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to-be-spared · 9 hours ago

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in the trailer when fadel and style are in that bed truck or something, isn't style handcuffed to the car? 👀 @ fadel sweetie

#the heart killers #fadelstyle

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to-be-spared · 11 hours ago

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is it confirmed that there is no thk episode next week? 👀👀

#the heart killers

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to-be-spared · 19 hours ago

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ngl when fadel turned up the music i thought oh he's thinking about shooting style isn't he

#the heart killers #fadelstyle

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to-be-spared · 1 day ago

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The Heart Killers Crack 1/?

the headlines: IT'S NOT LOOKING GOOD, STEVE

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to-be-spared · 1 day ago

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i wrote about fadel having a fever and style taking care of him because today's episode broke me happy holidays

also on AO3 if you prefer it

“You have a fever,” Bison says, matter of fact, bracelets clinking in Fadel’s aching brain as Bison shakes the thermometer to bring it back to cooler temperatures.

The edge of glee in Bison’s voice makes Fadel attempt a frown in his direction, but he’s not sure he manages it as he tries to protest: “It’s just a cold.”

Fadel imagines the sceptical expression on Bison’s face as he can’t quite keep his eyes open to see it.

“Stay here. Rest,” Bison says, no, orders, tone uncharacteristically unmovable, something Fadel secretly envies: Bison’s aloof, reckless carelessness that allows him to be terrifying when he feels like it.

But Fadel is the eldest and he knows Bison is scared of spiders. “You’ll burn down the restaurant.”

“I’ll turn on a water tap,” Bison says, dry.

Fadel hears him step away, and if he could move he knows he would do something as humiliating as reaching out. Asking him to stay.

He thinks he should tell Bison that clothes stay the fuck on in the kitchen, but he’s busy gritting his teeth against his own hypocrisy, against the unpleasant warmth climbing up his throat. And then it’s too late, and his bedroom door closes painfully behind his eyes.

*

Bison has always enjoyed getting mildly sick, seeing it as an incontrovertible chance to rest and demand his favourite soup of Fadel and lay in bed with his restored Game-boy Color.

Fadel has never seen the appeal.

When he was nine, it had taken Mother’s assistant three days to realise he hadn’t gotten out of bed because he was shaking too much, because every time he looked around his room his vision became grey and fuzzy, because his whole body ached, worse than what he was used to with their training.

It’s laughable, but if Fadel isn’t bone-deep exhausted when he gets to bed, he’ll spend a few hours wide awake and terrified that, if he falls asleep, he won’t wake up again.

*

Fadel wakes up gasping, heart trying to beat its way out of his mouth, but there is a cool hand on his arm before panic can wrap itself tight around his chest.

“Sorry, sorry, I tried not to wake you – shit.”

Fadel blinks, fighting against the pressure in his forehead and the low light coming from a phone’s screen. “Style?” The name is a confused amalgamate of heavy sounds on his lips.

“Yeah, who else,” Style says, forgetting for a moment to keep his voice low. Fadel winces. “Your degenerate brother’s mouth was attached to Kant’s before the words Fadel and fever were even out of it.”

Style sits on the bed, uncharacteristically gentle with the world around him as he lays down next to Fadel, cool hands moving on Fadel’s forehead, Fadel’s neck.

“But,” Style continues, and Fadel knows he’s biting his tongue, lips parted as he ponders, “he did tell me to come here, so. I guess I’ll let him live.”

Fadel lets the words wash over him – he knows he has no hope of holding onto any of them, so he lets them be relief for a moment, along with Style’s cool hands. He lets out a sigh.

Style is quiet, and things being amiss have always drawn Fadel’s sharp attention, so he opens his eyes in spite of himself. Style’s face is barely bathed in his phone’s cold light, brows drawn as he searches Fadel’s expression.

“Hi,” Style whispers.

Fadel’s tongue sticks to the roof of his mouth. Some kind of fever. “You planning on killing Bison?”

Style frowns. “He shouldn’t have just left.”

There’s something for Fadel to solve about Style’s quick response, but it escapes him before he can get to it.

“Just sleep,” Style murmurs, soothing. His hand moves in Fadel’s hair slowly, like a silent lullaby that sends shivers down Fadel’s back. “Actually, no.” Style stretches over the side of the bed and the sound of rustling plastic fills the room. “I got you some medicine. Let’s give you that and some water and then you can sleep.”

Fadel moans a protest, squeezing his eyes shut as soon as the sound is out of his throat and past his lips, embarrassment warming his neck and face more than his fever has. Fucking hell. You’re not a fucking child.

A quiet chuckle escapes Style’s lungs in a gush of air. “Yeah, I know. But you’ll feel better.”

Fadel wants to nod, say yes and keep it at that, but he’s not a child except for all the ways in which he’s scared. “I hate being sick.”

Style pauses in his one-handed retrieving of the medicine from the plastic bag. The tips of his fingers find Fadel’s ear, the top of his cheekbone. “Being sick sucks,” he agrees.

“Don’t patronize me,” Fadel spits out, and he’s not sure that’s a more mature response but he can’t miss him already and he knows which regrets he can live with.

“I’m not,” Style responds, calmly, the outrage that usually accompanies his defensiveness absent. “I hate being sick, too.” And then he adds, even lower: “My mum hated being sick, too.” He clears his throat. “Nothing wrong with it. Being sick does suck.”

Fadel’s shame hesitates, shifting focus. “Sorry.”

“Shut up.” Style’s fingers keep moving on his cheek, in his hair. “It’s weird when you apologize. Just take your medicine.”

Fadel digs his elbows in the mattress, muscles aching as he pushes his back against the pillow – Style’s arm behind him, draped around his waist just in case.

The cold and the prospect of loneliness take a hold of Fadel’s core, making him shake so much that he almost drops the pill Style hands him. Fadel pushes it between his lips, quickly, and Style holds the bottle of water to his lips before Fadel can say I can do this.

“Good,” Style murmurs, and Fadel realizes they’re practised gestures, muscle memory, engraved gentleness.

The water is cool and harsh in his throat, and Fadel doesn’t manage more than a few sips.

Style helps him lay back down, and then he lies down too. He snakes his arm under Fadel’s head, pulling him close until Fadel’s hands are resting against Style’s stomach.

“You’ll get sick too,” Fadel protests, because he can’t say I’m already mourning this.

“You’ll have to take care of me, then,” Style says, reckless as he rests his cool palm on the side of Fadel’s warm neck.

A bitter smile curves Fadel’s lips. “I don’t think I’d be very good at it.”

Style doesn’t respond for a moment, his unusual silence allowing the flaw to be forgiven. He presses his lips against Fadel’s, then winks at him. “I’ll let you practise.”

Fadel lets the illusion close his eyes. He wants to ask what does that look like?, wants to know how Style is imagining it because he can’t bring himself to, self-preservation always his top priority, always facilitating his denial.

He opens his eyes.

Style is still looking at him, cool fingers moving on Fadel’s skin.

Fadel thinks keeping Style in bed while sick would be impossible. He’d probably need to physically pin him down.

“It’s easier if you close your eyes,” Style whispers.

He’s still real.

Fadel closes his eyes.

#the heart killers #fadelstyle

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to-be-spared · 1 day ago

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