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ghosttotheparty · 2 years

Text

with every beat of my heart

also on ao3 cw: grief, death of a parent, past child abuse, panic attack

Steve isn't in bed when Eddie wakes up.

That's what wakes him up in the first place. The lack of Steve's warmth, the way the mattress isn't dipping under his weight and dragging Eddie closer to him the way it usually does. It's still dark when Eddie blinks his eyes open, and he slides a hand out over the mattress, feeling the blankets that have been tossed back and set over Eddie's body. It's cold. Eddie pushes himself up, listening closely for the creaky floorboards in the hallway of their apartment, for any indication that Steve just went to the bathroom, went for some water or painkillers, but the apartment is silent.

Eddie sits up, squeezing his eyes shut for a moment. His whole body aches the way it always does when he wakes up, but he pushes himself to his feet anyway, untangling from the blankets in the dark and tossing them back to the bed.

He creeps down the hall, squinting in the dark until he looks around the corner to see the kitchen light shining under the crooked door.

"Stevie?" he says weakly, his voice rough as he pushes the door open.

Steve is sitting at the dining table, his arms crossed on it in front of him. He's staring at the tablecloth like it's speaking to him, and he doesn't look up until Eddie says his name again. He blinks, his eyes raising up to look at Eddie blankly.

"Hey," he says, like it's perfectly normal for him to be here at two in the morning.

"What's going on?" Eddie asks, blinking his eyes in the bright light of the kitchen. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah," Steve breathes. "Fine."

"Steve." He goes to stand next to Steve so Steve is looking up at him, and he pushes a hand through Steve's tangled hair. It's longer now, unkempt and beautiful. Steve blinks up at him, exhaling. "What happened? You have a nightmare?"

"No," Steve says softly. "My mom called."

Eddie blinks, fully awake. She's not supposed to have their number. Steve went zero contact with his parents when they moved out of Hawkins.

"How did she..."

"Joyce gave it to her."

Eddie blinks again. Joyce knows all about Steve's parents. She wouldn't do that without a good fucking reason.

"What did she have to say?" Eddie asks softly, pulling a chair over and sitting down in front of Steve. The chairs are mismatched. All of them are. From garage sales and second-hand stores.

Steve stares at him for another few moments, his eyes almost empty. Absent. A pit grows in Eddie's stomach. Steve isn't even moving. He's usually fidgeting with something, tapping his fingers, bouncing his knee, rubbing the fabric of his shirt, rocking back and forth. Especially when Eddie made it very clear when they moved in together that it was all fine. None of it is annoying, or childish, or weird. Eddie waits while Steve stares at him, wanting to reach out and touch him, to hold his hand or his cheek, but the pit in Eddie's stomach says that's not what Steve needs right now.

"My dad's dead," Steve says finally, blinking. His eyes clear up a little bit, finally looking at Eddie instead of through him.

Eddie blinks, straightening.

"Oh."

He doesn't know what to say.

He doesn't know what there is he could say.

"He had a heart attack last night," Steve continues, possibly picking up on Eddie's speechlessness. "He didn't make it." He cracks an odd smile, tilting his head, but it fades just as quickly as it appeared. "Guess all that anger finally caught up with him."

Eddie feels sick. Like he has a fever. Too hot, almost shivering.

"How do you feel?" he asks softly.

"Mom's having a hard time," Steve says, like he's ignoring the question, but Eddie knows it just didn't register. He's not really hearing Eddie right now. "She was crying on the phone, I-- I didn't really know what to say? I said he's in a better place, but that feels so shallow, I mean--"

"Baby," Eddie interrupts. Steve shuts up, looking at him with wide eyes like he's in trouble, so Eddie finally reaches a hand out, holding it open and waiting. Steve looks at his hand like it's foreign for a moment before he slides his hand into it. He's shaking. "How do you feel?" Eddie asks again, slower.

"I..." Steve takes a deep breath, blinking at their hands, at the bands around their ring fingers they bought the day they left Hawkins. Not legal wedding rings, but neither of them has ever really cared about the law. "I don't know."

"Do you wanna go through it or around it?" Eddie asks gently. It's the same question they ask each other whenever they have nightmares or flashbacks or just generally hard days. Always a quicker way to other questions.Do you wanna tell me about it or go back to sleep? Do you wanna describe what happened or watch a movie? Do you wanna talk about it or have sex? Do you wanna cry for a while or go for a drive? But they always go through it eventually, even if they go around it first.

"I don't know," Steve breathes, his eyes suddenly glistening as he stares through the floor. "I don't know, I don't-- I don't know."

"You want me to decide?"

Steve looks into his eyes, looking scared and small and desperate. He nods. Eddie squeezes his hand and takes a deep breath.

"Let's go through it," he says softly, listening to the way Steve's voice stutters in his throat. Eddie nods encouragingly, squeezing again. "'S okay, I'm right here," he murmurs. "We'll go through it together, okay?"

"Okay," Steve says.

"Tell me what you're feeling."

Steve takes another breath.

"...Confused."

"Why?"

Steve licks his lips, looking at their hands, and his face hardens after a moment as he bites his lip, and his lip quivers, and Eddie can tell that he's aching to go around it instead. But Steve looks up into Eddie's eyes, and Eddie gives him a nod. You got it. Whatever it is you're feeling, it's okay. And Steve goes through it.

"That man," he says slowly. "Was a piece... of fucking shit."

Eddie almost smiles. He nods.

"He..." Steve takes a deep breath. Eddie squeezes his hand. "He made me fucking miserable. Every fucking day." His voice is firm, unwavering. "He made my life a living hell. And I don't..." He shakes his head like he's speechless, like he's in disbelief, and then his eyebrows furrow as his eyes fill with tears, but he squeezes them shut so the tears all fall down his cheeks, and he steadies himself. "I used to--" His voice breaks, and he chokes on it, pausing to swallow. "I used to lay in bed at night," he says, his voice softer. "And... And wish he'd fucking die. I would wish he'd have a heart attack, or-- or get in a car accident, or be at the wrong place at the wrong time, and it's so fucking shitty, but I--" He cuts off with a scoff, his expression lightening. "Every birthday wish, every eleven-eleven, every goddamn ladybug that landed on me in the summertime. I wished he'd die. I wished he'd be one of those shitty dads that just up and left his family for no good reason."

Eddie listens intently, his eyes burning, holding Steve's hand tightly.

"The only time I ever prayed," Steve says quietly, "to a god I never even believed in, it was to ask God to make my dad fuck off the face of the earth." He laughs again, dryly, weakly, shaking his head. "And now..." He swallows again. "Now, fucking what?" He looks up again, at Eddie, but he's looking through him again. Eddie nods anyway, listening. "Now I turn twenty-four, and I'm long fucking gone and he just... Now he dies." His lip is quivering, his eyes gleaming with tears. "That's not fair," he whispers.

Eddie shakes his head in agreement, because it's not fucking fair. It's not fucking fair that Steve lived in that goddamn house in fear for his whole life, his whole childhood, surviving instead of living, and only now, when he has a home, is it safe to go back.

"And that's--" Steve chokes. "That's cruel, and shitty of me to say, but I-- I don't care."

"'S not shitty, Steve," Eddie says, squeezing his hand.

"It is," Steve argues weakly. "But I don't care. He... He hurt me. For years," he says, and he's crying now, tears falling down his face that Eddie wipes away with every ounce of care he can. "And now he's dead, and I never got to tell him to his face how much he hurt me. Or how much he scared me, and I never got to tell him that I'm not scared of him anymore. Because he--" He swallows, blinking tears out of his eyes, emphasizing with a movement of the hand that Eddie isn't holding, like he doesn't want to let go of Eddie's. "Because he was nothing," Steve chokes, "but a fucking coward that put his hands on a child, and that really wasn't fair."

Eddie nods, pride glowing in his chest because Steve is getting it. He's getting everything that Eddie's tried to tell him for years, every time he's woken up from nightmares about coming home late to find his father waiting to interrogate him, about breaking a glass dish as a child because the counters were too high.

"But he-- I'm so angry," Steve says, the last word breaking on its way out, too breathy and soft. "Because why now?" A tear falls from Eddie's eye, and even in his anger and confusion, Steve wipes it away gently, almost mindlessly. "I'm twenty fucking four, and he-- he dies now. Why not-- Why not when I was eight? Or-- Or twelve? Or fifteen? Why not when I needed it to happen? Why not when I prayed for it to happen? It's not fucking fair."

"No," Eddie chokes. "'S not fair, Stevie."

"I'm so angry," Steve says, crying, gasping for breath, his hand trembling as it grips Eddie's. "I'm so angry, Eddie, I don't-- It's like there's no space in me for anything else."

Eddie lifts his hand and kisses it softly, because he can't find any words right now.

"Is this grief?" Steve wonders out loud, his eyes wandering to the floor, tracing the tiles desperately like they'll lead to an answer. "Do you have to love someone to grieve them?"

Eddie's chest aches. He wants to go around it. He doesn't want to go through it anymore.

"Because I have never loved him," Steve says almost thoughtfully, passionately. "But I..." He's still looking at the floor, and a part of Eddie wonders if Steve remembers that he's even here. If he's even still speaking to Eddie, or if he's just thinking out loud. "But if something happened to you," Steve says, answering Eddie's silent question, "or-- or Robbie, or Dustin, or..." He shakes his head, shrugging weakly. "I would be... on the floor. Screaming-- I-- I don't think I could handle it, I would be so... so angry." He looks up into Eddie's eyes. "At the fucking universe, at God, at everything that could possibly be responsible for it, but with him," Steve says. His head tilts forward, and his eyes widen. "I'm angry at him. It's like he died out of fucking spite. Like he knew, like he fucking waited. And that's not fair."

He's quiet for a moment before,

"Is it my fault?"

Eddie blinks a tear out of his eye, squeezing his hand tightly.

"Did he die because I left?" Steve asks. "Was it too much for him? Did he..."

"Steve," Eddie says firmly, prompting Steve to look into his eyes, and Eddie leans forward, speaking slowly, deliberately, firmly, leaving no room for argument. "This is not your fault. Nothing he ever did to you was your fault. You understand me?"

Steve's lip quivers, and tears spill from his eyes.

"I'm so angry, Eddie," he whispers brokenly, and Eddie nods.

"I know, honey," he says, and he stands, pulling at Steve's shoulders until Steve wraps his arms around Eddie's hips tightly, burying his face in Eddie's belly. Eddie pushes his fingers into his hair, tugging it firmly the way he likes, and he looks up at the cracked paint on the ceiling when Steve's shoulders shake as he cries. "You haven't done anything wrong," he says gently, his voice wavering. "There's nothing wrong with you."

"I'm so angry," Steve sobs into his shirt, and Eddie can barely understand him. He nods even though Steve can't see him, pulling his hair again, sliding a hand down to his upper back firmly. "I'm so angry."

"You can be angry," Eddie says softly.

The sun is rising by the time Steve stops crying. Eddie is tired from standing, but he'd stay here for days for him. Steve leaves his face buried in Eddie's belly for a little while as he catches his breath, and Eddie combs through his hair softly, holding him, loving him. When Steve finally pulls away, his eyes are wide.

"My heart," he says breathlessly. Eddie's stomach falls, and he lowers himself to kneel on the floor in front of Steve. "'S beating too-- 'S beating too fast."

"You're okay," Eddie says softly, taking Steve's hand. It's shaking almost violently, and Eddie holds it tightly. "You're okay."

"Heart attack," Steve says, his chest rising and falling quickly, his eyes flicking back and forth between Eddie's. "I'm--"

"You're not having a heart attack," Eddie says calmly, leaning close to look into his eyes, squeezing his hand before he holds it to his own chest. "You're having a panic attack. You're okay."

"Eddie, I'm-- I'm gonna die," Steve chokes, his voice slurred with panic, his words muddled together. Eddie blinks tears back, staying calm for him, and he shakes his head.

"You're not dying, my love," he says slowly. He reaches a hand up and pushes his fingers into Steve's hair, pulling it gently. "Take a deep breath for me."

Steve tries, but he's hyperventilating, his eyes wide and crying, looking desperately at Eddie, who nods, taking a deep breath himself, exaggerating the rise and fall of his chest, holding Steve's hand to it.

"You're okay," Eddie says. "Your heart is okay."

"'M angry," Steve says weakly, breathlessly.

"You can be angry," Eddie says calmly. "Your heart is okay, even if you're angry." He takes another breath, and Steve follows along, even though his breath catches and stutters and he gasps as Eddie is still exhaling. "You're not your father, Steve," Eddie says softly. "You're nothing like him."

"Eddie," Steve whimpers, squeezing his eyes shut, pressing his hand against Eddie's chest harder, his other hand gripping Eddie's forearm. "Please."

"I'm right here, baby," Eddie murmurs. "Take a deep breath for me."

Steve tries again.

"There you go," Eddie whispers. "You're okay."

"'M okay," Steve mumbles weakly.

"That's right, Stevie, you're okay. Deep breath, all the way in, all the way out."

Steve tries again.

And again.

Steve falls against Eddie when he finally gets a clear breath, like the exhale deflates him, and Eddie wraps his arms around him tightly. He's trembling, like he's freezing.

"I love you so much," Eddie murmurs in his ear. "You did so good, baby."

Steve whimpers. He's crying again. Eddie combs through his hair and keeps murmuring to him softly.

When he stops crying, Eddie carefully shifts to hold his head between his hands, and he presses kisses across his face, even though his skin is covered with tears, and his nose is running. He kisses over his forehead, and the bridge of his nose, and his cheeks, and his eyelids, and his lips, and his chin, and across his jaw and down his neck, all the while whispering to him.

I love you so much, Stevie. You did such a good job. You're okay, sweetheart.

When Steve opens his eyes, there's a soft sort of absence in them that only gets there after particularly bad nightmares. (The ones where Eddie doesn't make it.) Eddie lowers back to the floor, looking up into his eyes, and he runs his thumbs over his cheeks softly. Steve squeezes his wrist weakly, exhausted.

Eddie gets him a glass of water and stands next to him as he sips it slowly, running his hands through his hair, closing his eyes when Steve leans against him. It takes a while for Steve to finish it, but Eddie waits patiently, knowing the glass is heavy in his hand, knowing Steve wants to disappear right now. When he finishes the water, Eddie sits back in the chair in front of him, holding both his hands tightly. Steve is slouching over, looking at their hands. Eddie squeezes.

"Stevie," he whispers.

"Yeah," Steve breathes.

"Look at me for a minute."

Steve's eyes raise to his. They're glassy, shining brightly, and Eddie's chest hurts.

"It's okay to be angry," he says softly, intentionally and carefully. "And it's okay to cry. And there's nothing wrong with anything you're feeling. You understand me?"

"I don't wanna be angry," Steve says weakly, his voice small. "'M tired of being angry. I don't wanna turn into him."

"Steve," Eddie whispers. "You are nothing like him." He reaches a hand to Steve's chest and holds it there. "You have... the purest heart out of anyone I know," he says gently. "You would never do any of the things he did to you."

"I know," Steve breathes, but he doesn't seem to believe him.

"Do you trust me?" Eddie asks. Steve nods without hesitation. "Will you believe what I tell you?"

Steve stares into his eyes, now clutching Eddie's hand in both of his.

"...Okay."

"You have a beautiful soul," Eddie whispers. "And I trust you," he adds, raising his eyebrows, watching Steve's lips curve into the smallest smile Eddie's ever seen. The morning sunlight is shining on him now. He looks like an angel, his messy hair glowing in a golden halo. "You are a good, good man," Eddie says softly. "And I will remind you as many times as you need, I will remind you with every fucking beat of my heart, that you are a good man."

Steve's lip quivers again, and he closes his eyes like he's absorbing the words. A tear slides down his cheek. Eddie wipes it away tenderly.

"I love you so fucking much, Stevie."

"I love you too," Steve gasps, taking a hiccuping breath, but he exhales smoothly, blowing the air out so it blows Eddie's hair.

"Let's go to bed," Eddie murmurs.

"Okay."

Eddie leads him down the creaky hallway, holding his hand, after pouring him more water to drink. Steve gets in bed while Eddie pulls the curtains together more to block the sunlight, and then he crawls into bed too, already holding his arms out for Steve to lie in. He closes his eyes, pressing his face into Steve's hair, running his fingers through it when he feels him crying again.

He doesn't drift off until he knows Steve is asleep, when Steve is heavy against him, relaxed and breathing evenly, slowly.

Instead of going to the funeral, which his mother calls about the next week, Steve stays home with Eddie and watches a movie. Steve starts to cry halfway through it, wracked by guilt and fear and anger, and Eddie just wraps an arm around him silently, pulling him close and pressing a kiss to his cheek. Steve smiles the next day, light on his feet and bright in a way Eddie's never seen, and through all the years Eddie's known Steve, he's known about his father, but he realises after the funeral is done with that he never really knew the extent of it. Because after the funeral is done, Steve never has to worry about anything to do with his father again. And his eyes shine brightly, and Eddie thinks there might be a whole galaxy behind him that Eddie still hasn't explored.

Steve still gets angry sometimes, but that's okay. Because his father's face is fading from his memory, and his mother never calls him again. And Eddie reminds him as often as he can that he loves him, that he trusts him, that he's pure and beautiful and has a heart of gold. That he's okay, that he's good.

After his father dies, Steve never dreams about him again.

#me: i can finish part 14 of love me softly tonight it shouldn't take too long #my brain: no youre going to write a grief fic that'll make you cry at five in the morning #okay i am going to go to bed and hope i can maybe be productive in a few hours bc its almost six am #or at least that ill be so tired and out of it i can finish my tasks without think ing #i have so much laundry to do #wish me luck #steddie #steddie fanfic #steddie oneshot #steddie ficlet #steve harrington #steve harrington fanfic #eddie munson #eddie munson fanfic #stranger things #stranger things fanfic

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the-red-thread-that-strangles · 5 months

Text

It tugs, sometimes. Curious and foolish.

That traitorous heart mana of his, reaching out, drawing in, seeking connection in the way that's in their blood, their soul, their nature. Synchronicity.

Rei's not known it, before.

Where other demons might be attuned to family, Rei has no one to claim the spot. So, his heart mana sings, unblemished, its lonely little sonata, the song of his homeland. All there is to him, granted by air and earth and starlight.

He has so much to give, and yet, it isn't good enough. Discordant, they say. Human, they snarl, disgust evident in their tones.

Thus, growing up Rei learns to compose himself. Pushes himself to the brink in order to rewrite his heartbeat's melody. Puts himself out there, gets stronger, richer in experience, whenever he draws back. Over and over and over again.

Until one day, pushing himself past reason, he almost doesn't return.

But while he hasn't been looking, a new melody has taken residence by his side. Soft and steady high notes, barely perceptible.

Morofushi Hiromitsu, faded, yet giving himself so generously.

Rei hears him, takes him in and amplifies the notes he's given, until others may do so, too. Until Hiro may do it himself.

Their hearts mana, separate but inseparable, resonating in response.

And Rei's called back home.

Rye is low notes, a deep bass, slow and steady.

He could enrich their harmony, if only he wasn't so gratingly offbeat.

Rye's unrefined and ever-contradicting himself. Cold and uncaring, yet bleeding red like the rest of them. A long-ranged combatant, always too close. The smartest fool Rei ever has had the displeasure of meeting.

He takes Rei's heart mana greedily, gives it back tenfold.

Then he takes Scotch's, and their tentative song, not yet given voice, dissolves into dissonant whispers.

When they meet again, Rei doesn't want to feel Akai's heart mana for the longest time.

It's too painfully familiar, echoes of the past still trapped reverberating within. Misery-in-resonance almost dusts Rei.

It's his duty to be here, and so he stays, but there's others to preoccupy himself with.

So, he remains a careful distance away from Akai. Doesn't see the muted melancholy wrapped around him until it's too late, until Akai's almost gone dark and quiet.

When he heals Akai, he pours all of his heart mana into him. Their hearts still sing the same tune, after all these years, discordant notes and all.

The journey is too perilous to allow them senseless grudges. Their lives are one. If either falls, the story ends.

They rely on each other's mana like air, sharing desperate breaths like drowning men in a land that wants to drag them under.

What even is left of their individual songs? It doesn't matter, anymore. They've shared so much it really is one and the same, disjointed notes smoothed out through time and touch and trial, into an elegy for Scotch.

As they finally reach tentative harmony, they rip themselves apart.

There is dissonance in Demon Lord Furuya’s heart. A furious ache that even Hiro's return can't soothe.

But he has a duty, to his land and his people. He can't stop to rest. Besides, the one to replenish his heart mana, he who's grown so good at it over the years, has left, exiled by Rei's own hand.

Akai is a fool, but so is Rei.

He clings to the thrum of Akai's low warm notes, barely an echo within himself.

Da capo al coda, the cyclical rhythm of life remains the same.

Rei's still not good enough.

He's bested their best. He's saved the realms. And all that matters, in the end, is that they see his heart mana, and find it lacking.

But he's no longer the lonely manaspawn he once was. His song no longer just his own.

He's holding the position through skill and strategy, through force of personality. With the help of friends and allies gathered on his journey.

They'll have to listen to his tune, this time.

The key, of course, is an argument.

Their feverish crescendo crashes into mellow adagio - along with their lips.

Rei knows, then: if no one else accepted him, the boundless love in Akai's heart would be enough to supply his heart mana for as long as he lives.

It's exhilarating, to share every last bit of himself, to accept all of Shuuichi in turn. Synchronized in full, for now and as long as they live.

Pulsating, between them, the potential to compose a new melody, together. Point and counterpoint. Bright and warm and vibrant and home.

When he takes Akai's hand, leads him to the dancefloor, the festive joy of friends and family soaking the ambient mana with joyous ringing, it's enough to put pressure even on Rei's heart mana.

He can't help thinking that this should've been so much easier. But theirs has never been the easy way.

And it's not the conclusion, but the overture to their new life, together.

The waltz of their future, a thunderous symphony.

@floofiestboy's Demon King Furuya AkAm AU is giving me too many feelings. Go read it here.

#and may the gods have mercy on anyone standing in their way #if they are lucky they get to pick whether they want to be shot or fried #so. uh. floof I hope this is okay. because I have feelings about this AU. mana and hearts and their interchangability #if you couldn't tell #this is what possessed me at 5 a.m. this morning and I want it out #floof you are insane for this AU #they have to take in mana to survive #they're always shaped by their surroundings #and when that's not enough they have to depend on their connections #altering the receiver through said connection. potentially permanently. see exhibit A(kai)#as the connection becomes deeper their mana. their hearts output. literally flows more efficiently #the heart wants what it wants. literally in this universe #floof. floof I am shaking. you. me. it doesn't matter at this point #akam #iris writes things #long post #somehow I went from mana wavelengths to soul frequencies. I think. whoops #fic recs

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fleetsonourgecentral · 7 months

Note

A request: Ebony celebrates Fleetway Super birthday along with the freedom Fighthers celebrathing Sonic's birthday (so Super and Sonic share a birthday celebration :D) but Scourge IS jealous because he doesn't get any gifts

Adfjdasfjds Scourge being jealous for petty reasons my beloved

~~~

"This doesn't seem fair," Scourge grumbled, folding his arms and glaring at his surroundings like he could set the decorations alight with his eyes alone. Unfortunately, getting zapped by the Master Emerald didn't seem to grant him those powers, but hey, it was always worth double checking.

"Life isn't fair," Sonic said, smug smirk fully plastered on his face as he lounged on his throne for the day. The throne in question was nothing more than an old armchair fished out of the dump, and was covered in rips and clearly falling apart, but it was clean (thanks to Tekno's efforts) and it was the nicest chair the Freedom Fighters owned, so they made do.

Scourge was surprised they were putting in the effort at all. Sonic's ego was so big it was a wonder his head didn't swell and become too heavy for his body to carry; there was really no need to stroke his ego by giving him a throne.

For some reason, though, the Freedom Fighters, despite usually being extremely enthusiastic about keeping Sonic's ego in check, had decided today was an exception. It was his birthday, after all.

"How did you even get all this?" Scourge said. Thankfully, none of the cheesy "happy birthday" banners had been strung up on the wall - those were dumped on Ebony's doorstep - but in their place were custom-made banners proudly congratulating the Hero of Mobius on another year of victory over Robotnik. Over the top and unnecessary, considering the victory in question was mostly just his continued survival, and thus his continued ability to be a future pain in the ass.

Not that Robotnik didn't have it coming, but still.

"We made them!" Tails chirped from where he was stringing up another banner, this one declaring today as Sonic Day. "Tekno designed most of the banner so it would look cool enough that Sonic won't complain, and then Amy and I helped decide what they should say, and then we all painted them together!"

"And you didn't invite me?"

"We both know you would've told us all to fuck off if we asked you to help," Amy said, although the teasing smile on her face showed her comment was light-hearted instead of irritated. Gross.

"These aren't new, anyway," Tekno said. "We made these before you arrived, so you couldn't have helped. Unless you found a way to time travel. If you find an easy way to time travel, let me know?"

"Sure, whatever."

And now that Scourge was looking, the banners did seem a little worn. Small rips on the edges, colors dulled, the paper crinkled; obviously reused over the years. He nudged one of the banners crumpled on the floor with his foot, then picked it up to inspect it, holding it with his thumb and forefinger. Sonic's painted winking face greeted him, and Scourge sneered at it. On the back of the banner, he could see a cluster of signatures. Some he recognised - Tails and Amy - while some he'd never heard of - who in the world was Shortfuse? - and some... well, some were just initials, none of which he recognised. He certainly didn't remember any friends of Sonic's who went by J.L.

"Are you going to stand there, or are you going to help?" Amy said, lightly elbowing him as she passed, snatching the banner from his hands.

"What's it look like? I'm gonna stand here."

"No you're not. Help Tekno bring the gifts in."

"I'm not participating in this. You do shit like this then wonder why he's an arrogant dickhead."

"Is it arrogance if it's justified?" Sonic said.

"Justify my foot up your ass," Scourge said, just as Tekno dragged him away.

The pile of presents was bigger than it had any right to be. The Freedom Fighters didn't have much money - apparently fighting for the safety of the entire fucking planet doesn't pay well, or at all, which is bullshit and all the more reason for Scourge to find the whole thing stupid - so none of them could really afford to go all-out with the presents, but the bulk of the pile came from local civilians who had caught wind of the celebration and wanted to express their gratitude. Over the past week during their travels, civilians would stop them, shyly handing over presents and telling them they were for Sonic's birthday, a token of their appreciation for constantly saving their asses, because they couldn't be bothered to do it themselves.

No one said that last bit out loud, but Scourge always made sure to mentally add it.

Why they couldn't express their gratitude with some fucking cash, he did not know.

"Grab the presents by the table?" Tekno said, scooping presents into her arms. For what it was worth, although the pile was bigger than one would expect, at least most of the presents were small.

Groaning with all the contempt he could muster, Scourge shuffled over to the table and started tucking presents under his arms.

"Did you drop off everything at Ebony's?" Tekno said. Her voice was low, hidden by the rustle of the presents, only loud enough for Scourge to hear. Not that he thought Sonic could hear them when they were out here, but better safe than sorry.

"Whaddya take me for? Of course I did," Scourge said, voice equally low, although that was more for Tekno's peace of mind than his own. She'd shush him if she thought he was being too loud, but she was also really bad at shushing people quietly, and ended up attracting attention with her shushes more often than not. It was really counterproductive. Scourge didn't know why Sonic had let it slide for this long.

"Just making sure."

Scourge grunted, but he did give the rest of the presents an obligatory once-over, just to be sure there weren't any that shouldn't be there.

Super's birthday fell on the same day as Sonic's. It was why all the cheesy banners had been dumped on Ebony instead of in the trash where they belonged. The Freedom Fighters - okay, mostly Tekno - thought it was a good idea to send a few presents over from all of them, as a gesture of goodwill and minor bribery to please not turn evil and try to kill them all again. It was a plan Sonic had been conveniently left out of; even with their less strained relationship (although that really wasn't saying much) it was blatantly obvious he still wasn't fond of Super. He wouldn't stop them from giving him birthday presents, or wanting to wish him a happy birthday, but he would wrinkle his nose and mutter a comment under his breath, which was apparently a problem, although Scourge hadn't figured out why.

Ebony had asked if they wanted to stop by, even tentatively offered a joint birthday celebration if that would make things easier, but she was swiftly turned down. Presents were a safe bet, the Freedom Fighters had agreed, because they could be dropped off at any time, and Sonic would never have to know, and they could wish Super a happy birthday without ever leaving Sonic's side on the actual day. And they could send Scourge to be their little delivery boy so none of them would have to do it; despite the olive branch, Tails and Amy were still wary of Super. Apparently Scourge and (somehow) Tekno were the only ones who weren't little bitches about him.

Well, Sonic wasn't a little bitch exactly, but he wasn't as cool and casual about Super as he wanted to be. So he didn't count.

"I'm just saying," Scourge said, hefting as many presents into his arms as he could, "if you're going to make the decorations look like a 'congrats on kicking ass without dying' celebration, we should all be getting presents."

"It's not your birthday, though."

"I'm his boyfriend, though. Shouldn't I get, like, a solidarity present?"

"No, because it isn't your birthday."

Scourge bit back a comment about how if Super got to have a birthday just because he was another Sonic, then logically, so should he. Because, well, it wasn't his birthday, even though all the celebration really made it feel like it should be. He thought birthdays for Sonics were the same across all dimensions - he was pretty sure he shared a birthday with Prime, eugh - but apparently not.

With another exaggerated groan, he shuffled back into the living room with the presents towering high above him, because second trips were for chumps, and dumped them at Sonic's feet. His own gift wasn't in there, but only because he'd already given it to Sonic this morning. The moment he woke up, in fact. Scourge wasn't about to be beaten by anyone in anything, including being the first person to give Sonic a gift.

Not that it was anything special. Scourge wasn't exactly rolling in money either, and Sonic was a pain in the ass to shop for. Humiliation had nipped at his heels when he handed the gift over, ready to burn him, but Sonic seemed to really like it - underneath the obligatory layer of snark - so it was fine.

Probably.

He eyed the pile of presents again, and tried not to gnaw on his lip.

Some of the civilians who gave them presents looked... well, not well-off, but comfortable. Not rich, not even close to rich, but able to at least afford something nice for the Hero of Mobius. More than Scourge could afford.

More than any of the Freedom Fighters could afford, though, and Sonic didn't really give a shit about his fans outside of the inherent bragging rights that come with having fans in the first place. None of those civilians knew what Sonic liked. The Freedom Fighters did. Scourge did.

He doubted any civilian signatures were on the back of the banner he picked up.

A party thrown by civilians probably wouldn't look like this at all. That would be far more elaborate, with more people pitching in to help, even more vomit-worthy banners and decorations hung from every wall and banister, singing the praises of Sonic the Hedgehog. Over the top, and licking his ass, and making a huge deal out of him. Exactly the kind of celebration Sonic would like; he always loved it when people lavished him with praise for his efforts in saving the world, the arrogant bastard.

Sonic didn't have any of that, this year. Oh, sure, the party would stroke his ego, but it wasn't lavish. Compared to what he could have, it was almost humble.

But. He didn't look upset by it. Didn't even feign annoyance that it wasn't as big as it could be.

Scourge couldn't remember any of his own birthdays looking like this growing up. No friends surrounding him, bickering as they hung birthday banners or fetched presents or argued over the cake. No shitty birthday chair fished out of the dump. No lavish party to sing his praises. His birthdays weren't humble like this one, but they weren't extravagant, either.

They were... cold. Empty. There was no soul in the presents, no warmth in the candle of the cake. No signatures on the back of a hand-made birthday banner.

Scourge swallowed down the ugly feeling in his stomach.

Whatever. He didn't need any of that shit. He was Scourge the fucking Hedgehog, he knew exactly how great he was. Who needed a giant party? Not him. He wasn't that fragile.

"Scowl any harder and your face will get stuck."

Scourge flipped Sonic off without even looking. "Eat shit, birthday boy."

"Are you sulking because Pixel Brain jumped on you this morning when he came to wish me a happy birthday?"

"He crushed my fucking ribs," Scourge complained, glad for something to focus on. The interruption had been rude, and Tails was fortunate they were already awake; had he done that shit while Scourge was still asleep, he would've gotten an ass full of quills.

"Right. And you're definitely not sulking because you wanted to cuddle."

"I don't cuddle."

"Bullshit you don't."

"I don't. You have no proof."

"Then you're gonna start."

Before Scourge could say a word of protest, Sonic grabbed him by the wrist and pulled him onto his lap.

"Fuck off and let me go," Scourge snapped, shifting to get comfortable.

"It's my birthday," Sonic said, smirking his stupid, smug, victorious grin. "That means you have to do what I say."

"I'm not doing shit, you can't tell me what to do, birthday or not," Scourge said, leaning further into Sonic when he wrapped an arm around his waist to pull him closer.

"You'll get the chair when it's your birthday, if it's any consolation."

"Fuck the chair! What about my presents?"

"We'll see."

"Asshole," Scourge grumbled, biting Sonic lightly on the shoulder to emphasize his point, but he only got an amused chuckle in return.

"You're getting off when the cake gets here," Sonic said.

Huffing, Scourge snuggled further into Sonic. They'd see about that.

#sonic the hedgehog #scourge the hedgehog #fleetway sonic #stc sonic #fleet!sonourge #asks #fanfic #tekno the canary #HIIIIIIIIII I AM. SO FUCKING SORRY. I DID NOT MEAN FOR THIS TO TAKE THIS LONG #'i love writing' i say as i proceed to not write for months #chronically lazy..... but at least it isn't a 'well over a year' wait like some of my other fics.......#me: haha scourge being jealous for petty reasons!#scourge: thinks about how his birthdays have never had the love and care put into them as sonic's #me: oh for fucks sake #author write a fic that doesn't end up dabbling in the internal angst of these boys challenge: failed #i simply cannot control myself #sorry this didn't really have super and ebony in it #couldn't think of a way to include them that didn't involve a joint celebration/party. and i. can't imagine sonic would be happy about THAT #hope you enjoyed anyway!!!#and again i am soooooooo sorry this took so long

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edwinisms · 2 months

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so damn close to finishing writing my first fic for this show but my head feels like it’s gonna explode from writing an entire 3.3K theoretical analysis paper for like five hours straight and if I look at my computer screen much longer I might just fucking die so. here we are. suffering.

#rambling #it’s way longer than i intended but what the fuck else is new. even that essay was 300+ words over the word limit #fic’s gonna end up around 7K (oneshot) and it’s way too stupid a premise to be that long gdhssjdhshjdjf #realistically I wouldn’t have posted it today even if I did finish it cause I’d wanna read it over at least once before anything #I have another much more serious one started and outlined but I can already tell that bitch is gonna take a while #and will likely? maybe? be in chapters #it’s like. a compilation of events in charles’ life that have to do with his sexuality and the context for his difficulty accepting it #of which. there is a lot #a couple scenes I have planned I’m excited to write and I really hope I don’t get overwhelmed and give up #grahhhh #it’s been so long since I’ve posted fanfic that I am struggling with trying to relearn a resistance to cringe #I mean. at my own writing #aghhshhhhhdgh I hope it isn’t too long and rambly and whatever

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sadiecoocoo · 5 months

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Writing tip!

If you’re gonna write an idea, and you know it’s gonna be a really long work, like multiple chapters, write it as a one-shot. This week I had started a new writing, which was planned to be a one shot, but I realized that it was kind of getting a little long, and I still had a lot left to go. So, I decided to break up what I already wrote into different chapters, then decided to start working on a sequel fic.

So, lo and behold, I had a fully written fic done in a few days, because I didn’t stop after just writing one chapter, because I hadn’t planned on there being chapters

This is just what helped me, and I thought I could share it :)

#writing tips #writing things #hope this helps #I am so serious when I tell you that I wrote an entire muktichaotered fic in two days #like I speed run writing one shots #but take so long to write multichaotered fics #because it’s jsut a different mentality #yknow?

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spencerbegins · 1 year

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opening the second chances fic doc after barely writing anything this week and remembering why i was so stuck :) sigh :) i absolutely love trying to connect little bits and pieces of unfinished scenes that are written out of order :))) why am i like this :))))))

#also worrying with how im formatting this fic. bc it goes back and forth between 1989/1990 and 1997. often.#and im like hm. maybe. maybe thats not good. maybe i go back and forth too much.#but as the fic goes on we'll be getting fewer 1989/90 scenes and the 1997 scenes will get longer....but idk #just worrying abt the pacing and the format/structure and worrying that the way it is now is gonna make it hard to read #but also this is a silly little fic that im writing for fun in my free time so like. i can do whatever i want ig #also where is the spencer that once cranked out 13k words in 5 days. am i back to the spencer who takes ten months to write 10k words.....#bc thats how long it took me to write my chaptered benvi fic but i wrote my [redacted] fic in FIVE DAYS. a chapter a day!!!#this is gonna be a oneshot which the longest oneshot ive written is 5k and this one im hoping to get closer to 8k-10k with it #maybe longer if it needs to be idk. we shall see #anyways. back to writing the mike/joyce scene even tho im lowkey dreading it & getting secondhand anxiety from my own writing lol #yelling

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loveoaths · 2 years

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i am very weak for a specific kind of din-centric romance that i’ve yet to see anywhere (probably because it would be tedious to write). i want din to have an Arthurian romance where his Creed and his besk’ad are not obstacles for his partner to vault over into his arms, but part of him, more of him to love. i want din to have a romance where they will love him whether or not they ever get to see his face, or touch his skin, because when din said the helmet is my true face he meant it, and when his paramour said they loved all of him, they meant that, too. the Creed is his blood and the besk’ad his skin and his heart the steady tattoo blasterfire and his soul is the manda and to love a true mandalorian is to love them because of the old ways, not in spite of them. din may walk the galaxy’s gray meridian but his faith in the Creed is absolute. to love him you have to love him for that faith, too.

#this is my joker. i am going to wind up writing some absolute longfic for this man because I DON’T WANT HIM TO IMMEDIATELY DROP THE ARMOR!#romance and desire are built on longing and denial and someone wanting him #initially wanting what’s under the beskar until they realize he is the beskar too; that the reason he’s so emotive through the armor is #because he wears it like skin; maybe some pseudo magical bullshit about inhabiting beskar long enough infuses it with your soul yadda yadda #idk what i’m saying here but. for a series where hope plays a huge role i just think it’s a shame that din’s hope/faith are bypassed so #quickly in fic sometiems when that’s where so much of his character and love potential lies!#imagine the ways of showing love and care for the LI!#shining his armor! adjusting it for him when he’s hurt? finding ways to care for wounds without bypassing armor?#the chivalry and trust of turning your back on a deadly warrior so he can take care of himself?#THE CHASTITY? ITS SOOOO ARTHURIAN ITS SOOOO LITERARY ROMANCE #i’m frothing at the mouth. watch me write the gayest most romantic longfic that is about faith and desire and longing and lust and doubt #that no one but i will read because i’m crazy about this shit #idk what i’m saying. but. religion. interesting. faith. sexy. doubt. delicious.#din djarin #the Mandalorian #walkie talkie.#fic tag.

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teamskulladventures · 4 months

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☠️🎧🪲🖤☠️🎧🪲🖤☠️🎧🪲🖤☠️🎧🪲🖤

Guzma x Amber(Zesty)

(a Spinarakwomen AU)

🕸️♫₊.°｡ 🕷✩ 🕷°｡ ☕︎🕸️♫₊.°｡ 🕷✩ 🕷°｡ ☕︎

Prologue: The story so far.

*Long Sigh* . . . Okay let's uh . let's get this done and over with.

Hey everyone! No, too chiper . . Uh hey? No This is an intro, be confident!. . uh . hm. Okay, okay, okay. Deep breath in *Inhale* Deep breath out *exahle*.

Hi! Uh you might be wondering how I, an average woman, am capable of doing all of this. You know the running from building to building, the scaling walls, the uh . . swinging from street lamp to street lamp. Well, it isn't some new extreme form of Parkor. Let's just say that the craziest thing happened to me months ago that has changed my life for better and worse.

*Stopping my night swing I happen upon a TV store where the late night shows are playing. Each voice that cuts in and out spew cruel insults.*

"She's a danger!"

"She's a coward!"

"Children adore her; Parents hate her!"

"She must be locked away."

"That vigilante is not welcome here."

"She's a punk!"

"She's a disturbance."

"She's a . . .*

The sound of static fills the store as it cuts back to one giant TV. A man dressed in white and green speaks before the public. He barks at me through the screen.

"Spinarackwoman . . or whatever you call yourself. I personally would call you a no good theif and a liar as well!"

He states that last part with disdain.

"If you're out there listening . . watching. Mark my words I WILL find you. Alola has no place for troubling nuisances like yourself."

As the man walks away from the reporters, they shout for further details.

"Mr. Branch chief . . .Branch chief Faba!"

"Do you have a moment to explain!"

"Is this vigilante a danger to Alola!"

"Should the police be concerned!"

"Faba . . Faba . .Faba!"

As the news cuts back for commercials. I find myself taking all this in.

Yep, this is my new normal. So for all you folks back home, let me be clear on one thing. My name is Amber. I was an average person, with a semi-average life. I like to joke around, listen to music. I was once a late stage trial goer, started at nineteen. I hated it so I roughed around and found some people I would soon call my friends and family. I'm a gang member, where my new name became Zesty. Uh, let's just keep it brief and say it was a cooking instead gone wrong. I guess I'd call myself the cook of the group, though it's more often than not me just cooking grilled cheese and fries but, . . . I am getting side tracked. Anyways that life became my new normal until one day, one simple mission, changed my life into this one.

By day I am still very much a normal, Team Skull grunt, who wants to see the best happen to my crew. But, by nighot as far as I am aware, I am Alola's one and only Spinarakwoman, and trust me when I say it has not been easy.

🪲🖤☠️🎧🪲🖤☠️🎧🪲🖤☠️🎧🪲🖤☠️🎧

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pyrriax · 11 months

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don't cry. 650 words of planning for a fic you need to have done in like three days. part one is planned.

#haunted ecosystem #i have to plan the other one rq but it won't be nearly as long. i'm debating which route i take with it though... augh #also i am just. praying. that this ends up being Okay because i dont want to sacrifice the imagery #i think there's horror elements? but also i have NO clue where the line is because my opinion is very skewed as somebody who writes it a lo #and i want to write something i'd enjoy reading & will enjoy writing instead of worrying Too Much #so i am hoping for the best pvfndfkj #fic: asomatous

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areweevercameraready · 2 years

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a little snippet...

A/N: so....i actually have...... maybe 100,000k words unpublished with the boys in human au.,.... and since the human au infodump, i've been wondering if i should post things from the spinoff au. i asked a friend and she suggested i post at least a bit since there Were Folks who enjoyed these characters. im hugging everyone who has been keeping up :') thank you and i love you and you don't know how much this means to me, that people like my work.

i do plan on updating more than beliefs, though as you can probably tell, updates are pretty slow. i've had big weird life changes over the past three or so years, which is kinda sad, since i used to be able to update chivalry literally once a week :'D but thank you all for sticking with me through it!! i'm hoping, once i'm done writing my thesis, i can get back to updating MTB more often. i've had the whole thing plotted in my head for a while and you all deserve to see more of macbeth, along with where he was during like. all of chivalry.

heads up that this is NOT going on AO3 — it's a bit far from the actual fandom space so I'm really hesitant to put it up there. it'll only be here! somewhat related, but i might spruce up this blog layout. the banner image is kind of old/i don't like the anatomy, and same with the icon. and i just took a look at the blog and went "wow the text is smaller than i remember it being..." so that's a sign that it's Too Small! time for a change probably.

Words: 7,615

WARNINGS: descriptions of anxiety disorder, descriptions of past child abuse, suicidal/depressive thoughts, someone's ankle breaks (don't run in heels, kids!), alcohol and drunkenness

if i forgot anything, please let me know! this is only one chapter of a longer thing (i'm still on the fence about posting all of it but frankly, if i do revamp this blog, i straight fuckin might. i don't plan on publishing these novels for market consumption, but i would be happy to know if folks out there enjoyed them :') )

enjoy the snippet! <3

Eric Yuan hadn't considered himself lovable in a long, long time.

The anxiety disorder was just scraping the surface. There was the legal battle he'd gone into against his parents for custody over Gavin. He was so responsible it was irresponsible, sleeping odd hours, sometimes none at all, and living off of the cheapest coffee he could find to keep himself awake. There was the lack of time, the long hours of work to pay for the apartment and his and Gavin's lives, between working at the bar and at the restaurant, trying to pull together something to keep them afloat. He survived off of lunch and, when tips were good, the occasional dinner.

Gavin had noticed, of course, but he was nice enough to not say anything. Eric tried to be as honest as he could about how sometimes they couldn't get new games or new things, how he would have to stay late at night at work. If Eric was thankful for anything, it was how understanding Gavin was. That kid rolled with as many punches as were thrown and while Eric knew he shouldn't have to, knew that his brother deserved a better upbringing than the shit that their parents and now the world were putting them through, he also recognized that this was the best he could do.

He tried to hide himself in work, two jobs that provided enough money to keep them going. Honestly, if he’d talked with his managers and budgeted hours differently, he could get by with just the bartending job. But the days without work were spent taking Gavin to school, watching Gavin at home, laying on the couch and staring at the ceiling. He had to have something to bury himself in so he wouldn’t be stuck with his thoughts, the ones that promised danger, contempt, building paranoia and anxiety until he choked on his own breath. Thoughts that promised a kinder world. On the other side.

If he killed himself, Gavin would go right back to their parents, and Eric had to stay alive if only to prevent that. That was….that was the only reason.

Sometimes, he wondered if Gavin knew, because on nights like that the kid always managed to find his way into Eric's bed. He'd crawl in and snuggle between Eric's arms and tell him he had a nightmare. Eric never knew how honest he was being, but he never turned the offer down.

He had to keep alive. So he did.

And like, man worked a lot. Often, too much. How the fuck was he supposed to keep up with the world around him if he barely used his social media, didn't watch any of the new content put out in recent years, didn't engage with new platforms. Well, he had a Twitter, but that was just to look at funny memes. Those were his favorite development in recent years. Twitter also helped keep up with the news somewhat, but he didn’t exactly pay attention to that. Also, cat videos, those were important to him.

Yeah, he was fairly disconnected, but what else was new and what could you do.

Eric Yuan's life flipped when he was opening the bar at 4 p.m. on a Wednesday. He wasn't an owner or manager, but he was a shift lead. The most dependable shift lead, if you asked his manager, and while he often told Eric that he was pretty reliable, it wasn’t as though Eric processed that kind of praise. He did know that he got the most done, and was the most efficient, because he could take that kind of metric comparison. But, like. Most reliable? He didn’t know how true that was. Eric liked to take the opening shifts, helped get home at a reasonable enough hour to see Gavin to sleep and for him to sleep enough to take the lunch shifts at his other job.

The opening shift consisted of a few things. Making sure dishes were racked for the night, that the trash was all arranged and the bins were out in the alley, that bottles that looked like they were going to go empty had restocks close by. It was slow and quiet, for shift leads, but it was perfect for Eric. He liked to turn on some music and walk around, working efficient and quick enough usually to have a few minutes of quiet before the bartenders started showing up.

The alley behind his bar was more like a driveway than anything, wide enough just for one car. Most of the time, the neighboring businesses would just put their bins back here during work hours.

While opening on this day, though, Eric noticed a man running. He'd turned the sharp corner near the bar and hurried partway down the block, panting as if he'd been running a while. Eric actually pulled his own bins back as the man passed him. Then promptly tripped. What idiot runs in heels, anyway?

The man tried to get back up, but a few steps proved his ankle injured enough for him to collapse again. And that's when he looked up, frantically looking around for help, and his eyes locked with Eric's.

Eric waved, ever so slightly. And, well. He's always been the type to help someone who needed it. He didn't know what the man was running from, but it seemed that time was of the essence. He jogged over and picked the man up easily, making sure he didn't grab the man's dreadlocks accidentally beneath his arm, and hurried him into the bar. At least the dude was pretty light, and he let Eric pick him up, wrapping his arms around Eric’s shoulders.

The first and only real thing Eric noticed was that he smelt a little floral. Must have been perfume or something. The man wasn’t wearing clothes that Eric would have called casual, especially with the heels. A fall like that must have hurt his ankle.

"Thank you," the man whispered, and Eric noticed how gentle his voice was, how lofty and warm. "Close the door, please, they can't see me."

Eric didn't know who the fuck "They" was, but Eric kicked the door closed on his way in. Just as he did, too, he heard the sound of footsteps at the end of the alley. Eric helped the man hide behind the bar, out of view of the door, and shushed him quietly as a knock sounded on the door.

He wiped his hands on his apron, stepping back towards the door. He paused before opening it only to prepare his face, so he could open it with the deadliest glare. And there were. People. There. Were many people. Many with cameras. All looking fairly out of breath.

How did that guy outrun a whole ass crowd?

The man who had knocked was haggard, taller than Eric but with an obviously lankier build, wheezing as he asked, “Have you seen anyone come up this road?”

He sounded kinda desperate. Eric shook his head slowly, cogs working in his head as he put together a cover story. “No, I’ve just been trying to open up shop. I took the bins out,” he gestured to the trash bins, set alongside the wall. “But I didn’t see anyone then. If someone was out there, they could have run past while I was stocking.”

The man nodded, either willing to accept that lie or too frantic to look too deep into it. Eric watched with sharp eyes as he and the group looked up and down the street. He didn’t think this concerned him, though, and he wanted to check back in on the absolute rando’ he’d just let into the bar. So he nudged the guy’s hand.

“I think the candy shop over there’s open, around that corner.” Eric pointed to the end of the alley. “If someone ran past, they could have seen them. Other than that though, I don’t have anything, and I’ve gotta get back to opening.”

Just a few well-placed white lies. The man at the door nodded and motioned the group to leave without another word. Eric let the door slam behind them.

Well. Then. He exhaled slow, a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding, then turned to the bar counter.

The way the bar was arranged was such that there was a peninsula counter, sticking out of the wall with seats arranged on all sides. On one side, too, was a small stage. Often, they would just play music. Sometimes they had performers, live musicians, and every Thursday was comedy night for local comedians. In June, they have a small drag show every Friday, and in December, they have a run of charity shows. There are still fliers and decorations up from the last one; Eric should take them down while he’s opening.

The man who he’d snuck in slowly peeks his head around the counter. There was something awfully familiar about him, like Eric had definitely seen this dude before, but he isn’t attuned to the daily gossip. Maybe it was just because the man was pretty as could be, eyes a warm brown that lingered around Eric before darting back at the door. His brows were perfectly shaped. Eric could see a little heart on his cheek, too, and silver decorations in his dreadlocks. Very, very pretty.

The man scan the area, see Eric going around to take the chairs out from where they’ve been stacked in the corner. And he asks, in a voice almost more delicate than Eric could have imagined, “Are they gone?”

“Yeah,” Eric said, setting down the barstools as he went around the bar’s lounge area. “They stalkers or something?”

As soon as Eric said the people chasing him were gone, the man sighed, standing up all the way and cracking his neck. He scooted to the sink behind the counter to wash his hands, which was fair. It wasn’t like the bar ground was the cleanest, even just before opening.

Someone like this dude, this put together and manicured and astoundingly beautiful, shouldn’t have had to put his hands on the bar’s fuckin’ ground.

“Basically stalkers. Paparazzi,” the man sighed.

“Paparazzi?” Eric asked, looking back at the man.

Was this dude fucking famous? Eric couldn’t recognize him. Damn, he was that far removed from things, that he couldn’t recognize an entire celebrity.

The man must have realized now that Eric hadn’t known who he was, because his grin turned sheepish as he wiped his hands on a towel. “Yep! I’m, uh. Songbird? That’s my stage name. And my YouTube channel.”

That name rang, like, literally no bells in Eric’s head. Figures, though. He rarely watched Youtube.

They stood in relative silence for a few beats before the man tried again. “Cadence? Cadence Beaulieu?”

“Oh,” Eric said, and it must have been obvious how he didn’t know who the fuck this Cadence dude was, because Cadence laughed a little in his face.

“You’re cute,” Cadence said, limping out around the bar, holding onto the bar’s side. “I don’t get that much anymore.”

“Cool.” Eric instinctually hurried over, holding Cadence’s arm and waist as he helped him onto one of the bar’s seats, but his head was reeling from the idea of a famous celebrity calling him cute. Like? That didn’t just happen. Did it? This guy was fucking famous?

What the fuck was he supposed to say? How do you talk to famous people? Eric helped him settle into the seat before asking, “Do you want water or something?”

“No, I’m good,” Cadence smiled at him.

Eric was going to loose his mind, he got called cute by a famous dude and now he’s looking at the famous dude and realizing how cute the famous guy was. He hadn’t paid attention to that earlier, too preoccupied with getting the guys at the door to leave, but now that he was actually looking at this guy—his anxiety was about to start kicking in, hard, he could tell. What if he made an ass of himself in front of the famous dude? The incredibly pretty famous dude.

“Cool,” Eric looked down, at the bar, and whistled a little. “If you want, you can, uh, stay here for a bit, until your car comes?”

He figured the famous dude isn’t driving around himself.

Cadence nodded. “If that’s okay,” he murmured, taking out his phone. “I can stay outta your way, then.”

Slowly, Eric nodded, too. He had to get the extra drinks ready. Finish opening up. And. He couldn’t really. Process? What was happening. He just thought he was helping someone up off the street, having tripped, and….Wait.

“Wait, how’s your ankle?” he tried to swallow his anxiety, looking back at Cadence, who seemed to be idling on his phone.

Cadence looked back up at him, then at his ankle. He was wearing strappy heels, flowy pants, a tight shirt, and an old oversized jacket, and none of these looked like clothes that were good to be running around in. Especially those heels. Eric didn’t know much about heels but he figured they might be an inch? And that was probably enough to fucking break a leg. Rude to stare, though. So he just. Averted his eyes back to the glasses he was stacking for later.

This guy was so fucking pretty. Eric was holding him earlier. He’d carried him—Eric had deadlift carried a whole ass celebrity.

“Probably sprained,” Cadence said with a sigh. “When I get home, I can ice it. I don’t think it’s fully broken, though, I could put a little weight on it.”

Now, they had ice in the box. Eric grabbed one of the spare bags for their limes and filled one with ice, part of their protocol for when drunkards would hurt themselves. He wrapped it in one of the clean towels and, once the Grey Goose was restocked, brought it over to Cadence. Who took it. Gratefully. It seemed.

“Thanks,” Cadence gave him a smile, which like. Eric still didn’t really know how to feel about this.

“No problem,” he said. “Sorry, uh. For, uh, being quiet. And not knowing who you were.”

Because like, that felt like something he should apologize for, you know? If Cadence is used to people recognizing him on the streets and some level of respect because of it, then maybe Eric treating him like a regular person (maybe even ignoring him, since he’s just sitting in the corner) might be rude? He doesn’t know. He doesn’t know the fucking etiquette for talking to famous people, this isn’t a problem he’s ever had!

“It’s okay, no, don’t even worry,” Cadence giggled—that sound, that fucking sound was so soft, what the hell?—and waved his hand dismissively.

“Okay,” Eric nodded. And he didn’t have much to. Like. Add?

So he turned around and went back to restocking the bar. And he didn’t say anything about how he could feel Cadence watching him. He didn’t say anything, but he could feel Cadence’s eyes on his back every so often, when he’d look up from his phone.

Maybe he was tweeting something about him. Eric didn’t know much about social media so if he did get tweeted about, he definitely wasn’t going to be able to find it. Or maybe he was texting his famous friends about the weirdo bartender who’s just ignoring him as he lifts the crates out of the storage room and cracks them open.

There’s no way this dude would be bullying him over shit like this for no reason, right?

Regardless, Eric wasn’t about to start a conversation and ask. He just knew that the guy was staring at him. For what felt like an hour. Realistically, only like, half an hour. But for fucking forever, man.

At some point, though, it had to end. After about twenty minutes, Cadence stood up, wobbling a little on his hurt ankle. Eric, who’d been restocking the limes, looked up, then stood up.

“Your car here?” he asked.

“Yep,” Cadence smiled a little at him. “When does this place open, anyway?”

“Uh,” Eric frowned, checking the clock on the wall. “In ten.”

Where the fuck are his bartenders, anyway? They’re supposed to get here at around now. Fuckers.

Cadence nodded, though, noting the time. “Glad this all happened before hours, then. Wouldn’t want it to get too crazy in here for you,” he looked at the clock on the wall, then back at Eric, with a small smile that made Eric’s already quick-beating heart skip a beat thinking of how his eyes creased with gentle happiness.

“Uh. Yeah,” Eric tried to smile, too, but something told him it looked a little more like a grimace.

Cadence waved, Eric waved. Then Cadence left. And the door closed behind him.

And that was the that. On that.

Eric was fairly zoned out for the whole shift. He was mixing drinks on autopilot, not so much as handling customers. Some drunkard got rowdy, Eric wasted no time to tell them to fuck off. His patience was zilch.

He got home and Gavin’s already put himself to bed, tucked in and in his PJ’s, though Eric heard him get up when he closed the front door. Eric picked him up, tucked him back in again, and kissed him on the head. Poor kid hated being alone late at night, especially when he had to put himself to bed. Eric laid on the bed with him, one foot off to hold himself steady, and made sure Gavin was all the way asleep before he stood up to change his own clothes.

Only once he was sure Gavin’s not getting out of bed again does he check his phone, too.

“Cadence Beaulieu” had over four million followers on Twitter, over fifteen million subscribers on Youtube, and an Instagram account that makes Eric blush almost inappropriately. And this is the guy who was. In his bar. Talking to him. Eric picked this man up earlier and didn’t even notice that the heart on his face was made up of three moles. It looked like a tattoo almost, but no, apparently.

He spent almost too much time binging Cadence’s content before he managed to pass out to the sound of one of his beauty tutorials. Interesting, that this is the guy he met. This is the guy who he picked up, carried into his bar, hid in the corner.

Interesting.

But not every day is so interesting. So Eric goes back to work and expects nothing to change. He tries to put this rare celebrity encounter behind him. Tries not to think of how much of an idiot he must have been, seeming to just fade into the background and ignore what could have been a real moment had he asked more questions, became something more memorable perhaps. He could have asked Cadence how he was doing, at least. How his day had been. Anything, really.

Instead, Eric just has the memory of the prettiest man on the planet sitting in the corner of the bar, of his bar. Alone together. A stranger, sure, and maybe Eric understood somewhere that that was part of why the anxiety was so strong? But c’mon. Man was pretty. Nice, too.

Damn. This is why he’s single, he joked bitterly to himself. Lonely, the joke in his head twisted. He didn’t have the gall to actually talk to anyone, what was he supposed to do.

He had been cleaning out glasses at the bar, late one night. He’d picked up a later shift, after Gavin had already gone to sleep. Usually, Eric liked to be home while the kid slept, but sometimes the scheduling didn’t work out like that and he’d need to pick up extra hours for other bartenders who had to tap out. He was a very strong cover, apparently. And on the spectrum of “thank god that lucky ass thing happened,” this was right below Cadence’s accident.

About two weeks after Eric meets a whole ass celebrity, two men sit down at the bar during one of the live musical performances. It was Eric’s time working behind the bar, and he saw the one with the eyepatch wave him over. Which, like. Okay, sure, he was getting there. But customer service and you never know how many drinks they’ve had before they walk in at one in the morning and you definitely don’t want to get mad at the dude giving you the tip and maybe this dude’s never been to a bar, who the fuck wears soft cashmere at a bar, and his buddy there was in a bowtie and suspenders like this was some kind of book club and not remarkably past midnight on a Thursday.

Like, okay, nerds, maybe they’ve just never been to this kinda bar. Sure. Fine.

“What can I get started for you boys,” Eric said, slinging his washcloth over his shoulder on his approach.

“Two cosmopolitans, please,” the one with the eyepatch said, giving Eric a smile that read polite.

Eric looked at the one with curly hair and glasses, who nodded in confirmation. “One shot in both? You got any vodka preferences?” he asked, taking out the house vodka and two tumblers.

Before the eyepatch’ed one could reply, the one with glasses butted in, saying, “One with one shot, a double in the other, please. And if you have Ketel One, that would be grand.”

“A double shot? Marlowe!”

“What, it’s been a good day! I think I deserve a double shot. And you know two shots isn’t enough to do much.” This Marlowe guy sounded pretty cocky, if you were to ask Eric, but no one ever asks the bartender. So he didn’t say anything about it.

He tuned out of the argument there, as soft as it turned. Much less of an argument, more aggressive flirting, and that was something that was easy for him to zone out of until he set the two cocktails down. “Double shot,” he said, setting the double in front of Marlowe. “And a single. If you boys need anything else, my name’s Eric and I’ll be at the bar all night.”

“Eric,” the one with the eyepatch smiled, and it was kind of pretty in that controlled, poised way that some models do. “Thank you. If we need anything, I’ll-I’ll call.”

“Thank you, Eric,” Marlowe said, raising his glass and taking a long sip.

Eric just nodded and went around, checking on others. Earlier, he’d seen some dude try to roofie a girl, and had taken the drink back. She had left with a friend she trusted, and he’d kicked the guy out pretty forcefully, but the moment still left quite the imprint. He was always on edge whenever that happened, hoping to prevent it from happening again.

He did a few rounds before he ended up in front of Marlowe and his friend again, maybe half an hour later. This friend was on his phone, typing something out, while Marlowe flagged Eric down, with an empty glass before him.

“Hello, Eric,” Marlowe raised the glass. “Would you be a dime and make me a Long Island Iced Tea?”

Okay. This dude had to be a heavier drinker, if he was going to be calling out drinks by name. And it wasn’t necessarily Eric’s job to know how much someone could drink, especially strangers. The guy didn’t, like….he didn’t look drunk just yet. You know? So Eric nodded.

“Sure thing. You got any preferences?” he asked, taking the cup back and pulling out a tall glass.

Now that seemed to be the right question, or at least one the man hadn’t thought of. Marlowe reached up, cupping his chin in thought, and spared a few glances at his friend still typing. Hopefully this wasn’t, like, for the friend. Eric would have to watch for that. But after a bit of time, Marlowe nods. “Yes. Ketel One again for the vodka.”

“Sure.” They had Ketel One under the vodka cabinet, but people rarely ordered it. It was one of their premium vodka’s and house vodka was Smirnoff.

“Do you have Patrón for tequila?”

“Yeah, I’m….pretty sure,” Eric, before he could be made to swallow his words, took a stride to the tequila cabinet and checked. “Yep, I’ve got Patrón for you.”

“Excellent. I don’t know enough about the other three alcohols to have preferences, but if you could tell me what you put in, I’d love to start learning.”

An….interesting request. But Eric knew the house drinks like the back of his hand (and he might not be able to hold his liquor like the best of them, but he’d still tried all of the standard drinks. For posterity.) so he pulled out the Bacardi first. “This’ the rum. In house, we use Bacardi. Pretty light for a rum, but it does have a better taste than Captain Morgan. A lot better to mix with,” he explained.

Marlowe had turned himself toward the counter, watching Eric pour in the Bacardi first, then the Ketel One, then the Patrón. Then, he put those three down. The triple sec was all out on the shelf, since they were common enough and the bar stocked a small enough range to have the whole selection out for viewing. Eric pulled down a bottle of Bols to add, then Henrick’s gin from the shelf below. They were running out behind the bar anyways. “Bols is the triple sec,” Eric said as he poured. “It’s really good for mixing with multiple alcohols. Sometimes a drink’ll play nice with other alcohols and sometimes it’ll only play nice with, like. Coke.”

“That makes sense. The consistencies are very different,” Marlowe hummed.

Sounded like this dude was the analytical type. Which might explain why he had some of his preferences on hand. If you don’t go to bars often, you’re going to be scared of the unknown. Eric was almost proud of the guy for that, if this was him trying new things.

He just hoped Marlowe wouldn’t throw up in the bathroom or something. That would fuckin’ suck. Always a situation when the patrons didn’t know their own limits.

“Henrick’s is the gin, and it’s just a easy gin to use,” he said with a shrug. “And then we just….”

He pulled out the cola spritzer, topped the glass off with cola, and put the slice of lemon in. And then he slid it over to Marlowe, who took the drink in one hand with a fascinated look. Dude even pushed his glasses up.

“Interesting. I’m excited to try it,” Marlowe said, glancing back up to Eric with a smile.

And before Eric could even warn him about how strong of a gut punch it was about to be, Marlowe picked up the glass and took a swig about a third of the cup. “Woah, buddy,” Eric couldn’t stop himself from jumping at that. “You alright?”

“Marlowe, what the fuck are you doing?” dude’s friend finally looked up from his phone to see Marlowe slam the glass down and cough into his arm.

“Holy shit,” Marlowe said, fixing his glasses with a smile that seemed a little too wide to be sober. “That’s quite strong, but very, very good. Thank you, Eric!”

His glasses were still crooked. Eric almost leaned forward to fix them, before the guy’s friend got to it first, and that was all for the better. It’s not like Eric knew these people, after all.

Marlowe took out his phone and Eric took the chance to lean towards his companion. “He asked for a pretty strong drink,” Eric warned. “If you need a hand taking care of him, it wouldn’t be the first time I’ve held a dude’s hair back in the bathroom.”

His friend must have been surprised at the suggestion, but it can’t have been an uncommon thing considering how quickly he got over the possibility. “Thank you, that’s very k-very kind. He’s not usually one to drink a lot,” the friend sighed, then nodded to Eric. “Thank you for your service tonight, Eric. My name is Phillip.”

Phillip, alright. “Good to meet you, Phillip,” Eric said, and he went back around the bar to do rounds.

It was another hour and half before the bar closed, though. Eric wasn’t technically the shift lead for closing, but he was on the shift. When it got close enough to three, he turned on Semisonic’s song “Closing Time.” Most of the people had left by then, quick to leave on their rides or to new bars.

But still sitting at the bar were the two people Eric had pegged as nerds earlier, Marlowe and Phillip. After Marlowe finished the Long Island Iced Tea, Eric had poured a water, but the man still ordered a margarita on top of it. And now it looked like he was paying for it, given how he was literally leaning on Phillip’s shoulder, arms wrapped around his waist. Phillip didn’t look all too pleased, however.

“David is going to be worried si-worried si-sick when we get home.” Eric could hear Phillip chide Marlowe as he got close.

“It’s-It’s all dandy. I love David,” Marlowe hiccupped into Phillip’s shoulder, then leaned around and pressed his face into the base of his neck. “I love YOU, Prince.”

Phillip tutted, reaching back to run his hand through Marlowe’s curled hair. “I love you-love you too, you idiot.”

Cute. Really gay, and cute. Eric put away the cups he’d just washed and approached the pair, noting how they’d slowly but surely become the last people at the bar.

“Hey,” he said, waving slightly. “Phillip, right?”

“Mhm. Eric,” Phillip greeted. “Sorry to still be here. I can see you’re closing up.”

“Eh. Marlowe’s falling asleep on you, I get it. Do you two have a ride home?”

At that, Phillip winced. And Eric could have guessed the follow up, honestly. “Actually, Marlowe was supposed to be the driver,” Phillip confessed, patting Marlowe’s hand. “I think he overshot how much he could drink, though. As per usual.”

“I only had three drinks!” Marlowe interrupted, all too proud of himself for having three drinks that had the alcoholic consistency of a freight train.

Phillip and Eric both seemed to be on the same page, though, because neither acknowledged him. Save for a few gentle pats from Phillip as Marlowe buried himself more in Phillip’s back.

“Okay. Do you need to call someone?” Eric asked.

Phillip rubbed the back of his neck, thinking for a moment before nodding. “Yes. I know someone who’ll be awake who can come help, but….well. Marlowe’s car is still in the parking lot. It has a parking limit in the morning, which will quickly become an issue.”

Fuckin’ city parking. Eric had definitely gotten a ticket or two before, parking his motorcycle in the wrong place. He usually just walked to work, though, since he was two blocks away. So he didn’t have a vehicle to worry about….

A drunk man and a man with a cane could get picked up real easy this late at night by some unfavorable people. Maybe that worry was what made Eric offer. Maybe it was because Phillip and Marlowe had been fairly kind to him throughout the night. It could also have had something to do with how nice Phillip seemed to be taking it now, how calm he was handling the situation. And maybe, too, how Phillip himself didn’t ask.

There was something nice about being able to offer help, rather than having it asked of him always.

“If you want, I can drive you home,” Eric suggested. “I’ll catch an Uber back to my house from yours.”

Phillip blinked, and Marlowe giggled. Eric didn’t know what was so funny. He thought it was probably pretty shady to offer. He knew he wouldn’t let just any stranger drive his bike, after all. But he’d gotten to the point where he could do a solid vibe check just by looking and interacting with someone, and these two seemed nice. He could see himself accepting this kind offer, under similar circumstances, from either of them.

Still, kinda scary to think he’d be driving someone else’s car to their own house. He wouldn’t know where it was, Phillip would have to direct him. But Phillip legally couldn’t drive, not with the one eye gone, and Marlowe definitely couldn’t drive if he tried. Which he shouldn’t.

“That would be so-so lovely, thank you,” Phillip said.

Getting clearance to drive some drunk patrons home was a breeze, knowing it was Eric “workaholic glad you’re getting out early” Yuan. Soon enough, he had his arm looped around Marlowe’s waist, helping him up as Phillip led them to the car, which was parked about half a block away. Phillip also used a cane, which would have been a pretty difficult thing to work around if he needed to carry Marlowe himself. All the more reason Eric was glad to help them home.

They walked up to a nice sedan, likely a newer model judging by the built in navigation. Phillip helped Eric lay Marlowe in the back seat as he mumbled something about a pony, and Phillip himself climbed into the shotgun. The car wasn’t that hard to drive, now that Eric looked around at the controls. Same as any. The break was a little more tense than he was used to, but once he got it onto the road, he could manage.

Phillip, in shotgun, turned on a jazzy, late night radio station. And directed Eric gently towards their home, probably. Neither of them made conversation much but, to some extent, it didn’t seem like it was necessary. And that was kind of nice, to Eric. He didn’t always like conversing, especially with patrons and folks who didn’t know him. Which accounted for most people. But Phillip’s presence was nice, calming almost, which was rich for a guy who Eric had just met. He was tense, like he usually was, but for a stranger? In this kind of precarious circumstance?

It’s when the drive took them onto a small, two-lane road at the edges of the city and beginnings of the forest that Eric starts to worry. Was Marlowe actually a heavy-weight? Maybe he was pretending to be drunk back there so they could mug him? Take his kindness for granted and leave him in a ditch? He didn’t think he looked like he was worth mugging, but like….maybe. Was that a necessary cane or was it a weapon?

“It’s this-this house here,” Phillip said, pointing to a gravel driveway, and Eric swallowed despite the dryness of his mouth.

“Sure,” he murmured, pulling onto the gravel.

As he did, the house’s porch light turned on, front door thrown open as someone else jogged out. Eric stopped, threw the car into park immediately, but Phillip didn’t seem too phased by the newcomer. Instead, he turned to Eric and held out a one hundred dollar bill. “Thank you so much for all your help this evening,” he said with a smile.

Eric looked at the bill, then up at Phillip. He hadn’t really expected to be tipped for this, in all honesty. But it made sense. You know, if he’s going to drive you home, tip him. He’s done over the top enough. But a hundred fucking dollars? This dude just whipped a hundred dollars out on a tip? How loaded were these gay dudes, and then they didn’t have someone to drive them home?

“That’s a hundred dollars,” he said, unthinking.

He blushed a little, stuttering on words to add on and say he didn’t mean to sound ungrateful, but Phillip just laughed. His laugh was breezy, like leaves in the wind. “Yes, it’s a hundred dollars. I think it’s-it’s warranted, considering you drove me and my idiot home,” Phillip put the bill on Eric’s lap and undid his seatbelt. “It’s a hundred dollars plus something-something extra.”

Eric looked down at the bill, picked it up, and there was. A whole ass phone number written on the side. With the “Phillip & Marlowe” written on the side.

Before he can ask what the fuck is happening and if he’s been dreaming this whole time, the backseat door opens. “Davy,” Marlowe’s voice is so slurred it’s almost incomprehensible, but the person who’d come out of the house, this “Davy,” unbuckles Marlowe swiftly.

“Jesus, Marl’, how much did you drink?” Davy grumbles, pulling Marlowe out by his arms.

Instead of setting him on the ground, though, Davy just wrapped them around his shoulders and then slowly, steadily, lifted Marlowe into his arms. Marlowe let him, swinging his own legs up to make it easier for Davy to catch them. Once he had some semblance of a grip, Marlowe leaned forward and pressed his face against Davy’s, kissing him rough enough for Phillip to laugh at, Eric to stare confusedly at.

“He gets like this, when he’s-when he’s drunk,” Phillip leaned over to explain, though it does nothing to clear up Eric’s questions.

At this point? He’s a lot more willing to walk home. Just get out of the car and walk.

“Alright, y’ sap,” Davy grumbles, pulling Marlowe off of himself and nestling him into more of a hold.

Eric was still sitting in the driver seat, just watching through the passenger window as Phillip opens his own door and climbs out. Davy leans his head towards Phillip, who pats his shoulder warmly and looks down at Eric.

All three of them are looking at him now.

The odd one out.

And, like, fair. He didn’t know what the fuck he was doing here, either.

“Uh,” he said. “I can just, uh. I can call myself an Uber now.”

“Who the fuck’re you?” Davy asked, almost at exactly the same time.

Eric put his hands up and slowly climbed out of the car. This Davy person didn’t really look mad—Phillip leaned over, whispering something to him, and Davy nodded along. And Eric didn’t know what the fuck that was about really, but he didn’t feel in the mood to test anything. Not at three in the morning, in someone else’s driveway. He had to get back home.

“I can just….” Eric gestured to the road again, taking a few steps back.

Davy shook his head. “No fuckin’ way, dude,” he was much more abrasive than the other two, and something in the sturdiness of his tone got Eric to shut up. “I’ll drive you.”

On literally any other day, Eric would probably have started running right then and there. His palms were sweaty still, from gripping the steering wheel tighter than ever and from the mounting panic of driving someone else’s car to a house he didn’t know. In a car with a bunch of strangers.

But, to be frank, Eric was just starting to believe this wasn’t real.

He was probably just tired. He didn’t usually work shifts this late, and this was a whirlwind of a night already, and he’d already swallowed whatever panic arose earlier, which usually left him without the energy to worry about semi-tense situations. It was a kinda numb feeling. Besides, what was the worst that could happen? He dies and Gavin goes back with their parents? Bit too late in the night for Eric to care about something as trivial as dying.

So he nodded slowly to Davy’s suggestion. “That would be nice,” he said.

Davy grinned. He lifted Marlowe a little and said, “I’ll put this one to bed and come back out, ‘ight?”

Eric just nodded again, which must have been good enough for Davy, because he just turned around and marched himself back into the house. Phillip stayed outside, though, leaning on his cane with both of his hands. Eric shuffled around the car, now feeling a little more awkward, and Phillip gave him a small shrug as if to say he sympathized.

“I’m sure this is-this is strange,” Phillip added on.

It sure as fuck was. But Eric was like, almost too out of it to properly acknowledge that. “Yeah,” he mumbled. “This’ gonna be one hell of a dream to wake up from.”

Phillip chuckled at that one, laugh light like air. He leaned over and rested a hand on Eric’s shoulder—Eric flinched, hands reaching up into a defensive stance, and Phillip pulled back quick.

It was. A little out of his comfort zone.

Just a little. He didn’t like people touching him, especially people he didn’t know, because for the longest time he’d been used to sudden motions as a threat. And while he used to take it, Eric had long since trained himself to fight over flight. So it did take self-control to not just deck this dude.

He turned back around to Phillip, shoulders hiked enough for his neck to stiffen just a bit, and he tried to lower his own hands. They were shaking, much to his chagrin, so he stuffed them into the pockets of his jeans.

“Sorry,” he fumbled over his words. “Sorry, I, uh. I’m kinda...it’s late, and I don’t really like, uh. People touching me.”

“No need to apologize, that-that was on me,” Phillip responded. “No need at all. I should-I should have known better, but I’m ti-I guess I’m tired my-myself. I’m very sorry for touching.”

Eric smoothed himself out slowly, as best he could, and Phillip rested himself against the side of the car. He glanced over, watching Phillip as the man looked up at the tree line. In the moonlight, Eric could see him smile, ever so slightly. He looked weirdly regal, with how prim he was, even after being at a dive bar for three hours. His hair was still brushed to the side like it’d been gelled, though Eric had seen him run his hand through it a few times. And although it was dark, he could still make out the freckles that dotted Phillip’s face, like stars in their own right.

He turned away, looking at his feet, and hoped Phillip didn’t feel too badly. It wasn’t his fault Eric was a nervous fuckin’ wreck. But he didn’t say anything. Getting a little too tired to hold proper conversation.

They both look up as the front door opens and closes again, as that Davy guy jogs out. He’d changed out of his clothes into other pajama looking clothes, or maybe he’d just thrown on a jacket.

“Alright, nerd’s been sung a lullaby and is all tucked into bed.” He clapped his hands, rubbing them together slowly. “You gonna be able to get yourself in bed okay, Princey?”

“Oh, I’ll be okay. Just-Just sad my favorite artist won’t be there to kiss me goodnight,” Phillip said, and Eric did a double take at how flippantly the flirt was doled out.

Wasn’t Phillip dating that Marlowe guy? Eric glanced between Davy and Phillip as Davy scoffed and grabbed Phillip by the shoulder of his sweater, yanking him close and kissing him for a second. Were they like, all dating? Was that what was happening here?

Eric was more confused than anything else. He knew of polyamory. He’d just never seen it. Then again, he didn’t know about a lot in the queer community. Once, one of the queens who came in for drag night called him “gnc as hell” and he had to get an explanation from one of the girls sitting at the bar. Polyamory, though, was a new kind of fear for him. That was just more people to disappoint.

He looked back at the car and climbed into the passenger seat while Davy pulled back from Phillip and mussed up his hair. Eric very intentionally ignored eye contact while Davy climbed into the driver’s seat and rolled down Eric’s window, though he did wave at Phillip while Davy pulled away.

“Drive safely, David!” Phillip called out, waving a hand.

“Be back in a sec, baby!” David must have been his name proper, because he blew Phillip a kiss through the window and then rolled it back up.

Eric just kept sitting. Quietly. He almost wanted to pull his knees up, but this was someone else’s car and he didn’t really want to put his shoes on the leather seats. He put his hands on his knees, though, and tensed his knuckles a little.

Whereas the ride to the house was quiet in a calm manner, Eric felt a lot more tense now. He didn’t know this David. And this David dude seemed a lot less poised than Phillip or Marlowe, given how he just turned off the radio and mumbled music lyrics, off-key and without any actual tune. And Eric could recognize that only because, at some point, David was singing some Shinedown song he knew. “State of My Head?” Probably.

Would David be mad? If this was a polyamory situation, would it be like encroaching on territory to have driven Phillip and Marlowe home? Eric didn’t know. He didn’t want it to seem like that; he just didn’t want them to have to call an Uber and get a ticket. Shit was expensive.

At the first red light off the one-lane road, David glanced at him, and Eric caught the sight of a birthmark near his neck. It looked faded but it was still a recognizable shade of red. Eric looked away almost immediately, so David wouldn’t notice him staring. He must not have been too successful, though, because David chose that moment to start a conversation.

#human au #eric #cadence #gavin #the human au has two main fics #the first is about eric joining the polycule and that's where this snippet is from #the second is about everyone else joining the polycule and it is.......... so fucking long / // .. . .#i am just always nervous about the world knowing about things that are close to my heart and like #writing these fics have been getting me through grad school and also having a job in grad school #been very very stressed and taking it out on the boys and now the boys are so close to my heart #i hope you enjoy this !!!#hopefully ill draw new things and change up the layout and get a new theme #ive been thinking of making myself themes because like. whats the point of knowing how to make custom interactives if i cant #make myself a tumblr theme :^)#anyway long winded tags aside #thank you very much for sticking through this with me and thank you everyone who enjoys these homies #i also enjoy them #this is two chapters of the fic actually #its two chapters of the eric fic

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