You can’t see much of him in the dark, but you can make out that he’s carrying something pretty large in his hand. Your brows furrow and you watch as he opens the back door, the back seat illuminated by the light in your car. He throws in a wooden bat, riddled with nails, and shuts the door.

Shocked is an understatement.

“Hey!” he says, climbing into the car.

You can’t talk for a moment. “Steve, what-“

“You look so great,” he says, and he means it. He thinks you look downright breathtaking, not that he would admit that to himself or anyone else.

“No,” you say harshly, turning the lights in the car on. “What the hell is that?” You point to the backseat.

He looks at you innocently. “A bat.”

“Steve, that’s not a bat. That’s a fucking – that’s a war weapon. That’s shit they used to use in medieval times to kill- to kill monsters and shit.”

He is impressed by your accidental accuracy.

“We might need it,” he retorts.

You shake your head in disbelief and laugh slightly. “For what?”

“Just trust me, alright?”

“Who even gave that to you?”

“Jonathan.”

“Jonathan Byers?!”

“Yes.”

You stare at him, slack jawed. “What?!”

“Look,” he sighs. “I need you to drop this and just trust me, okay?”

“Okay, but you can’t take that into the bar.”

“I won’t,” he says. “I just – I need it, alright?”

You don’t understand, but he’s your best friend and you care about him, so you relent. It’s now that you notice him, looking sleek in his black duster, sunglasses hanging off his shirt. His hair is slicked back. He looks like a movie star, and it catches you off guard.

“What’s this?” you muse finally, tugging on his jacket.

“It’s my risky business costume from ’84,” he smiles. “Do you like it?”

“No,” you respond, to his surprise. “You don’t look different enough.”

Steve scoffs. “What do you mean? My hair is slicked back, dude.”

You roll your eyes and grab your bag, sifting through it. He watches you nervously, making sure to take his eyes away from looking at your exposed thighs, because it’s weird to look at your friend like that. He looks away sharply and clears his throat, running a hand through his hair. You eventually produce a stick of black eyeliner and red chapstick.

“No,” he says. “No way!”

“You have to!” you plea.

“You are not putting makeup on me,” he huffs. “End of discussion.”

“Steve, stop being so fragile,” you say, exasperated. “Men in makeup look hot.”

He stills. “Do you think?”

“I don’t think, I know,” you say, twirling the eyeliner in your hand. “Now lean over here and close your eyes.”

Steve does as you request, closing his eyes and leaning over to rest his arms on the center console. He laughs awkwardly as you begin. The little lighting in the car isn’t much, but it doesn’t have to be perfect. He has sunglasses, anyway. You quickly put it on, smudging it, explain to him that yes, you need to smudge it, and no, this isn’t a joke.

“Open,” you say, and he opens his eyes.

You’re both just inches apart, and your eyes lock. Your stomach flips and palms sweat. You want to look away, but you couldn’t – you were completely enamored, impressed with his warm brown irises, the speckles of gold within them, how happy and soft he looks as he meets your gaze.

“Um,” you say finally, dropping your eyes down to the chapstick. “You’ll need this, too – it’ll tint your lips.”

“I’m going to look like a vampire,” he mumbles, amused, and you smile gently. You uncap the chapstick, but instead of giving it to him to do himself, you lean over and run it across his lips. His heart skips, but he figures it’s just from surprise. No one has ever applied chapstick on him before – well, not this way. You run it along his lips slowly, making sure to get every crevice. You now notice just how soft his lips look – like pillows, red and lush, as soft as his eyes. Your eyes linger a little too long, and you don’t notice that you slowed down, stopping your swipe half way.

“Uh, Y/N?” he says through the chapstick.

“Oh, shit,” you whisper. “Sorry – I was just – uh – I was thinking about something else.”

He quirks a brow, but doesn’t question it.

Steve’s nervous – no, Steve’s scared shitless. He had the shakes the entire day, considering not going through with the plan. He was horrified at the aspect of getting caught again, but more importantly, he was worried about you getting hurt. He would never be able to live with the guilt of getting you into something dangerous. The very thought of you getting the same treatment he did last year makes his stomach turn, makes him feel faint, makes him breathless. He was momentarily distracted from the fear when he saw you, but it’s back full force as you drive to the other side of town.

You notice his stiffness and the tension in the air. “Steve?”

“I’m scared,” he says, teeth chattering.

Your brows pull together in worry. “Do you want me to pull over?”

“No,” he says quickly. “No – I’ll be alright.”

You know better than to ask for an elaboration. You glance over at him and see his hands shaking, so you grab one and squeeze it. He squeezes back, and it’s a nice gesture – the bond of trust that you both have, solid and strong.

You pull into the parking lot at the bar and shut the car off. You turn to face him fully. He really looks like a vampire with his face drained of all color, terrified, but he swallows the apprehension and smiles. You smile back gently.

“ID?” you ask. He pulls his out and shows it to you – your hook-up was able to be quick and got it to you within a few days. Steve’s fake name was “Ford Skywalker” – you tried to explain that it was a silly name that was way too obvious, but he insisted.

“Weapon?” Your eyes glance to the bat, but he pats his hip and nods.

“Warning phrase?”

“Ghostbusters is on.”

You nod and sigh heavily. “Let’s do this.”

Steve is shitfaced within an hour.

You had suggested he try to drink something to get his nerves calmed, but he went a bit overboard. While you socialized and tried to find any clues that something was happening, Steve slammed back beer after beer. He felt lighter, better, happier with each sip, and by the time he was totally slammed, he was nearly in bliss.

Steve walks over to where you’re leaning against a tall table, where you’re nursing your first beer and observing the crowd. The bar was admittedly a bit crazier than you expected, more of a club than anything. Lots of people were dancing, the music was loud; if it weren’t for the potential tie to a murder, you’d think it was a great place.

Steve’s eyes are again drawn to your exposed legs, but also to your exposed neck. He thinks to himself how beautiful you look, how beautiful you always look, how it seems like you don’t even have to put effort into it.

“Hey,” he says as he leans in beside you. You smell him and know he’s gone too far. You open your mouth to scold him, but he cuts you off.

“You see that door over there?” he says, pointing towards a darkened corner. “The one that says ‘pirate’?”

You follow his gaze, eyes hardening when you see the door he is talking about.

“You think a pirate lives in there?”

You turn to look at him, pupils flaring. “I see a door marked private.”

Steve opens and closes his mouth a few times, embarrassed in his drunken state. “Uh… that’s – yeah, I said that?”

“No –“

“What did you think I said?” he slurs.

“Steve, you definitely said –“

“Are we gonna go find out if a pirate lives in there or what?”

You sigh out your entire soul and pinch the bridge of your nose. He is the one who suggested going to this bar, and now you’re carrying nearly all the weight of this investigation while he gets hammered. It’s irritating, to say the least, and all the weird things he has done since this started creep into your memory. But he did point out the door, and you hadn’t seen it before, so at least he was good for something tonight.

“Stay here while I go check it out,” you say. “I mean it – stay put.”

He salutes, then adds, “I’ll miss you.”

You ignore the butterflies in your stomach and head over to the door.

Upon closer inspection, it reads “VIP – PRIVATE LOUNGE.” Your brows furrow and you look around before pressing your ear to the door. Of course it’s loud all around you, and you can hardly hear – but you definitely hear some voices behind the door, and the language does not sound like anything you knew. You look around again and drop to the floor, peaking under it. You can see shoes, which is a start, but nothing very helpful. You sigh and dust yourself off, heading back to where you left Steve.

Except he wasn’t there.

You groan and search the crowd. He’s not very hard to find, dancing erratically in the middle of the floor, arms flailing about. You should have known better – of course he was going to dance. He dances all the time when he’s sober; it must increase tenfold when he’s drunk. You push past people to reach him, and he looks happier than you’ve ever seen him. It breaks your heart a bit. You wish he was this happy all the time, this carefree. His eyes reach yours and he grabs you quickly, pulling you to him. You open your mouth to protest, but the song changes.

It’s Come on Eileen. It’s Steve’s favorite.

“Oh, fuck yeah!” he shouts, fist punching the air, and he grabs you again, spinning you around before dancing.

Seeing Steve dance sober was a spectacle enough. Seeing Steve dance drunk was almost too much to handle.

His body has no limits. His arms fly out, he spins, he kicks. His head bangs so hard that it must hurt, but he doesn’t care. He doesn’t have a care in the world – all he notices is the beat, the music. Steve moves all around, crazily, happily, and you can’t help but laugh at the sheer delight he exhibits.

You think he looks beautiful. You think maybe you love him.

He grabs you and spins you again. “Dance with me!”

You decide that you will, letting some stress off of you, too. He flings his arms around your waist as the song slows. You wrap yours around his neck and stare up at him, once again captured by his eyes. He’s caught by yours, too, and he thinks he feels even dizzier while he looks at you, hardly even moving, just taking you in.

As the pace picks up, Steve’s hands slide up, grabbing yours. He clutches them tightly and smirks before spinning you. It garners attention, and you beg him to stop, but he keeps spinning you until the song takes off again. He spins on his own and continues to dance while you laugh and catch your breath. You wish you were still mad at him, but seeing him like this makes you remember why he was so special to you.

The song fades and he turns to look at you. He’s smiling widely, but then his face falls.

“I’m gonna be sick.”

You usher him outside quickly and pat his back as he leans over a set of bushes. He pulls back and wipes his mouth, making your face scrunch. He smiles cheekily. “You’re cute when you’re grossed out.”

“Come on, Ford,” you say, leading him to your car. You get the door for him and he bows, laughing nearly hysterically, before climbing in.

“If you puke in my car, you’re dead,” you warn, and he nods with a thumbs up.

As you drive, his hands reach over to you and rest on your knee. Your heart leaps to your throat, but you try to seem unfazed. “Getting handsy, buddy?”

“Legs,” he responds.

You pause. “Yes.”

“They’re nice,” he says, rubbing circles into your knee. You roll your eyes as you scream internally.

You pull into his house, bat forgotten in the back seat, and you help him inside. He steps inside and shouts, “Daddy’s home!” before reaching into the pockets of his duster and pulling out two cans of pepper spray.

Your eyes follow the cans as they drop to the floor, head racing – didn’t he just point to his hip earlier? He continues to undress, for no apparent reason.

“Hey, hey,” you say, lunging for him before he takes his shirt off. “You’ve got company, bud.”

“Oops!”

Steve reaches down into his pockets and pulls out a swiss army knife and a tactical pen. He reaches into his waistband and produces another knife, similar to the one you have. You’re thoroughly shocked and confused. “What the hell is this all about?”

He looks at you like you’re stupid. “I have to have weapons, Y/N.”

“Where did you even get these? Did Jonathan get you them, too?”

“Nah,” he slurs. “Got ‘em myself after last year.”

Your heart slams in your chest and you want an explanation, but you know you won’t get one. What the hell happened to him last year that makes him carry around this kind of shit? And that bat?!

“Why are you looking at me like that?” he asks. He steps towards you and wraps his arms around your waist. Your cheeks flush but you have no complaints. His hand reaches down and he runs it lightly up your leg. “I know where you keep yours!”

“Steve!”

“What?” he asks, genuine confusion written on his features. You step out of his grasp (it was admittedly not that tight) and he seems to forget the incident even happened. You’re disappointed with yourself – disappointed that you wanted more than that, and the heat of his fingers was still felt on your thigh. You shake your head to clear it and you sit him on the couch. After getting him a water bottle and some pills to take in the morning when he inevitably has a hangover, you pull him back up again. You guide him to the bathroom and he brushes his teeth.

He frowns as he looks at himself in the mirror, then grabs a washcloth and wipes the makeup off. “I look like a clown.”

“You are a clown,” you tease, and he smiles, content with the observation. He runs his hands through his hair rapidly to release the gelled-down locks and shakes it out. It’s wild, but quite handsome.

“Better?” he asks.

“That’s up to you, champ,” you say, taking his arm and leading him into his bedroom.

“Did I tell you that you have a really nice house?” you ask, lugging him down the hall.

“Do you wanna tour?” he asks, stumbling a bit.

“I want you to sleep, Harrington.”

You follow his lead to find his bedroom, as there are quite a few doors in his house. You’re surprised at how well kept it is – he even made his bed.

“Thought you’d be a slob,” you quip, and he shakes his head vigorously, but has no verbal retort.

You look away as he changes into a shirt and boxers, instead focusing on putting the pills and water bottle down and getting his bed ready for him. You hear him come up behind you and begin to turn, but he grabs you by the waist and pulls you right into bed with him.

You don’t know if this is your worst nightmare or best dream. You’d always wanted to be close to him like this, but not like this. Not while he’s drunk and stumbling, slurring his words together. But the feeling of his arms wrapped around you, pressing you against him, was nearly too much to handle.

“Stay,” he whispers. “Please.”

“Steve,” you whisper back, avoiding eye contact. You know if you look at him that you’re fucked.

“Please,” he repeats, pulling you tighter. Your hands rest on his chest, and you chance a look up.

Big mistake.

To you, his eyes say everything. Steve looks at you like you’re the only person in the world. It’s intense and passionate, yet quiet and contemplative. His lips are quirked up in a smile, and you don’t know if you’ve ever seen a more beautiful sight than him above you, messy hair covering his forehead, eyes locked with yours.

Robin’s warning rings through your head. “You need to be careful with him.”

“I’m worried you’re going to fall for him, and not be able to have him.”

Maybe Robin was right – or maybe she was wrong. She’d been wrong before – one time she told you a note was an E flat when it was an F sharp, and one time she told you that it was spaghetti for lunch when it was actually hamburgers. So she could be wrong about this, right? And drunk people are the most truthful, aren’t they? Steve’s being pretty handsy and sweet tonight. Maybe she was wrong.

“Steve.”

He leans in, not to kiss, but because he can’t hear you.  

But you think it’s for a kiss.

“Are you sure?” you whisper, barely audible.

He thinks you’re talking about staying the night.

“Yeah,” he slurs, brows knitted. “Of course.”

You smile, heart soaring. If you’ve ever been this happy before, you don’t remember.

You start to lean in, and Steve’s brows knit together even more, to the point that it hurts. For a second, he’s confused – but then he gets it.

He’s out of the bed in less than a second.

You blink in surprise and sit up, pain and confusion coursing through you. Steve sobers up enough to realize this cannot happen. He sobers up enough to remember why he can’t be with you, why he swallows his feelings, why he has been vague and discreet with you the past few weeks. He remembers why he didn’t hang out with you for a long time.

He remembers why he can’t have you.

The room is silent before he finally speaks. “What are you doing?”

“I thought –“

“What are you doing?”

It feels like a slap in the face. Irritated and hurt, you respond, “Well, I thought you were trying to kiss me.”

He shakes his head, eyes wide. “What? Why?”

You crawl out of the bed, standing on the opposite side of Steve. “Because I asked if you were sure, and you said ‘of course’?”

He blinks, dumbfounded. “No, I didn’t.”

Confusion twists into you deeper. “Yes, you did?”

“Y/N,” he breathes. “I can’t kiss you.”

“Why?” You’re hurt, but more confused than anything. Like Steve is trying to pull a sick joke or something. “You’ve been feeling me up all night – looking at me like –“

“Like what?” he snaps.

You shrink, eyes downcast. “I don’t know.”

“Like what?” he repeats, standing still as a statue. His anger grows and he directs it towards you. “Like what, Y/N?”

You shake your head, desperate. “Like – like you – I don’t know, like you thought… like you liked me.”

He shakes his head again. “Y/N, we’re just friends. We’re friends. I’m sorry if you misinterpreted things.”

Your heart pangs. Your confusion turns to fury. “Why do you always lie?”

“What?”

“Why can’t you be real with me, for one minute? Just one minute? Why can’t you tell me what’s going on – why can’t you be real with me?”

He crosses his arms and scoffs. “Want me to be real with you?”

You nod.

“It is impossible for me to love you.”

The silence that falls over the room is deafening. You swear you could hear your heart breaking, splintering apart like wood.

The pause lasts a long time. Finally, meekly, you whisper, “Do you mean that?”

“Of course, I mean it,” he spits, eyes glaring into yours. They aren’t warm anymore; they’re cold and unforgiving. They’re mean. They’re sharp and harsh. “It’s impossible for me to love you, to be with you, to think about you like that. I could never be with someone like you.”

Steve’s voice is unwavering, as is his gaze. He reminds you of stone, rough and painful and cold. The confession, however, is devastating, and it takes a conscious effort for you to keep upright. You swallow hard as a million thoughts race into your mind, as your emotions come and go rapidly.

“I thought you changed,” you finally say, voice cracking. You can’t stop the hot tears from falling onto your cheeks. “I thought you changed, Steve. But you’re the same asshole you were in high school.”

You turn on your heels, beelining for the door. As you swing it open, you look back at him – his face is still nothing but mean and uninviting. You’ve never seen him like that before. “Enjoy being alone again, your highness.”

You slam the door behind you but stop yourself from going down the stairs. A part of you thinks he will come out and get you – wrap you up in his arms like he always does, pull you to him, say he’s sorry.

But he never comes.

You descend the stairs slowly, listening with strained ears for any sound of him following you.

Nothing.

You pause at the front door, fiddling with the lock. You click it so that it’s ready to lock behind you. You look back up the steps, but only find darkness. You look forward again and step over the threshold, slamming the door behind you.

Steve crumbles to the ground when he hears the front door close. He puts his head in his hands and sobs, pulling his arms around himself tightly. The image of you, heartbroken, sad, devastated, all because of him, floods through his mind.

He tried to protect you the wrong way, from the wrong people.

He’s not really sure why he’s so upset – it’s not like he’s never lost friends through a big blow out before. And he doesn’t regret pushing you away – it’s what needed to be done to keep you safe. But the emptiness he feels inside himself is greater than he felt when he cut off Tommy and Carol, and he can’t understand. All he knows is that it hurts.

You lean against the steering wheel of your car, absolutely enraged that it still smells like his woodsy cologne. You sit up to wipe at your face and remember the bat in your back seat. You feel the urge to bring it in to him, but you can’t bring yourself to go back in. Instead, you grab a Smiths album from your console – playing it not only because you’d feel it, but also because you know Steve hates them – and blast it as you pull out of his driveway and careen down the road.

You didn’t notice the black car sitting on the corner as you sped off, and you didn’t notice it pull into Steve’s driveway as you left him behind you.

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taglist (join here): @harrington-ofhawkins @wolfish-willow @gothackedalready @m-blasterrr @sourapplebaby @bluebellbrooke​ @sassisaluxury​ @comedy-witch​ 

[dilfhakyeon-moved]

So I'm a sucker for JackCrutchie and saw your amazing headcanons, got any ideas of how their first date would go (canon era)? No worries if you don't want to do this!

   two poor boys ? on a date ? in 1899 ?

yes

(:

two for sure

i’m so done with my writing but accept all these gays

Jack hadn’t wanted this, but Crutchie had insisted. ‘I’ll pay,’ he said. ‘We can afford it ! We deserve that, I thinks.’

That’s what he’d said - now it was the evening, after a long uneventful day, and at this point he was just waiting next to the lodging house, his foot tapping nervously against the ground. He’d hoped Crutchie wouldn’t be too late, but it seemed he was taking his time… oh, oh– maybe he should go get him ? Maybe he was in danger. 

… No. He was getting anxious for no reason. Crutchie would be fine, they’d won the strike, they… everything was fine. Life was a bit better. Not perfect, but better, and they’d be just fine, everything… god.

“Hey, Jack !”

The light voice rang, getting Jack’s head to perk up in its direction.

Of course, it was Crutchie, but he wasn’t alone ; the confusion was obvious on Jack’s face. Why was… someone else there ? What was this about ? Was Crutchie about to–

“I’d thunk it’d maybe be dangerous if we went together,” Crutchie began explaining, a gentle smile on his face to maybe appease his now boyfriend. “ ‘Cause we’re boys. But if we’s three, then it’s less suspicious.”

Oh… Clever. Jack’s gaze went back to the third boy’s face, and he gave a nod.

“Well, uh… thanks, Dave.”

A smile was lying on the taller teen’s face, perhaps a bit absent-mindedly. “No problem. Just helping two fellas out.”

That was reassuring. With Davey there, they could always get out of a situation anyway, right ? And they’d earned that small, peaceful time. Even if they weren’t alone, that was fine. That was good enough, especially since they were going to go out in public. Not that they’d be looked at, but security first.

“Okay, let’s get goin’ !”

And they went ; but as they began heading to that bar thing Crutchie had chosen, Jack couldn’t help but notice the… sort of sad look in their friend’s eyes. Sadness ? No, he was miserable. He was hurting, and Kelly wasn’t blind.

But he said nothing yet, and the date went well.

After spending a whole evening flirting and cracking jokes, Jack and Crutchie pretty much staying the same as always despite the growing, obvious discomfort in their friend’s stance, they had to head home.

But Jack was… drunk. And drunk Jack didn’t make the best decision.

There he was, slinging one arm around Crutchie’s shoulders, his other arm around Davey’s - who flinched at that -, with a huge grin on his face.

“ ‘t was a good evenin’, wasn’t it ?”

He got a nod from Davey, and a sleepy hum from Crutchie. Good, good reactions.

“So, fellas, I’d got this thing I’d thunk about an’ it’s interestin’, I… thinks.”

“Youse drunk, ‘s always interesting,” Crutchie replied, with a sort of slurred speech too.

But they were both drunk, and neither of them noticed just how… flustered Davey had gotten, from that arm around his shoulders. They were busy being themselves, and being drunk, being gay. Well, maybe a bit more for Jack.

“So like I’s said it’s interestin’, Dave, listen… listen. I thinks that uh, we… the Heads o’ the Newsboys, their dads…”

The taller teen was anxious, sure, but also mildly concerned.

“… should be, all official dads, together.”

Crutchie giggled. “What’s that mean ?”

“Means like, I can… I can kiss both when I wants ! An’ they can do that too, an’ all…”

Clearly, only Davey wasn’t drunk, and only he was completely embarrassed. Perhaps not embarrassed, but he was at the very least on the verge of tears. This was quite overwhelming ; did Jack mean that ?

“I– Jack, I think that uh, you’re… drunk. A- and, you need to sleep ! Yes, sleep, um… you can both sleep over, I guess, like– like I’ll sleep on the floor or… with Les, I don’t know, but… I’ll give you my bed.”

He managed to stutter. Yes, that’s what good friends do… and he totally wasn’t head over heels for both his friends ! One of them who was now joking about dating him, aha… great.

“ ‘Dunno, David, that sounds cool to me. Ya got a nice face, you’re a good friend…” The blond to Jack’s side began mumbling, keeping his soft sleepy grin. “We could be official Newsdads.”

Fucking cheesy, God. Who would even think of writing or saying such bull ?

“Yea, right, Dave– Let’s be Newsdads !” Jack added.

Stop repeating that word, for Heaven’s sake.

“I think… I think that we should be Newsasleep right now,” Davey only muttered, cursing at himself. Newsasleep was so cursed.

Except they all woke up in Davey’s bed, and all cuddling too. Davey woke up last, to make things easier ; Crutchie and Jack simply had decided to keep lying down with him by his sides, sometimes exchanging a few words about a headache and a certain bedmate.

Is bedmate cursed too ?

Either way, that was how Jack and Crutchie’s first date had gone. Well, he could honestly be proud of himself ! He’d… saved the day, and nothing had gone wrong. He could pat himself on the back, and act like none of that drunk foolishness had happened.

“Your eyes’ open, Dave.”

Ah, shit.

“My head hurts, Dave. Kiss it better.”

Don’t be a whiny baby, Jack.

( Davey kissed his forehead better. )

“Hey, Dave, can I get one too ?”

Charles Morris, why ?

( Davey kissed Crutchie’s forehead better too. )

This was exhausting. He’d just woken up, and he had to go through these two boys’ shenanigans. Did he deserve it ? Absolutely not. This was slanderous.

“The offer still stands, Dave–”

“Look, stop sayin’ my name, I get it, you’re… talkin’ ‘a me.”

Frustration, embarrassment and longing all in one. He felt bad, because… hey, he wanted this, okay ? These two boys ? The lights of his life. Working with the newsies was fun, but it would’ve never been worth it without Jack and Crutchie’s smiles, jokes and all the good times they’d spent together. But they loved each other, was this fair ? Was he allowed to… join in ?

“You two’re together anyways, I… We can’t be three. This ain’t right.”

“Who says we can’t be three if we wanna be three ? Two ain’t any more legal,” Crutchie retorted, somehow more awake all of a sudden.

And poor David felt defeated. The two pairs of eyes were staring at him intently, and he just couldn’t say no. Not because it was physically impossible for him to, but because he just couldn’t bring himself to. He didn’t want to.

He wanted to accept.

“… Sure you’re not just feelin’ bad for me ?”

“Sure.”

“Sure ?”

“Just said it, punk.”

“Hey–”

“C’mon, Dave. We ain’t messin’ with ya. Crutch’s been talkin’ bout ya anyways, so…”

“I–”

“Please ! We’s a power trio.”

“I was gonna say yes.”

“Oh.”

“Cool.”

And that’s how it went. Then there was silence. Eventually, Jack and Crutchie kissed, then sat up. Each of them leaned in, one after the other, to offer Davey one too. And while Davey was much shyer than they were, there was no less love in his affections. They were all together now, and they were going to own it.

i had forgotten about my tag list i’m so sorry dhfkgjdfg

Tagged: ( y’all probably already saw it but like i wanna do it right )

@well-the-kids-do-too@racetrackcook@i-got-personality@imjusttheoutgoingsidekick@thatfancyclam@we-dont-sell-papes@ben-cook-can-cook@not-your-cigar@fuckinviral@jackhasdreams@racescoronas