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pitlanepeach · 28 days ago

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The Long Way Home I Chapter Two

Oscar Piastri x Harper Grace (OFC)

Summary — When Harper, a kind girl with a guarded heart, meets rising karting star Oscar Piastri at their English boarding school, sparks fly.

It only takes one silly moment of teenaged love for their lives to change forever.

Warnings — Teenage love, growing up together, falling in love, teen pregnancy, no explicit scenes when the characters are underaged (obviously??), strong language, manipulative parents, past death of a parent, dyscalculia, hardly any angst, slice-of-life basically!

Notes — Eek, are we soft for them already?

Wattpad Link | Series Masterlist

Maths was a unique kind of enemy.

Harper stared at the page, where a tangle of numbers mocked her in perfect, immovable silence. Quadratic equations. Graphs that looked like abstract art. Somewhere in her notes, her own handwriting had turned against her.

Jane was no help. "Look, I'd love to assist, but I operate strictly in the humanities. You want me to write an essay on why algebra is a metaphor for emotional repression? I got you. Solve for x? That's between x and God."

Harper sighed, banging her forehead on the desk.

Which is exactly how Oscar found her after his endurance run, still in his hoodie, hair damp and cheeks pink from the cold.

"You okay?" He asked.

"No," she mumbled into the table. "I'm dying. Death by numbers."

He peered over her shoulder. "Those are easy."

She raised her head and narrowed her eyes. "You would say that." She glared at him.

Oscar laughed and slid into the seat beside her. "Alright. Come on. I'll show you."

At first, it was just him. Patient, steady, explaining with short, clipped phrases and pencil taps. She wasn't sure if it was his teaching style or just the fact that he wasn't condescending that made it slowly start to make sense.

But by the next evening, word had gotten out.

Somehow.

The dorm common room turned into a weirdly specific academic support group. Oscar's roommate Sam pulled up a chair. Then Cal (Oscar’s engineer) FaceTimed in "for moral support"; and then casually mentioned that he has a masters degree in quantum physics.

Then two boys from Oscar's algebra class wandered over with snacks and just so happened to linger.

By the third night, someone had drawn up a "Harper's Maths Survival Schedule" and taped it to the common room door.

It read:

Monday: Oscar Tuesday: Sam Wednesday: Oscar Thursday: Alfie Friday: Matt

Harper laughed so hard when she saw it, she nearly cried.

And weirdly, somehow — it helped.

Not just the maths—but everything. The pressure. The loneliness. The constant feeling that she was a visitor in someone else's life. Here, she wasn't her mother's daughter, or the less-than-perfect student, or a problem to be fixed.

She was just Harper. And they liked her enough to stick around and actually put effort into helping her get better at maths.

One night, after everyone else had trickled off, Oscar hung around a little longer. She was almost too tired to think, her head tipped back on the sofa, eventually lolling over to rest on his shoulder.

"I don't know how you did it," she murmured.

"Did what?"

"Managed to turn maths practice into something I look forward to."

He laughed lightly. "You just needed to stop being so hard on yourself about it."

She looked over at him, eyes half-lidded. "Thanks, Osc."

He paused for a second too long. "Yeah. You're welcome."

She didn't respond. Just blinked at him, soft and warm.

And when he kissed her, it wasn't shocking.

It just felt... right.

—

Oscar wasn't supposed to be here.

Technically, he could be permanently expelled from the school. Lose his scholarship.

Not that he seemed particularly worried about that as he ducked beneath the low dorm window Harper had jimmied open earlier that week with a pen and a high level of angry rebellion.

"You're late," Jane said from where she sat cross-legged on her bed, dabbing highlighter onto her cheekbones. "Harper said you'd be five minutes."

"I had to wait for your prefect to leave," Oscar replied, swinging a leg inside. "She was sniffing around like a bloodhound."

"You're lucky you're cute," Jane muttered, not looking up.

Oscar took in the room; two mismatched duvets, makeup scattered across the long desk, fairy lights tangled above a heart shaped mirror. The air smelled like vanilla body lotion and expensive shampoo and some kind of spice he couldn't place. Cinnamon, maybe.

Harper was perched on the windowsill, brushing her hair into a ponytail with one hand, holding a lip balm in the other. She was wearing a navy jumper over leggings, ankle tucked under her thigh like she hadn't even noticed he'd arrived—even though the pink high in her cheeks suggested otherwise.

"I feel like I've entered another dimension," Oscar said, warily eyeing an eyelash curler. "What is that?"

Jane brandished it like a weapon. "Beauty, my darling. Don't question the process."

"You're both unwell," he muttered, but he was smiling.

Harper rolled her eyes at him, but had to purse her lips to hide her smile. "You're the one who insisted on coming over."

"Yeah, and now I regret it," Oscar said, perching awkwardly on the edge of Harper's bed. He knew it was hers because her pillowcase was monogrammed with a cursive H. "What are you doing?"

"Makeup," Jane said, blending concealer with terrifying precision. "You should try it."

Harper handed him a compact mirror with a sly smile. "Want some mascara, Osc?"

Oscar caught his own reflection and made a face. "No. I'll stay ugly, thanks."

Harper rolled her eyes at him and nudged him. He noticed that she'd painted her fingernails a glittery pink. He liked them.

Jane tossed an empty crisp packet across the room and it landed somewhere close to the bin.

Harper held up two near-identical shades of what was apparently lip gloss and demanded that Oscar choose.

Oscar chose the darker pink and Harper beamed at him.

Eventually, Jane pulled her riding boots on and announced, "Right. I'm going to grab some water bottles. Don't kiss until I get back — I want to watch."

Oscar opened his mouth to say something — anything, but she was already gone.

And then it was just the two of them, the room suddenly quieter, more tense. Harper turned toward him, one knee bent on the chair, her face lightly painted with makeup, her cheeks flushed from the laughter.

She looked at him, eyes half-lidded. "Thanks for coming, Osc. I missed you this weekend."

He stared for a second too long. "Yeah. Yeah, of course. I wanted to come. I missed you too."

She didn't look away, and suddenly he couldn't hold himself back anymore.

He pushed off of the bed and walked over to her, leaned down and cupped her face in his hand and kissed her. Long and soft and perfectly minty — from his gum or her lipgloss, he wasn't sure. Maybe both.

Teamwork.

When they pulled apart, she exhaled shakily."Okay," she said, so softly it barely existed. "That was nice."

Oscar looked at her for a long moment, his thumb brushing a smudge of mascara off her cheekbone.

Then Jane banged back through the door with a flourish, freezing mid-step at their closeness.

"Oh my God, did you—? You did, didn't you. I missed it again!"

—

Half term at Harper's house felt like walking around in someone else's skin.

Every day was a new performance: a crisp outfit, polite laughter, perfectly timed nods in rooms filled with too-white teeth and names she was supposed to remember. The dining tables were long and silent, the smiles were sharp, and the wine flowed never-ending.

Her mother paraded her through charity galas and luncheons like she was a debutante being rebranded.

"Stand up straighter, Harper."

"Don't speak unless you're spoken to."

"Do not mention anything to do with your schooling. God forbid they ask about your grades."

So Harper swallowed herself down, tucked her sarcasm into her clutch bag, and became exactly the daughter her mother wanted. For six days.

By the seventh, she'd become brittle.

When the train pulled back into the station near school, Harper had barely spoken a word for almost five hours. The Uber to the gates was quiet. Her mother didn't even look up from her phone when she said goodbye.

And then the building appeared—stone and ivy, wind in the trees, the faint smell of grass and cafeteria food.

Home, almost.

She hadn't texted Oscar. So she just walked straight to the common room, her bag still digging into her shoulder, hair pulled into a too-tight twist, like a fingerprint that her mother had left on her.

He was there, leaning against the radiator with his headphones half on, scrolling through something on his phone. He looked up once and blinked like he wasn't sure she was real.

"Hey—"

She dropped her bag before he could finish. Crossed the space in three quick steps.

And then she was in his arms, burying her face into the curve of his neck.

No words. No warning.

Oscar caught her without hesitation, his arms sliding around her, his hands settling at her back like they'd been waiting. He held her tightly.

For a long time, they didn't say anything.

Just her fingers fisting in the back of his hoodie. His chin tucked gently over her hair. The low hum of the radiator and the quiet outside, and the way she was shaking, not crying, not quite, but trembling with the pressure of having to be somebody else for too long.

Eventually, he whispered, "Was it that bad?"

She nodded into his chest.

"I missed you," he said.

She didn't answer; just held on tighter.

It was the first time she'd ever let herself lean on somebody like this. Not perform, not pretend—just be held. And she didn't care who saw or what anyone thought.

Oscar had quietly become her anchor. Her soft place.

And maybe that was terrifying.

She was only fourteen, Oscar fifteen — but God, his arms felt like safety. And warmth. And something else that she couldn't bear to even consider yet.

—

Harper's fifteenth birthday wasn't eventful.

She didn't tell anyone. Not because she didn't want them to know—but because birthdays in her world had always come with strings. Lavish luncheons, social climbing events, gifts that felt like bribes.

She just wanted this one to pass through quietly. Like a train through a tunnel.

Jane, of course, knew anyway. She left a pastry and a glittery crown on Harper's bed with a note that said, "You are legally required to feel loved today. I don't make the rules." The crown had little fake gems and kept slipping off Harper's head, but she wore it anyway during breakfast.

Oscar wasn't there.

He was in Italy. Or Belgium. Somewhere with a name that tasted foreign and exciting. Somewhere chasing corners at 120 miles per hour while she spent the morning trying to translate her messy English notes into a coherent essay.

Her and Oscar still weren't... official.

No labels, no silly promises.

Just soft looks and secret smiles, warm palms pressed together in the dark of the common room. Kisses that stretched time. Late-night texts that made her stomach twist in ways she still didn't know how to name.

But still. It was her birthday.

She didn't expect anything.

Which is why, when Jane dragged her back to their room after dinner, she nearly tripped over the package sitting on her desk.

There was no name on it. Just a strip of tape across the top, and the faint smell of engine oil clinging to the paper.

She tore it open slowly, heartbeat ticking louder with each pull.

Inside: a hoodie. Worn-in, navy blue. She recognised it immediately—it was Oscar's. The one he always wore over his racing suit, with his initials inked inside the collar. It smelled like him. Like soap and sun and sweat.

And tucked inside the folded fabric, a card.

H — Happy birthday. Sorry I'm not there. Don't let Jane make you wear the crown all day. Put this on instead. I'll be back before the end of the week. Save a birthday kiss for me. Osc x

She stared at the messy, awful, hardly eligible handwriting for a long time.

Then she pulled the hoodie on and let it swallow her whole.

Later, when they'd crawled back into the common room to watch a movie and everyone was pretending not to watch her phone light up every three minutes, Jane nudged her.

"You know he's basically your boyfriend, right?"

Harper rolled her eyes. "He's not, though."

Jane shrugged. "Oh, puh-lease. You're always wearing his clothes. You look at him like he's the moon and you're the stars. You guys kiss all the damn time — like you've got nowhere else to be."

"I don't need a label." Harper said.

"No," Jane said, smiling. "But you'll have one soon. I'd put money on it."

As if on cue, Harper's phone buzzed.

A photo. Oscar, in his race suit, grinning with helmet hair and grease on his cheek, holding up a little cupcake with a candle in it.

Wish you were here. Celebrating for you anyway. Happy Birthday, sunshine.

Harper didn't reply right away. Just closed her eyes, let the warmth bloom under her ribs, and whispered, mostly to herself, "I wish I was there too."

—

The night was cool and quiet in the early spring, the kind of night where the world seemed to be holding its breath for a warm day.

Harper waited near the edge of the astro turf, shadows stretching long under the floodlights that were turned off but still gave the field a faint glow from the nearby streetlamps.

Her hoodie was too big, but it felt like a shield—and it smelled like Oscar.

She heard footsteps before she saw him, and when he appeared, the grin he gave her was full of all the things words hadn't managed to say.

"Hey," he said, voice low.

"Hey," she replied, stepping closer.

They settled on the edge of the turf, legs stretched out, the grass synthetic but soft beneath them.

For a while, they just sat. Quiet but close. Hands finding each other like magnets.

Then Oscar broke the silence. "So... uh, us," he started, voice hesitant but steady.

Harper turned her head toward him, watching the way his eyes caught the light, shadows flickering like secrets.

"I don't want to mess this up," he said, his lips curled awkwardly. "But I really like you, Harper. Like... so much."

She took a breath. "I like you too," she whispered. "More than friends."

He grinned, that slow, real smile that made everything else fall away. "So—you want to be my girlfriend?"

She stared at him, her stomach warm and twirling, her lips twitching into a fond, sweet smile. "Yeah, Osc. Yeah. I want to be your girlfriend."

—

The track in Essex was wet. Not just damp — soaked. The kind of cold, miserable damp that clung to your bones and turned the air misty around the edges.

Harper stood at the edge of the paddock with Mark, a steaming takeaway cup with hot chocolate cupped between her hands, the sleeves of Oscar's team hoodie pulled down over her wrists. Her boots were already muddy. Her nose was red. She didn't care one single bit.

Because out there — helmet on, eyes narrow, engine growling beneath him — was Oscar. Fast, fluid, terrifyingly good.

Mark watched silently, arms folded, one eye on the stopwatch. "Final lap," he murmured.

Harper didn't answer. She couldn't. Her heart was in her throat.

Then he crossed the finish line — just ahead, by a fraction of a second.

A cheer broke out across the team tent, someone throwing their arms in the air. Mechanics pounded backs. One of the younger juniors swore loudly in delight.

Oscar skidded into the pit lane and yanked off his helmet. His hair was plastered to his forehead. His face was flushed, wild-eyed, grinning.

Harper barely waited. She ducked under the barrier and ran straight into his arms.

He caught her mid-stride, lifting her clean off the ground with a muddy laugh.

"You did it," she breathed, half-laughing, half-crying.

He held her tighter, nose brushing her temple. "I did it."

Their kiss was messy and cold and perfect.

A few feet away, Mark shook his head with a smile and muttered, "Teenagers."

Later, after the podium and the trophy photos and the engine checks and the interviews he barely paid attention to, Oscar found her again — sitting on a folding chair, wet hair pulled into a messy ponytail, her boots still caked in track dirt.

He dropped down in front of her, ignoring the mud. His hands slid around her knees.

"You cold?" He asked.

"A bit."

He peeled off his jacket and tugged it over her without thinking.

She let her hands drift to his collar. "You really are the best boyfriend ever, aren't you?"

He shrugged. His cheeks flushed a little. "I try my best."

They sat like that in the growing dusk, a boy covered in sweat and rubber and a girl who didn't belong in this world — but somehow fit in it perfectly anyway.

They still hadn't said the words.

But everyone around them already knew.

They could see it.

"Bloody young love, eh?" One of the mechanics said to Mark, giving him a friendly grin.

Mark stared at his protege and the girl he was wrapped around. "Yeah. Young love. A hell of a thing."

—

The Monday morning after Oscar's karting championship win was business as usual — at least for everyone else.

The cafeteria stank of burnt toast and unripened bananas. Someone's rugby kit had been left to rot in the corridor again. Teachers were barking about mock exams and how important breakfast was for concentration.

Rain pattered against the high windows.

The whispers had started the moment they walked in — not mean, just curious. A mix of respect and amusement. He's the karting kid who actually did it. And she was the girl who'd been there.

They didn't hold hands in front of everyone, they were both too awkward for that, but they walked close. His bag brushed hers. Their shoulders kept touching. She caught him glancing at her more than once, and she blushed every damn time.

They sat at their usual table; Jane joined them, already mid-rant about the biology quiz, and Oscar slid into the seat beside Harper like it was instinct. A few of his mates clapped him on the back, one of them tossing out, "Bloody hell, Piastri. Gonna forget us little people soon?"

Oscar grinned but didn't rise to it. His hand brushed Harper's knee under the table.

After breakfast, Harper slipped away early. Sometimes, the morning noise was too much. She wandered toward the astro, the damp still clinging to the edges of the pitch, her trainers leaving faint impressions on the stone pathway.

A minute later, she heard footsteps behind her.

"You always going to run off without me?" Oscar's voice, soft, teasing.

She turned and squinted at him. "I wasn't running," she said.

He stepped closer, hands in his pockets. "You okay, babe?"

Babe.

Babe. Babe. Babe.

"No," she said. "Yes. No. I don't know. I just needed to breathe."

He stepped up beside her, both of them facing the empty turf.

"You think my mum's going to be pissed when she finds out?" She asked after a minute.

He glanced sideways at her. "About you going to the race?"

"No. Yes. But I meant more about us."

Oscar was quiet for a moment. "Yeah. She probably will."

She looked at him; saw the mud-streaked, medal-wearing, boy-who-won-the-thing him. The one who kissed her under floodlights and held her on her worst days. The one she'd never trade for any high-brow, suit-wearing finance guy in any universe.

"You really aren't going anywhere, are you?" She whispered. "

He shook his head. "Not unless you're coming with me."

She stepped into his chest and sniffled a little, then looked up and lifted onto her tiptoes to let him kiss her.

—

It started as a joke.

One day in maths, Harper made a face so violently pained at the sight of a clock diagram on a worksheet that Jane nearly fell off her chair laughing.

That evening, Oscar mentioned it to the guys — just casually, in that offhand way that somehow made them all very invested in Harper's educational redemption arc.

By the weekend, there was a printed-out worksheet titled "MISSION: TEACH HARPER TO READ A CLOCK" taped to the common room wall.

It escalated quickly.

Now, every Tuesday evening, the boys' dorm turned into a chaotic, loving, entirely misguided tutoring group.

Like an off-brand of the maths tutoring program they'd thrown together for her — but with more interest.

There was Oscar, naturally, trying to be the patient one. Then Alfie, who thought yelling was teaching. Ethan, who brought snacks. And Matt, who had made a papier-mâché clock face out of a pizza box. With arrows.

Harper sat in the middle of them like a hostage.

"I'm telling you," she said, pointing wildly at the pizza box. "That one's ten. I swear. It's a ten."

Oscar, sitting cross-legged beside her, gently rotated the cardboard. "Harper, the big hand is on the two. That means it's ten past the hour. Not ten o'clock."

"Okay but how am I meant to know which hand is the minute hand? They're both just... hands."

Alfie groaned. "The minute hand is the longer one! Like, always! What do you mean 'just hands'?"

"They're not labelled!" She cried. "If someone handed you two spoons and said one was for soup and one was for jazz, would you know the difference?"

Everyone stopped.

Matt blinked. "Why would I have a jazz spoon?"

Oscar covered his mouth and tried not to laugh.

Ethan passed Harper a cookie. "Here."

She took it. "I'm just saying — numbers on a clock move. They're not meant to move." She grumbled and gave herself a frustrated forehead tap. "God, I'm so stupid."

Oscar leaned his shoulder gently against hers. "No you're not. You know that you're not, Harper. You know you're brilliant at a million other things."

She glanced at him suspiciously. "Like what?"

"You have perfect spatial memory. You memorised my whole kart setup after watching one session. You've mastered a million different coding languages already. You're good with people. You know how to read a room faster than anyone I've ever met. And," he added, deadpan, "you've successfully confused four teenage boys into thinking teaching time is a fun group activity."

She laughed then, warm and tired. "Well. Can't say I'm not a good influence, can the?"

"You're just a bit of a lost cause when it comes to clocks," Alfie muttered, re-taping the pizza clock for the fifth time.

But Harper didn't care about clocks. Not really.

Because she was surrounded. Because they kept showing up — Oscar with his soft corrections, Alfie with his shouting, Jane peeking in with popcorn halfway through every session. They all knew. About the dyscalculia, about the clocks, about her brain doing loop-de-loops over simple sums.

And none of them ever made her feel stupid for it.

Just... loved.

Even if she still couldn't tell the difference between three-forty-five and quarter past the hour (because what the hell did that even mean?).

—

It happened on the following Wednesday.

Halfway through the day, Harper was pulled from class. A quiet word from a teaching assistant, a murmured excuse. No one offered a reason why.

She thought it might be something small. Maybe Jane had accidentally set off the fire alarm again.

But then she stepped into the front office — and saw her mother sitting there, spine straight, legs crossed, lips pursed in thin, unimpressed silence.

Harper's stomach dropped.

"Come," her mother said, standing. "We'll talk in the car."

⸻

The car was parked on the far side of the lot, a sleek black town car that looked like it belonged outside a private gallery in Mayfair. Not a school car park.

Harper slid in, cold air brushing her ankles, heart thudding in her chest like it already knew what was coming.

Her mother didn't speak until the door shut.

"A karting race?" Her voice was like glass. "Karting, Harper?"

Harper blinked. "How do you—?"

"I got a call," she said, cutting her off. "From someone on the board. They saw photos. You, standing in the dirt with oil on your jeans. Smiling like you'd won the lottery. Holding hands with some, boy, in a racing suit. Do you understand how humiliating that was for me?"

"It's not—"

Her mother turned, eyes sharp and glittering. "Do you have any idea how much I've done to protect your name? Your future? And you're throwing it away for... boys who drive go-karts and call it a sport?"

Harper's hands curled in her lap. "He's not just a boy," she said quietly. "And it is a sport."

"Oh," her mother sneered, "is he your boyfriend now? Do you want to bring him to your cousin's wedding in Vienna next month? Shall we seat him between a baroness and a venture capitalist and see how long he lasts before talking about gear ratios?"

Harper flinched. "Stop."

But she didn't.

"You are not one of them, Harper. You are not some muddy little pitlane girlfriend who throws her life away for some boy with too much money and a ridiculous dream. I will not let you become a story people whisper about."

"I'm happy," Harper said, voice rising. "For once in my life, I'm actually—"

"Enough." Her mother's voice was like a slap. "We're withdrawing you at the end of term. I've already spoken to Madame Viard. There's a place for you at Lausanne International. You leave for Switzerland in January."

The silence after was suffocating.

Harper sat frozen, winded, as if someone had punched all the air out of her.

Her mother adjusted a glove, calm again. "You'll thank me someday."

But Harper wasn't listening anymore.

Her mother's jaw was clenched so tightly that a vein twitched in her temple.

"Fine," Harper said, voice low but steady.

The word dropped like a weight in the space between them.

Her mother blinked, surprised by the ease of her surrender.

But then Harper looked up — and there was fire behind her eyes. Her voice was calm, controlled, but every word burned.

"But you should know," she said, leaning forward just slightly, "that when Oscar's driving in Formula One — not if, when — and he's one of the most successful athletes in the world, I won't look back. I won't give you an inch. I'll let you sit in your wrongness and stew in it forever."

Her mother went bright red. "Do you think you're making this better for yourself?"

Harper laughed — a bitter, tired sound. "No. I know I'm making it worse. I'm very aware of how this works, Mum. I step out of line, and you slam the gates shut. But what else can I do?"

She paused, chest heaving slightly now.

"You don't listen to me. You never have. You just tell me what my life is going to be. What I wear. Who I talk to. Where I study. Who I sit next to at dinner parties like I'm some sort of accessory you place on a chair next to a financier's son. You talk through me like I'm not a human being. Like I don't have wants and desires and dreams of my own."

"Harper—"

"No. You don't get to talk now."

She didn't raise her voice — didn't need to. Every word sliced clean and deliberate.

"The worst part? The part that actually makes me want to scream? Is that I know Dad would be so happy I found someone like Oscar. That I found someone who likes me in the quietest, most awkward, most real way."

Her breath hitched — not from tears, but from the pressure of keeping them in.

"He's so bad at it. At being romantic. He blushes when I look at him for too long. He stammers when he's nervous. He opens doors and fixes my hair without saying a word. He doesn't like PDA. He frowns when he's concentrating and forgets to drink water and spends more time worrying about everyone else's lap times than his own."

She looked her mother dead in the eye.

"And yeah — he races karts. But he moved all the way here from Australia on his own at fourteen. He trains his body every single day for hours on end. He's braver than anyone I've ever met. Can you name one of your friends' sons who would've had the guts to do that? Or who would sit with me for an hour to explain how to read an analogue clock without laughing at me? Or who lets me cry without asking questions because he knows I hate explaining myself?"

Silence crackled in the car.

Her mother's lips parted — but nothing came out.

So Harper filled the space.

"You raised me to care more about perception than truth. To be polished. Obedient. Photogenic. And I'm done."

She reached for the door handle, voice like steel. "You want to send me to Switzerland? Fine. But you'll have to drag me there. Kicking and screaming."

She opened the door, letting in the sharp slap of cold air, and turned back one last time.

"Because I've finally found something that's mine. And I'm not giving it up for you. Not this time."

Then she stepped out of the car and walked back to class.

NEXT CHAPTER

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babybluebex · 5 days ago

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fuck em all but us pt.1 | tryst (fakes) x fem!reader

𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘: part 1 of 2! before shit got fucked with zoe and becca, tryst was your best friend. despite highs and lows, will-theys and won't-theys, you were each other's ride or dies, and it felt like nothing could jeopardize that. standing by each other's side for every little moment, you grew up together, and despite always wanting to be more, you were happy with what you got. the weird kids always find each other, y'know? wc 7.5k title stolen from watermelon by john + jane q. public 𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆: tryst (fakes, 2022) x fem!reader 𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐒: SPOILERS FOR FAKES! angst out the ass here folks, underage drinking/drug use/smoking (none depicted but is discussed)(like honestly look at the source material, it's gonna come up), of-age drinking/drug use/smoking, mentions of addiction/dependency issues, discussions of mental health and manic episodes, mentions of sex (but none actually depicted— sorry! that's for part two wink wink), mentions of condom usage (and the consequences if not used)(again look at the source material tryst is canonically a father) 𝐀𝐔𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐑'𝐒 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄: prepared for this to get like 5 notes but whatever. think of this as like the prologue to the show, showing how reader and tryst met and became friends, which then will inform part 2, which will highlight parts of the show. i had a lot of fun writing this, and what i've written of part 2 so far is a lot of fun as well eek!! also major thanks to @mustyrosewater who helped me brainstorm some finer details, and @thekid-ofsteel who answered every single canada question that i, as an ignorant american, needed answered <3 hope you enjoy, follow @babybluebex-writes to be notified whenever i post a new fic!!

10 years before shit got fucked: weird kids find each other. That’s how you always described the way that you and Tryst met. You went to the same high school in West Vancouver, right after you moved there, a lowly little grade nine kid who was a hint too shy and a hint too black-sheep to have any real hope of making friends. Even before your family moved from Victoria, you knew that high school was gonna suck for you, and the new locale didn’t give you much more hope, but then you met Tryst.

He was weird too. He was older than you, on his way out as a senior, but you had shop class together and, as it always happened, the two weird kids were made to be partners. The teacher called his name in the roll— “Smith comma Trystan”— and he halfheartedly mumbled “Just Tryst”, then added under his breath “Just like last year…” You remembered back then, he styled his hair in a sorta sideswept 5-years-too-late Justin Beiber type situation, and he always wore chipped green nail polish, but, that first day, he said he liked your Twilight t-shirt and smacked the side of his head when he forgot your name, and he endeared himself to you.

That year went far better than you could have imagined, all thanks to Tryst. You called each other your Ride or Dies, and you fully meant it. You had never had a friend as good as him— he was goofy and silly, eccentric and loud, but when you would call him in tears, he would shush you softly and sweetly and go “Hey, it’s okay. You wanna come over? I just got the new Mortal Kombat DLC, you wanna come watch me eat shit?” And you always did, sitting on the edge of his bed and wallowing in your sadness as he played his game and made you feel better, just by being there. If watching him fail didn’t work, he’d borrow the car keys from his mom on account of “We need snacks” (you’re so certain Miss Smith thought you two were constantly smoking up in his room, which wasn’t a totally inaccurate statement— perhaps there was a side of bong rips with watching his character get their spine ripped out) and take you out.

His favorite spot was at the top of a hill that overlooked the bay, quiet and serene, and you would sit on the roof of his car and talk. You and Tryst could talk for hours, and often did, about everything and nothing, serious and not. Some of your favorite memories with him were on that roof at night, admitting things to him that you never would have said to anyone else. You had a joke— if the thing you were about to say could possibly be met with judgement, you would say “Immunity Necklace” like from Survivor, and you’d be safe from judgement from the other. You and Tryst Immunity Necklace’d each other constantly on that car roof, even if it really didn’t warrant it: “Immunity Necklace, I’m worried about my pre-cal test tomorrow.” or "Immunity Necklace, you smell like weed."

Sometimes, though, the Immunity Necklace was completely necessary. Your high school had big three events throughout the year, Homecoming in the fall, the Winter Formal just before Christmas, and prom in the spring. Tryst had taken you to the Homecoming bonfire, but not the dance because “Dances are for nerds and lame-os, and that’s not us”, but you knew that Tryst had brought you out to the overlook that night to ask you to be his date to the Winter Formal. There was just one problem with that. “Alright, Immunity Necklace,” Tryst had chuckled, only half his heart in it. You mimed putting the necklace over your head, not a necessary part of the joke but done when the mood needed lightening, and Tryst sighed. “I, um… I need a date for the dance next week. I was gonna ask Sarah, but she already has a date, so that’s…”

The mere mention of Sarah made venom pop in your mouth; you hated her. She was perfect, an everything type of girl, pretty and sweet, and even though she was nice, she had caught Tryst’s attention instead of you. You couldn’t decide if your jealousy was crush-related or borne simply out of a different girl having your best friend’s attention, but you kept that to yourself. “But, um, I was wondering—”

You sighed, dropping your hands from around your ‘necklace’. “Tryst,” you started. “I… Agh, fuck. Someone else already asked me.”

“Who?” Tryst was hardly ever serious, not exactly the low voice and furrowed eyebrows type of guy, but he was in that moment, and he asked, “Who asked you? You didn’t even tell me you were seeing anyone.”

“I-I’m not,” you started, unsure why you felt like you had to clear your name. “But… It’s, um… Alex. From my pre-cal class. He’s been tutoring me, and we’ve been getting along, but we’re not dating, but, um, he asked me a few days ago.”

“Alex?” Tryst scoffed. “Like, with the…?” He flapped his hands above his head, an obvious allusion to Alex’s fauxhawk hairstyle, and you nodded. “Dude. Ew. He smells like lobster. Are you kiddin’ me? And you said yes?”

“He does not smell like lobster!” you laughed, shoving Tryst’s shoulder. “And yes, I said yes! I mean, if I had known you wanted to ask me, I would’ve said no, but, like… I didn’t know! I thought for sure you and Sarah were gonna—”

“Nah,” Tryst said, shaking his head. “Someone got to her first too.” He was smiling, but you could tell he was harboring a sadness, a disappointment, and it hurt your heart to know that you contributed to that.

If you were in a movie, one of the ones you and Tryst liked to rent to make fun of and throw popcorn at the TV when the inevitable love story happened, this would be where you leaned over and kissed him. You had thought about it, of course, but Tryst never gave you any indication that he liked you like that, so you clammed up. “Shit,” you whispered, opting instead to take his hand and rub your thumb along his. “Sorry, buddy. That sucks.”

“Eh, it is what it is,” he said. “But without her, and without you, I don’t know who I’m meant to go with.”

“Can’t you go by yourself?” you asked. “Or, like, not go at all? Back at Homecoming, you said dances were for dorks or whatever.”

“Well, yeah,” Tryst said. “But I was just… I don’t know. I graduate in the spring. I wanted to maybe do the whole high school thing the right way before I leave.”

You didn’t see Tryst at the Winter Formal the next weekend. You had texted him a picture of you in your dress, and he opened the message immediately but didn’t respond to it. In fact, he only responded to it towards the close of the night, when Alex the Lobster-Scented Wonder (Tryst was right, the dude did smell a little like shellfish) had you in the backseat of his dad’s car. It wasn’t the optimal way to lose your virginity, and you had started to hopefully imagine that you’d open your eyes and be looking at big blues as it happened, but whatever. Everyone’s cherry had to get popped at some point, and that was yours. Tryst’s text just said u look like a million bucks :)

He didn’t make the same mistake twice, though. He seemed to give up on the Sarah fantasy, because he asked you to prom the first day back from holiday break. It wasn’t a grand event, sitting at your designated lunch spot, under the bleachers at the soccer practice field, cross-legged as you stole his carrots and he ate your peanut butter crackers, and he said, “Got a date to prom yet?”

“Um, considering it’s January and prom isn’t until April, I’d say no,” you laughed. “Why, do you?”

“Depends how you answer,” Tryst said, wiping the crumbs off his hands. “How ‘bout it?”

You still don’t think your parents or his mom were fully convinced you weren’t dating back then. Prom night started fun, pictures at a park close to your overlook, constantly fixing his hair in the wind of an approaching thunderstorm, going to dinner; a group of kids from your school were at the same restaurant in their little prom-caravan, but you liked it far better just you and him alone. Getting to the event, though, made your palms go clammy, and you bit the inside of your lip, and thankfully, your best friend noticed. “Do you not wanna go in?” he asked.

“I-I do,” you said. “Just… S’alot of people. B-But you’re a senior, this is the last time you’ll be able to, we should—”

“Stop that,” Tryst told you gently, taking your hand in his. You were no stranger to Tryst grabbing your hand, especially when he could tell you were on the precipice of a spiral, but this was nice, sweet; it felt different, his thumb dragging soothingly on the back of your hand. “Don’t worry about me. I’ve never been to this thing before; honestly, my heart won’t be broken if we skip. I mean, we skip shop together all the time, let’s just skip prom too.”

Tears started to well in your eyes, and Tryst was quick to grab the handkerchief from his suit pocket and dab under your eyes. “Dude, you spent so long doing that, don’t fuck it up,” he chuckled softly. “I feel like I make fun of you a lot, but, really, you look fuckin’ gorgeous tonight.”

“Thanks,” you sniffled. “You clean up pretty good there yourself, T.”

“Aw, shucks,” Tryst said. “How about this? We leave this place, run back by my house, I can grab my bong and my fake, we go get some booze, head to the overlook. How does that sound?”

You laughed. “Worst Shining spinoff ever,” you said, and Tryst smiled, his cheeks going pink. And that’s just what you did. He got you a change of clothes while he was inside, and you laid your head in his lap as you sat on top of the car, surrounded completely by him, his warmth, his smell, his adoration, him. You loved the feeling of that. You moved yourself to look up at him, his eyes fixated on the skyline on the other side of the bay, and you whispered his name.

“I love you,” you told him softly, and he looked down at you and smiled warmly.

“I love you too,” Tryst told you, his hand coming to caress your hair. “Fuck, this fall’s gonna suck.”

“Why?” you asked. “I mean, you’ll be here, won’t you?” The way he bit his lip and looked away from you told you everything. “Won’t you? Tryst? Where are you going?”

Tryst swallowed thickly. “I got accepted to university,” he started. “I, uh, got the letter last week… I had applied way back in September, when I had no friends, no reason to stay in West Van, I was hoping that they, like, forgot about me…”

“Tryst?” you started, sitting up. “Where are you going?”

“—They’re offering me a scholarship, I can’t say no—”

“Tryst!” you sobbed against your will. Your throat felt tight, your chest on fire. The fact he wasn’t coming right out with it made your stomach lurch. Somewhere in America? Further?

“U-Toronto,” he whispered finally. You felt like you had been punched square in the chest, struggling to catch a breath. Not America, but still nearly across the country, two-thousand miles away. It sucked to live in a different neighborhood than him, you weren’t sure you’d survive with him so far away, in a different city, a different province, nearly a different country; he might as well have been going to uni on the moon. “They-They’ve got a good business school—”

“Are you fucking kidding me?” you cried. “When were you planning on telling me this?”

“I…” Tryst sighed. “Soon. I promise. I was gonna tell you at my grad dinner next weekend, but… Fuck, you gave me those eyes just now, said you loved me, I-I couldn’t keep it from you a second longer.”

“Christ, you were gonna wait another full week?” you squeaked. Your throat felt tight, and your eyes burned with tears.

“I just couldn’t break your heart like that,” Tryst told you. “‘Cause I knew you’d be upset, I knew it would hurt you, I couldn’t do that to you.”

“I am upset,” you gasped. “T, I don’t have any other friends! With you gone, I won’t have anyone!”

“What about the dude who took you to Winter Formal?” Tryst asked. “Alex or whatever?”

“As if I wanna hang out with him,” you sniffled. “He hasn’t spoken a word to me outside of tutoring since then.”

“You never told me that,” Tryst said carefully. “Did something happen?”

You sighed. “I mean, yes,” you started. “N-Nothing bad, don’t flip out, but, like, yeah, something did happen… We, um, we fucked in his car, the night of the formal. And he hasn’t spoken to me since, if it isn’t about math class.”

Tryst was quiet for a minute. He picked at his green nail polish on his thumb, and he finally mumbled, “You never told me that either. Was it… Was it your first time?”

Your lip wobbled, and you nodded slowly. Out of the corner of your eye, you could see Tryst deflate with a sigh, and you added, “I-It’s not like I’m in love with him. I wasn’t then, and I’m not now, but, like... What did I do wrong?”

In an instant, his arms were around you, pulling you into his body. You cried into his neck, clutching at the back of his shirt, and, even though you knew you’d see him throughout the summer, this hug felt like your last. You wanted to memorize the way his warm body felt against yours, his strong arms circling you and holding you tightly, his hand rubbing your back. Before you could stop it, whispers tumbled from your mouth, right into his ear: “I wish it had been you.”

You know that he heard you, his hand pausing on your back for one imperceptible second in reaction, but he whispered “Say that again?”

You shook your head, terrified that his reaction was going to be one of rejection. “I-I didn’t mean it like that—”

“Just say it again,” Tryst whispered. He moved away just an inch, just enough to look him in his eyes— big, blue with a ring of green closest to his pupil, the ones you had wished in that moment were the ones over you, turned hyper-blue with incoming tears— and he said, “Baby, please, just tell it to me again.”

“I wish it had been you,” you repeated meekly. He had never called you baby before; he wasn’t really the type to do little petnames, or at least you didn't think he was.

“No Immunity Necklace?” Tryst pressed. “No shit, seriously? You wish it was me that had taken your virginity?”

“Y-Yes?” you mumbled. “I-I don’t know, Tryst, I’m, like, spiraling right now, I’m fucking heartbroken a-and, fuck, I don’t know. Back when it was happening, I remember thinking about you, b-but not like that! Just, like, I don’t know what I mean!” But you knew exactly what you meant: you were absolutely in love with him, and maybe you had been since the first day in shop class, when he called you the wrong name and you corrected him and he smacked the side of his head and smiled and apologized.

Carefully, Tryst put his arm around your shoulders, tugging you in tight, and he landed a soft, barely-there, kiss on your forehead. It wasn’t even really a kiss, just nestling his mouth into your temple for a moment, and he whispered, “I meant it just now, when I said I love you too. You’re my best fucking friend in the whole world. I’d be stupid not to love you.”

You sighed. “But not like that?” you asked. You knew where the conversation was going, and a lump formed in your throat.

“Exactly like that,” Tryst whispered to you. “You remember how I was pissed when Alex asked you to formal? I was jealous. I hated the idea that you were giving any guy other than me attention.” Thunder rumbled in the dark sky above you, and Tryst squeezed your arm. “I never thought I’d get to tell you this, so I kept it to myself, but…”

You pressed your head into his shoulder and sobbed. “I don’t want you to go!”

But go he did. He graduated, had a part-time job at the mall over the summer, but all too soon, he was helping his mom pack up a moving truck to drive 40 hours away for university. You helped him box up the necessary stuff from his room, trying to keep your sadness at bay. It seemed as if your shared confessions the night of prom were forgotten, but you knew it was out of necessity on both of your parts— you were still in school, and a long-distance relationship of that sort wasn’t bound to work out. Both of you had come to the same, independent conclusion: “friends who wished they were more” was better than “lovers who ended up losing each other”. You had hugged him in his driveway and, even though you knew you’d see him again during holiday breaks, it wouldn’t be the same. “Who am I supposed to sit with at lunch?” you whimpered with a watery chuckle, and Tryst’s arms went tighter around you.

“You’re the best girl in the world,” Tryst told you. “You’ll find a ton of other friends now that I’m not there to stink up the place.”

“At least you don’t smell like lobster,” you sniffled.

“I love you so much, dork.”

You texted constantly. You were worried that the conversations would eventually peter off, until you were just some figment from his past, but that never happened. He kept you up to date on everything— people you didn’t know, parties in places you had never heard of before, presentations for his business classes, what the dining hall served for dinner, everything. You didn’t have nearly as much to report back to him, but he gobbled up every bit you gave him. It almost felt like he had never left.

You were the first person he told when he got his first girlfriend, and your heart cracked as he talked about her. She was everything to him, and for a guy who didn’t date up until then, it was significant for him, but your conversations about her were laced with an uneasiness on both ends. You wished you were her, and he did too, and you both knew it. That relationship didn’t last very long, just from the new year into the end of term, her saying something about not wanting to be “tied down” over the summer. He didn’t seem too broken up about it over the phone, and, when you went to the airport with his mom to pick him up, he was so cheery. There were some things about him that had changed that he hadn’t expressed over the phone— he did his hair differently now, off of his face, and his nails were painted black and not green, and a burgeoning facial hair situation that you told him did not look great, but it was your same boy, his little patch of acne on the tip of his nose and those gorgeous blue eyes. You ran to each other in that airport terminal, and he scooped you up in his arms and hugged you so tight, you felt like you almost couldn’t breathe. You had seen him at Christmas (but not Spring Break; he had stayed in Toronto that week, to rest up before finals), but that was months ago. This was now, and Tryst was home for the summer.

But back at home, in the comfort of his room, he cried about that girl. It was a totally dickish thing she had done to him, and you didn’t know how else to soothe him other than letting him cry it out. “Hey, I got my driver’s last week,” you told him, smoothing his tears off of his reddened cheeks. “Fuckin’ finally. You wanna go get slushies? Maybe a good cherry will get you to forget her for a second.” That afternoon, you found yourselves on top of your car for a change, at your same outlook— you never went if he wasn’t with you. You had missed Tryst, and he missed you. But neither of you dared talk about your conversation, now a year old. It was unspoken, so unspoken that you truly weren’t sure if it still applied, if he still loved you or not.

As the years passed, you were still firmly each other’s best friends, but you could hear a friend group forming for him, the same few names popping up every so often. It warmed your heart, even if you lied to him that the same was happening for you. He had more girlfriends after the first one, and even though he never explicitly told you that he was having sex with them, you just knew.

One night, you were upset about something (looking back, you couldn’t remember what, so obviously it wasn’t that important, or maybe the ensuing conversation overshadowed every memory of the incident) and had called him to whine about it. It took him a second to answer, and, when he did, he seemed a little out of breath. “Hey,” he said quickly. “I’m busy right now, but I do wanna talk. Gimme, like, 20 minutes?” You weren’t sure if he knew that you heard the girl on the other side telling him to get off the phone and to come back and fuck her, but your stomach curdled. You agreed to him, but didn’t call back that night, even though he tried to. The next time you talked, you lied and said you had fallen asleep and, even though his voice seemed skeptical, he took your word on it.

You finished school right around the time Tryst dropped out of university. He was in his third year, nearly finished, but he decided it just wasn’t for him anymore. You were confused by it— he loved his classes, so where did this come from?— but he assured you, along with his family, his mom and gaggle of brothers and sisters all older than him and spread across the country, that he knew what he was doing. Within weeks, he had moved back to West Van, and you grinned every time your phone lit up with his name. Just like old times; he was outside your house, waiting to pick you up and take you to the overlook.

When you went to a local community college that fall, he stayed by your side, and you by his. Life felt good with him around, and you almost forgot about the brief awkwardness while he was at university. But you never truly forgot, especially once Tryst started dealing. It didn’t surprise you, exactly; he was a good entrepreneur and extremely charismatic, especially as he got older. Getting into his 20s, he seemed to gain some sort of confidence that made him nearly unrecognizable to the kid you met, but he wasn’t a kid anymore— he was a man, and his newfound general attractiveness only served to make your skinny love worse. And the worst part was, Tryst knew he was hot now, and he used it to his advantage. He had consistent customers, and a steady stream of them, but your jealousy grew every time you were witness to a pretty girl flashing him a smile. No! Where were they when he was awkward and weird in high school, acne and MySpace hair and cracking voice? You loved him back then, they didn’t get to reap the benefits of him now. That wasn’t fair.

A year and a half before shit got fucked, Sarah made her return. Tryst told you immediately that he had seen her again, sold her a little bit of molly earlier that night and got to talk to her, a sort of off-handed “ghost from the past” type thing, and he had flopped onto your couch and scooped your cat into his arms. You had lived by yourself for a little bit by then, and Tryst would come crash at yours frequently enough so that he didn’t have to technically lie and say he still lived with his mom. “She’s gotten really pretty,” Tryst said, half to your cat, whom he called Tiny Homie, and half to you.

“Yeah, well, so have you,” you chuckled. “Who knew people get more attractive once they’re out of high school?”

“It’s a crazy notion,” Tryst agreed. He thought for a second, scratching behind Tiny Homie’s ears, and he softly added, “You think I have a chance with her?”

“Sarah?” you asked, and you shrugged. “I mean, who knows? Does she know you had a crush on her back then?”

“I don’t think so,” Tryst replied. “But, like… It’s been forever since I’ve had a girlfriend. And also, I just sold shit to her, it’s not like she begged me to dick her down or anything.”

“If she did, would you be game?” you asked. “Like, if she were to text you right now, like ‘Oh, Tryst, I love you, come fuck me into the ground’, what would you say?”

“First of all, she wouldn’t confess her undying love to me in this scenario,” Tryst started, and you groaned. “But also… I don‘t know. I’d want you to be okay with it.”

“Me?” you asked. “Why? Am I fucking her too?”

“No,” Tryst said, squeezing his eyes shut. The bell on Tiny Homie’s collar tinkled as he jumped away from Tryst, and he scooted himself to lay on your couch, feet up on your cushions, even though you had told him a million times not to do that. “Just, like… I know you have a history with her. One that’s maybe not great. I want you to like whoever I’m with, y’know?”

“I like her,” you started flatly, carefully— too much emotion, and Tryst would know you’re lying through your teeth. It was a petty vendetta to still hold against someone almost 9 years later, but that didn’t stop you.

“Not in high school, you didn’t,” Tryst countered.

“Well, no,” you tried again. “‘Cause I thought she was stealing you from me or whatever. But I’m not an insecure 15 year old anymore, I can handle you potentially being all moony-eyed over a girl. Just like you’re fine with me dating dudes who are patently not you.”

Tryst sat up in one motion, like Dracula rising from his coffin. “Dating?” he repeated. “Who?”

“Maybe dating’s a strong word,” you admitted. “I‘ve been on a few dates with this one guy I met at work.”

“You guys fuck?” Tryst asked, cocking an eyebrow at you.

“What are you, the guardian of my vagina?” you scoffed. “I don’t ask where your dick has been, keep your nose outta my puss.”

Tryst narrowed his eyes. “An oddly gatekeep-y answer,” he said liltingly, like it was a riddle. “You told me when you fucked that guy in, what turned out to be, his mom’s bed—”

“Which was disturbing.”

“And the dude who you said smelled like soup—”

“He totally did, too.”

“You’ve got a thing for dudes who smell like food,” Tryst mused. “I mean, that fuckin’ Alex weirdo when you were in grade nine and now Soup Guy? What do I have to do, stuff my pockets with ravioli?”

“Stop it, I’ll moan,” you scoffed, rolling your eyes.

“Are you fucking this guy you’re seeing now?” Tryst asked again. “I won’t stop until you tell me.”

“Fine, yes!” you finally said. “We’re fucking, Jesus Christ.”

Tryst was quiet for a moment, grabbing one of your throw pillows and holding it to his chest as he laid back down, dangling his head off the sofa. “Is he any good?” he asked.

“Why, are you jealous?” you asked. “I get to fuck a hot guy who’s good in bed, and you don’t?”

“Oh, yeah,” Tryst laughed. “Yeah, it’s definitely that. I miss the strong, warm embrace of a man— No, you dipshit! I just wanna make sure he’s treating you okay, that’s all.”

“You gonna crack some skulls if he’s not?” you asked, and Tryst’s immediate nod sent shivers down your spine. He had always been protective over you, and you loved him for it. You just wish he was protective over you in a more serious way, in a Girlfriend-Boyfriend type way.

“Of course I will,” Tryst said. “I’ll kill him. Don’t think I won’t.”

“I don’t doubt it,” you mumbled under your breath. Your phone buzzed on the table next to you at that moment, and you sighed as you saw his name, Zach, light up your screen. Zach was… Fine. Met at work, went to dinner, fucked a few times. You definitely didn’t see anything long-term with him, and you knew he was on the same page, but the sudden text of what # apt r u i can’t remember made your stomach burn. “Time to go, T.”

“Agh, what?” Tryst groaned. “I just got here, I was gonna shower!”

“You should’ve done that instead of grilling me about my love life,” you told him, tossing him his worn black messenger bag. “Zach’s on his way up.”

“Ooh, Zach!” Tryst grinned. “I receive the pleasure of meeting thine suitor, fair lady?”

“Shut up!” you laughed, shooting off a quick text to Zach with your apartment number. “Unless you wanna join in on whatever the fuck we’re about to do, get to steppin’.”

“As much as I’d love to know what Zach’s packin’ down there,” Tryst started, and you wrinkled your nose at him. “I’d rather live in ignorant bliss. Text me when you’re done with this sin fest, I can grab a pizza on the way back.”

“Wait,” you started, reaching for your wallet and shelling out a few 20 dollar bills to toss his way. “Pizza, and stop by the smoke shop and get me a new vape; it’s so dead, it tastes like I’m smoking an email.”

“What flavor?” Tryst asked, taking your money and thumbing through it, counting it up. He got real serious when he was dealing with money too, intent on making sure he had a good count on it— his eyebrows, the same dark as his hair was back then, furrowed, a crease in his forehead came out. He meant business, and you liked it. You especially liked the way his hands moved with money— something about the sound of the paper against his skin made your nerves light on fire. You often found yourself fantasizing about his hands, his palms warm and soft, his fingers always a little red and dry from the perpetual cold. He didn’t wear nail polish anymore, and you missed that. “Hello? Flavor, please?”

You snapped out of staring at his hands, and the brief fantasy of how they’d feel cupping your tits. “I’m thinking,” you mumbled, trying to explain your journey to space. “Just, like, I don’t know, blue razz or whatever.”

Tryst made a fake-gagging noise. “Christ, woman, grow up,” he chuckled. “I’m getting you an adult flavor, for adults.”

“Cotton candy?” you clarified.

“You bet your sweet ass,” Tryst nodded, shoving the money in his pocket. “Pepperoni?”

“Sure,” you shrugged. “Oh, and get me a bottle of nail polish. Bright green.”

“For why?” Tryst asked, shoving his shoes onto his feet. “You just got your nails done.”

“Not for me,” you said. “I’m gonna paint your nails later. Remember back when you used to do that?”

Tryst laughed lightly. “I do,” he said. He seemed hazy for a moment, reminiscing, and he added, “Maybe not my fingers, but I’ll let you at my toes.”

“Oh, goody,” you sighed. “Tryst’s feet, sign me up.”

A heavy knock landed at your front door, and you rose from your seat to give Tryst a tight hug goodbye. You always hugged goodbye. Maybe it was an escape for both of you, pretending you lived in a world where it was perfectly normal to press your bodies against each other. Maybe it was an ultra-affectionate friendship thing. Either way, a hug was always in order. “Have fun,” Tryst told you. “Use a condom. And, hey—” He tugged out of the hug for just a second to look you in your eyes, the blues with a ring of green boring into your soul, and he said, “If that dickhead tries anything, call me and I’ll come take care of him. Okay?”

“He’s not gonna…” you started, but quickly trailed off when you realized Tryst was dead serious. Always protective, your best friend was. “Sure thing. Will do.”

Tryst landed a kiss on your forehead, and he went to the door, throwing it open. “Ah!” he smiled, and turned back to you. “Your suitor awaits, madam!”

“Get the fuck out!” you laughed. Tryst slid by Zach with a quick “Sup, bro”, some mannish greeting that girls could never get away with, and Zach furrowed his eyebrows at Tryst’s departing form before he stepped into the apartment.

“We need to talk.”

When Tryst got back later that night, he let himself in with the key that you had made him to find you on the couch, crying. Before he could rant and rave too much about if Zach had done anything to you, you quickly calmed him down, telling him that Zach hadn’t hurt you, only broke up with you. Tryst was confused— “I didn’t think you liked him that much?”— and you lied and mumbled something about “Yeah, I was just tryin’ to downplay it”, but the truth was what hurt: Zach was convinced down to his bones that you were cheating on him with Tryst. In his mind, he couldn’t fathom why Tryst was always around, why you were so close to him if you weren’t fucking.

But you couldn’t tell Tryst that. He would hate himself if he knew he was the root cause of that. In fact, that’s what your past few boyfriends all said to you— Tryst was more than a friend, had to be, what other explanation was there? The Mom’s Bed Guy, Soup Guy, and now Zach. Once is a mistake, twice is a coincidence, three times…? Tryst would never forgive himself if he knew he was the reason for your string of failures. That night, you ate your pepperoni pizza, and Tryst let you paint his fingernails green.

3 months later, shit started to get fucked, and it all started with Sarah. Fucking Sarah.

Like, literally, the trouble began with fucking Sarah. Or, rather, the fact that Tryst had begun fucking Sarah. You knew it was happening, and you definitely didn’t cry about it on a regular basis, but you were happy for them. Tryst clarified to you that they were not dating, only sleeping together, some sorta FWB-type thing— “Nobody can replace my favorite girl,” he assured you with a hug. “Only that you won’t let me fuck you.” Only because you aren’t asking, you had wanted to respond, but you kept it to yourself. You knew about it the moment it started, and you were with Tryst the exact moment it ended.

When he got the text from her, he threw up. You didn’t understand at first what was going on, what the fuck was the matter, but Tryst pushed his phone into your grip with shaking hands as he gagged over your kitchen sink. I’m pregnant. It’s yours. Can we talk? You felt sick yourself; you knew you weren’t kids anymore— hell, Tryst was nearing his 26th birthday, that’s firmly Not A Kid status— but this was a whole different level of adult that you weren’t sure he was ready for. He was happy bouncing around jobs and shitty entrepreneur deals, selling drugs and coming up with get-rich-quick schemes that never worked. Fatherhood wasn’t on the table for him, and you had known it for years. He had told you as much, during your own scare a few years ago. As you two sat together on your bathroom floor, letting the test cook, you had confessed that you didn’t want this potential life— “Immunity Necklace… I’m not meant to be a mom.” —and he agreed. “Immunity Necklace; nobody needs me as their dad,” he had said “I’d be such a shitty dad, and I also don’t wanna be responsible for something else like that… Think I’d fuck them up too bad. I’ll stick with being Tiny Homie’s adoptive, deadbeat father.” Your test had thankfully come up negative, but the picture that Sarah attached to her text message told a different story.

To his credit, Tryst stepped up. Or, at least, he tried to. He wanted to be there for her, help her out, but Sarah wasn’t on the same page. She rejected nearly every olive branch he extended, and it tore him up. He tried to give her money, but she said her parents were helping out; he offered to drive her to doctors’ appointments, and she declined. The only thing she seemed willing to do was bring him to an ultrasound appointment, and let him have the scans of his daughter. The night that happened, he had sat on your bed, backed into the corner of the wall, just staring at the grey blob on the scan. He had tried to point things out to you that he had had pointed out to him by the doctor, alleged fingers and foreheads, and you tried to see it, but you just couldn’t. He wanted to name her Emma, and thankfully Sarah agreed to that. It was in the spring when Tryst got the call from Sarah that Emma was on her way, but she told him to stay home— it would probably be a long labor, since it was her first baby, and she didn’t want him hanging around the hospital for no reason.

You had never seen Tryst truly snap before then. He had lashed out before, sure, said and done things that he later apologized for, but that night made you feel sick. You just couldn’t help him, and had to sit and watch as he threw his phone at the wall in anger, cursed Sarah’s name to hell and back. He grabbed his car keys, and you finally had to intervene— “Trystan, please calm down, I don’t want you to leave right now”, and his hyper-blue eyes spilled tears at his full name— but it didn’t work. He came back in the early hours of the morning, obviously drunk based on the smell of him, likely high too, based on the everything else, but now with the yellowest-blond hair you had ever seen. “Gotta be a different guy now,” he reasoned out with a slur, slumping down onto your bed. “Gotta be a man, gotta be a dad. Can’t be old me, gotta be new me.” He fell asleep next to you, his arm sloppily around your waist, and you cried silently into his chest. When he woke up hungover the next morning, bemoaning his regret for the manic hair change, he only had one text on his phone: a picture of a wrinkly little newborn and “Emma Louise, born 4:44 AM, six pounds.” He called her his angel.

The immediate next weeks were hellish. Every day felt like a time loop— Tryst waking up in your bed, hungover and sad, calling Sarah to ask to see Emma, being rejected, getting pissed, drinking because he was pissed, being pissed that he was drinking, over and over. She never let him see her, with the exception of one time. You hadn’t gone with him— it didn’t feel appropriate— but he gleefully showed you pictures. He looked good. Happy. His tiny daughter in his grip, the picture he showed you conveyed a million words, and you felt a tug in your tummy that made you land a gentle kiss on his cheek. “Look at you,” you whispered. “God, Tryst, you’re a dad. You’ve got a kid. I never thought I’d see the day…”

“And to think, I got onto your ass about using condoms,” he chuckled softly. His cheek was flushing pink right where you kissed him, and you smiled. He gazed at the picture on his phone of him and Emma, and he sniffled back tears. “Who woulda thought someone as ugly and fucked up as me could make something so fucking gorgeous? Like, look at that baby, she could be one of those Gerber models or whatever.”

“You’re not ugly,” you told him softly. You couldn’t even focus on adding anything about the baby model thing. “And you’re not fucked up.”

“My manic episode and the hair bleach would say otherwise,” Tryst chuckled lightly, and you furrowed your eyebrows. “I, uh… The night Emma was born, that bender I went on, it got back to my mom and she forced me to go see someone… I mean, it makes sense that I’m bipolar, my dad was too apparently, but I…” He trailed off, his eyes falling away from the picture. “Do you think I gave Emma that shit too?”

“I don’t think so,” you told him quickly; one crisis at a time. “But, hey, don’t worry about that. You’re not fucked up, not even a little bit. And I mean it, you’re not ugly either.”

“Got a big-ass nose,” he mumbled. “I look like I’m wearing a plague mask half the time.”

“Stop it,” you frowned.

“My eyes are too far apart—”

“Tryst.”

“My hair looks and feels like hay—”

“Tryst, knock it off,” you sighed. “I think you’re handsome. Okay? Is that acceptable? Everyone thinks you’re chopped, except for me?”

Tryst looked over at you affectionately, adoringly, and he put his arms around you, nuzzling his head into your shoulder. “That works,” he whispered. “Everyone except for you… You’re always my exception.”

And, God, how you wish you could have been more.

#tryst #tryst fakes #tryst x reader #tryst x you #fakes 2022 #richard harmon #as always...#if i missed any tags or the format is fucked up lmk plsnthx <3 :)

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