rambling-about-nothing-at-all - Tumblr blog

rambling-about-nothing-at-all · 9 hours ago

Text

𝐅𝐑𝐄𝐒𝐇 𝐁𝐑𝐔𝐈𝐒𝐄𝐒 - 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐒𝐈𝐗

Pairing: underground fighter! noah x reader

Series summary: You’re dragged to watch an illegal fight, and after the match, you meet Noah, a fighter who seems to be battling more than just his opponents.

Tw: cheating, very gross descriptions of infected wounds, nightmares

Series mastelist

You weren’t supposed to be home this early.

Jolly had called that morning to cancel last minute, saying something about an emergency. He was okay, but he just couldn't come to the tattoo shop that afternoon.

So with no clients left for the day, you and Nick had closed up the shop early. It felt almost weird, leaving with daylight still spilling over the sidewalks. You even stopped for a coffee on the way home, thinking you might actually have a rare evening to yourself.

You had been talking with Amber for a few days about what to do with Kole. You had made up your mind: it was time to break up with him, to tell him that things weren’t like they used to be. You both had different interests now, different paths to follow, and it was clear your relationship wasn’t what it was back when you first got together, when everything felt easy.

Amber seemed genuinely happy about your decision, and she reminded you with a smirk that, sooner or later, she wanted to meet Noah.

You unlocked the apartment door and stepped inside, kicking off your boots. The place was quiet, mostly. You could hear Kole’s voice coming from your shared bedroom.

At first you thought he was on the phone. He had that voice he used when he was trying to be charming and funny.

Then you heard her.

A woman’s laugh. Light, casual. Close.

You froze in the hallway.

There was no way.

You walked farther in, slowly. Your brain kept offering rational explanations, maybe it was the TV, maybe it was a friend, maybe...

But then you turned the corner and saw them.

Your bedroom door was half open, and Kole was inside, sitting on the bed. Shirtless. A girl was with him, long curly hair falling down her back, one of your oversized t-shirts hanging loosely off her shoulder. She was laughing at something he’d just said.

And for a second, you didn’t move.

Then, you pushed the door open all the way.

“Get the fuck out of my house.”

She jumped, scrambling to grab her bag from the floor.

You didn’t even look at her. Your eyes were on Kole, and something about your tone must’ve finally registered, because he stood up fast.

“Wait. Baby, it’s not...” he started.

“This goes for you too,” you snapped, cutting him off. “Get the fuck out.”

The girl brushed past you, not saying anything, not meeting your eyes. She was gone within seconds, the sound of the front door shutting hard behind her.

Great, she also left wearing your t-shirt.

Kole ran a hand through his hair. “Can we just...can we talk about this for a second?”

You laughed. “Talk about what, Kole? The part where you brought some girl into my bed? Or the part where I was literally on my way home to try and break up with you in the nicest way possible and you did... this?”

He winced. “I made a mistake, okay? She just—”

“She just what?” you cut in, stepping forward. “Fell into your lap? Accidentally unzipped your pants and sucked your dick? You’re such a piece of shit.”

He looked hurt, like you were the one being unfair. “I

fucked up, okay? I know I did. But I love you.”

You stared at him.

“I spent the past week trying to figure out how to let you down gently,” you said. “I was trying to be kind. Because after all, I still cared about you.”

You shook your head. “You don’t deserve it.”

“Baby, come on—”

“Don’t ‘baby’ me,” you snapped. “You can go fuck yourself. Or better yet, go call curly-hair and fuck her. Just not in my bed.”

Kole didn’t move.

You pointed to the door. “Now.”

He stared at you, looking like he was about to say something else. But whatever comeback he had died in his throat.

Finally, he took his shirt from the floor and shoved it over his head.

And then he walked out, quickly grabbing his jacket and phone before slamming the door behind him.

You looked at your bed, at the dent his weight had left on the covers, and for a second, you almost cried.

But you didn’t. You just sat down on the edge of the mattress, elbows on your knees, and breathed.

Let him be someone else’s problem now.

You were done.

You stayed in bed for what felt like hours.

Not sleeping. Not crying.

Just lying there, still dressed, staring at the ceiling.

Eventually, you reached for your phone.

You opened your messages and typed without really thinking:

You: Kole brought a girl into my bed. I kicked him out.

It only took her a few seconds to reply.

Amber: Holy shit

Amber: Are you okay??

You hesitated. Your thumb hovered over the screen, trying to decide how honest to be.

Then you answered:

You: Honestly… I thought I’d feel worse.

There was a pause. Then the screen lit up again.

Amber: At least that’s one less problem to deal with.

Amber: Want me to come over? We can eat ice cream and watch cartoons.

You smiled faintly. It was the first real smile you’d had since you walked through the door.

You: I’m okay. Really. I feel… free, actually.

Another pause. You could almost feel her side-eye through the phone.

Amber: Free to be with Noah?

You let out a soft snort and typed back.

You: Slow down.

Amber: What?

Amber: You love him.

Amber: And you’re single now.

You rolled onto your back

You: AMBER

Amber: I’m just saying. Tell him before he smashes his head in a match and forgets you exist.

You chuckled.

You: I’ll think about what to do, okay?

Amber: Mhmm.

Amber: Just don’t wait too long.

You: Goodnight, dumbass.

Amber: night night :)

You set the phone down on your chest and stared at the ceiling again, but this time it felt lighter.

After a while, you got up.

You peeled off your clothes and changed into something more comfortable, a faded band tee that had been washed so many times the print was barely visible, and a pair of old sweatpants.

You padded back through the apartment, the floor cool under your feet, and you crawled back into bed, tugging the blanket up over your legs.

And when you closed your eyes, you weren’t thinking about Kole.

Not even a little.

Because Kole had promised you love, and yet he’d left you alone. Noah had promised you nothing, and still, he was always on your mind.

Maybe that was the paradox: the one who had never said “I love you” made you feel happier than the one who said it a thousand times.

You woke to darkness.

You blinked at the red numbers glowing on the alarm clock.

2:25 a.m.

A small, selfish relief bloomed in your chest, because that meant you could sleep for a few hours more.

Then you heard it.

A sound.

Something shifting outside your front door.

At first, you thought it was one of the strays. There were a few cats in the area that you sometimes fed when they passed by. One of them had knocked over a planter last week. Probably the same thing now.

You closed your eyes again.

But then came the footsteps. Slow. Uneven.

Then came the knock. Not loud, but definitely a knock.

Your stomach dropped.

Kole.

It had to be Kole. He'd done this before, knocking at your door in the middle of the night with drunk apologies, dramatic speeches and promises he’d forget the next morning. You pushed the covers off and swung your legs over the side of the bed, your throat ready to fire off a “go to hell” before he could say a word.

You opened the door.

And froze.

“Noah?”

He looked like he might collapse right there in your doorway.

He was wearing one of his usual black hoodies and black pants, and he was gripping the frame like it was the only thing keeping him upright.

His skin was pale, a sickly sheen of sweat on his forehead. His breathing was too fast, his shoulders rising and falling like he’d run a mile. His brown eyes were glassy and unfocused.

“Hi,” he mumbled. “I... I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have come. I didn't... I didn't know what to do, I just—”

“Oh my god. Noah. What the hell happened to you?” You stepped forward without thinking, your arm already sliding around his waist. He flinched slightly when you touched him, but didn’t pull away. His body was too warm. Burning up.

He didn’t answer, just let you guide him, stumbling inside.

You half-carried him to the couch, his weight sagging against you. Every step made him groan. You could barely get him onto the cushions before he dropped with a sound that made your stomach twist.

He hissed through his teeth, trying to shift, but even that seemed to take more strength than he had.

You knelt beside him.

Your voice cracked as you spoke. “Noah, what happened to you?”

He didn’t answer. He just let out a shaky breath, eyes half-closed, then dropped his hand heavily to his leg, clutching at his thigh. His fingers curled tight, his jaw clenched.

Your gaze followed the movement, your fingers already brushing his leg. “I’m gonna look, okay?” you whispered, more to yourself than to him.

He didn’t protest.

With delicate hands, you reached for the cuff of his pants and slowly rolled the fabric up, inch by inch, trying not to jostle him too much. He sucked in a breath through his teeth, his hand gripping the armrest until his knuckles turned white.

Then you saw it.

A thick bandage wrapped hastily around his upper thigh, already stained through with something dark and sick.

You imagined Noah, in the abandoned building where he had taken refuge long ago, sitting on the floor, his back against the cold concrete, hands trembling as he tried to bandage his leg as best he could, no medical kit, no one to offer their help.

You bit your lip and carefully began to unwind it. It peeled away slowly, sticking in places.

And then the wound came into view.

You froze.

A deep gash ran along the muscle of his thigh. The skin around it was red, swollen and inflamed. From the wound oozed thick yellow-green pus. It smelled sharp and rotten, the kind of smell that made your stomach turn.

His skin around it was stretched tight, shiny, too warm to the touch.

Your chest felt like it was caving in.

“Noah…” you breathed.

“They... they kind of stabbed me,” he muttered, his voice low.

'Kind of', really?

“Last night. After a match. Said I cost them money. Because I won. They didn't think I would.”

“Jesus Christ. Noah. It's been more than a full day. It wasn't cleaned well. Or the knife was dirty. It’s infected.”

“I know.” He leaned his head back against the couch. “Can’t go to the hospital. You know I can’t.”

A wave of helplessness washed over you. You stared at the mess on his leg, at the pain painted on his face. You wanted to cry. You wanted to scream. Instead, you whispered, “I don’t know what to do.”

He looked at you then, eyelids heavy, pupils a little too dilated. “You always know what to do.”

Then his eyes fluttered shut.

“No, no, no,” you said quickly, placing your hand on his cheek, warm and burning under your palm. “Stay with me. Open your eyes, Noah.”

“Mmh. Yeah,” he mumbled, breath shallow. “Still here.”

“Okay,” you said, nodding, though your heart was hammering. “We need to clean it. You need... you need real help. Antibiotics. Something. And I don't have...”

You blinked, and suddenly something clicked.

Kole.

Kole had been sick two months ago, a pretty bad bronchitis. The doctor had prescribed him antibiotics, but he’d quit after two days because they made him too nauseous. He’d switched to something else.

Which meant he hadn’t finished the first course.

He’d left them.

You shot to your feet.

“Noah. Look at me.” You leaned close, gripping his shoulder gently. “I think I have something that can help. I think...yeah. I’ve got Augmentin. It’s for infections. I think... I'm sure it can help.”

He barely nodded, lips dry, blinking slowly. “Okay.”

You ran to the bathroom.

The cabinet was chaos within seconds. You dumped every bottle, every box, every crumpled blister pack onto the floor. Your fingers tore through everything, heart pounding like a drum in your ears, until you found it. A small orange pill bottle. White label, Kole’s name on it.

Augmentin. 875mg.

You popped the cap and stared inside. At least a dozen pills. Maybe more. Still good.

You grabbed a glass, filled it with water, and rushed back into the living room.

He was half-conscious on the couch, his chest rising in shallow, uneven breaths.

“Noah,” you said gently, dropping to your knees. “You have to take this. Just one now, then another in eight hours.”

He blinked again. Nodded faintly.

You helped him taking the pill and brought the glass to his lips. He swallowed it, the motion making him wince. He coughed once after, then leaned his head back with a groan, shivering.

You looked down at his leg.

At what you’d have to do next.

And you weren’t ready.

You grabbed all the things you needed after doing some google research, hoping it was right, along with a bowl of water you’d boiled and then cooled.

Noah lay limp, sunk into the cushions, his breaths shallow and labored. His eyes were mostly closed, lips pale, damp hair stuck to his forehead with sweat. One arm hung loosely at his side, the other resting on the couch like it was too heavy to lift.

You dropped to your knees beside him again. “Noah,” you said softly, but firmly, “I need to clean the wound now, okay? It’s going to hurt.”

His eyes flickered open, barely, and he gave a small nod, then turned his face into the couch like he didn’t want you to see whatever would come next.

You pulled on the gloves with a snap, wincing at the sound in the otherwise silent apartment.

You started by touching gently around the swollen, angry flesh. Noah tensed instantly. His whole leg jerked.

“Fuck.” He said in a broken voice that physically hurt you.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered. “I’m so sorry. We have to clean it, Noah. It’s full of pus. It’s going to get worse if I don’t.”

He didn’t answer, just clenched his jaw so tight you could see the muscle jumping under his skin.

You kept going, more as gentle as you could, and thick, hot pus began to ooze from the gash. The smell hit you like a punch in the face, and you turned your head, fighting nausea.

Noah let out a low groan and tried to twist away from you. You reached out quickly and pressed your hand to his knee to keep him steady.

“I know, I know,” you whispered again. “You’re okay. I'm so sorry.”

He wasn’t. He was burning up. He was panting now.

When the pus stopped flowing, you grabbed a clean gauze pad, dipped it into the saline, and began rinsing the area. The water ran down his leg, pink and cloudy.

He hissed. “Shit.” He arched his back off the couch as you worked, a cry escaping his throat before he could stop it.

Tears pricked your eyes. You weren’t even the one feeling the pain, but watching him like this hurt more than anything.

“I’m sorry, Noah. Please hold on.”

“Hurts,” he gasped out.

“I know,” you said again. “I know. You’re doing so good.”

He flinched violently with every touch as you kept cleaning it, dabbing it with another clean cloth, even the lightest one. His breath came in sharp, short gasps.

“I’m done. Almost done,” you said, not sure if it was for him or for you.

You dried the area carefully, barely brushing it with sterile gauze, then laid a clean pad over the wound, loose, breathable, enough to protect without suffocating it. You taped it down gently.

When you looked at him again, his face was slick with sweat. He was shaking from head to toe, teeth clenched so tight his jaw was trembling.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered again, pulling the gloves off and tossing them aside. “Noah, I’m so sorry.”

His eyes fluttered open, glassy and unfocused, but he managed to find your face.

“It’s done,” you murmured softly, brushing your fingers down his shin in a motion that wasn’t quite medical anymore. “I finished. It’s over. I promise you're not gonna die in my house. I'm not gonna let you die.”

And you were not. You were hoping the antibiotics and cleaning the wound every few hours would be enough. But deep down, you knew that if by tomorrow there weren’t any signs of improvement, if the swelling didn’t go down, if the color stayed that awful red, you would take him to the hospital. Even if it meant going against his will. You were already rehearsing what you’d say: that someone had attacked him, that he was homeless, that he needed help. That no, he didn’t have insurance, he didn’t have money, but you would cover the costs.

You’d do it without hesitation.

What you weren’t sure of was how you’d get him there. There was no way you could carry him to the car, not with how weak he was, and with the fact that he might try to fight you, and not on your own. You considered asking your neighbor, just for a second. He was a quiet man, mostly kept to himself, but maybe he’d help. Or maybe he’d call the cops the moment he saw Noah. You had no idea.

God, anything but losing him. You couldn’t bear the thought.

If the infection reached his bloodstream, if it turned to sepsis...

You stopped yourself. You didn’t want to go there.

At your words, his whole body seemed to deflate. The tension drained from his muscles, a small, broken sound catching in his throat, half-sigh, half-whimper.

His eyelids fluttered. “Thank you.” he whispered, so quiet you barely heard him.

You took his arm and helped him lay down on the couch, he let out a low, exhausted groan and turned his face further into the cushion.

You sat there for a moment, on your knees beside him.

Then, carefully, you leaned forward and pressed your lips to his temple.

A soft kiss, barely there. His skin was burning, feverish, damp with sweat. You lingered for a second longer, your mouth resting against his hairline, breathing him in.

“I’ve got you,” you whispered into his skin. “You’re safe.”

Your hand moved gently to his face, brushing damp strands of hair back from his forehead. They clung to your fingers as you smoothed them away.

Your palm rested lightly against his cheek. His skin was warm and a little clammy, but it felt like it was not as hot as before. Maybe the pill was already starting to do something, or maybe that was just blind hope talking.

You stayed like that for a while, kneeling there beside him, your hand in his hair, gently stroking it back in slow, comforting motions. He didn’t speak again.

And then, after a few minutes, you noticed his breathing had evened out.

Slow. Deep. Rhythmic.

You pulled back just enough to look at him, his lips slightly parted, brow relaxed for the first time since he walked in. His lashes lay soft against his cheeks and his chest rose and fell in steady waves.

He’d fallen asleep.

He was still shivering, so you reached down and tugged the blanket from the back of the couch and pulled it over him, careful not to disturb the leg.

You stayed there, sitting quietly at the foot of the couch, your legs folded beneath you, too scared to move or leave, as you watched him sleep.

The fever hadn't broken yet, but at least he was resting. That had to mean something.

While you stayed there beside him, your eyes drifted toward the window, in the dark. There were no cars parked out front except your own. Not a single one. You knew Noah didn’t own a car, and his neighbor’s car wasn’t there, and even if he had tried to drive in that condition, he probably would have crashed anyway.

He must have taken the bus.

That realization hurt. He had boarded public transportation, traveled across the city with a raging fever and an infected wound slowly eating away at his leg. He had done it all alone.

It would have taken him at least an hour and a half to get there, maybe more, and almost certainly required him to switch lines somewhere along the way. Navigating transfers and unfamiliar stops, surrounded by strangers, all while his body was barely holding itself together.

The thought of him, sitting hunched over on a cold plastic bus seat, shivering, sweating, as his vision blurred almost made you cry.

And all you could think, all you could feel, was an overwhelming, aching need to hold him into your arms and never let him go. To hold him until the fever broke, until the fear faded. To run your fingers through his hair and promise him, over and over, that he wasn’t alone anymore. That he never had to do something like that again. That he could stay, there, with you, for as long as he needed. Days, months, years… forever, if he wanted.

Because you loved him.

And in that moment, more than anything, you just wanted him to know that.

Minutes passed, maybe ten, maybe twenty, you weren’t sure. You barely blinked, afraid to take your eyes off him for more than a second. And then he moved.

A small shift at first, barely more than a stir. Then his hand twitched, arm sliding forward across the couch in a slow, searching motion. His eyes didn’t open. His brow pinched faintly like something in his dream was bothering him, his body restless under the blanket.

You straightened instinctively, leaning toward him. “Noah?” you asked softly, your heart jumping. “I’m here. What is it? Are you okay?”

No answer. Just his hand, moving again, this time more insistently, palm dragging across the edge of the cushion, reaching… for something.

For you.

You blinked, unsure, until his fingers found yours where they rested on your knee.

And then, gently, he curled them around your hand.

He brought it to his chest, slow and shaky, until your palm was resting against the warm fabric of his shirt, over the beat of his heart.

“Oh, Noah,” you breathed.

Your heart broke a little.

But soon, the floor started digging nto your knees, your back stiff from being hunched over for so long. You shifted slightly, and Noah made a small, distressed sound in his sleep, a faint whimper, like something inside him registered the change, the slight withdrawal.

“I’m not going anywhere,” you whispered quickly, brushing your thumb across his knuckles. “I just...let’s get a little more comfortable, okay?”

You tried to ease your hand from his grip, but his fingers clung tighter with a faint, unconscious noise of protest.

“Just a second,” you soothed, leaning in. “I promise.”

You moved with care, slow, climbing gently onto the couch beside him.

Then you reached for the pillow beneath his head, lifting it with one hand as you slid yourself into its place. You settled back, and lowered his head carefully into your lap. He murmured something incoherent, the sound low and contented, and let himself sink into the new position without protest.

Only then did you reach for his hand again, pressing it gently back against his chest.

He made another small noise, softer this time, almost like a sigh. A sound of comfort.

You smiled faintly. “There,” you murmured. “Better?”

He didn’t answer, but the way his body relaxed against yours said enough.

With your free hand, you reached up and brushed his damp hair from his forehead again, fingers threading slowly through the strands.

You let your hand trail from his temple down the curve of his brow, across the bridge of his nose. Your fingertips skimmed the soft skin beneath his eyes, then traced the faint stubble along his jaw, the line of his throat.

Your touch slowed at his neck, right where the ink began.

You followed the sweep of the tattoo, outlining the familiar shapes you’d seen many times but never touched like this.

And you stayed like that, his head in your lap, your fingers drawing quiet paths along his skin. Holding him as gently as you could.

You woke to the sound of his voice, just a low murmur, when the first rays of the rising sun began to filter through the living room window. Your neck ached from the awkward angle, but your hand was still in his, your other arm curled protectively near his chest. You blinked, disoriented.

“Noah?” you whispered, voice rough.

Then you heard it clearly.

“I should’ve died."

Your whole body went still.

"It should’ve been me.”

His forehead burned under your touch, hotter than before. It was too soon for another pill. Barely three hours since the first dose. Not long enough.

“Noah,” you said gently, brushing his hair back, “hey, it’s okay. You’re safe. I’m here.”

But he wasn’t hearing you. His eyes weren’t open. His lips were parted, breathing fast, mumbling between gasps.

Suddenly, he twitched, his body, and his leg, jerked, just slightly, but the movement dragged a strangled sound of pain from his throat.

You immediately pressed your hand down gently on his thigh, steadying him.

“Don’t move,” you whispered. “You’ll hurt yourself more."

“I killed him,” he whispered, pained, without giving any sign of understanding what you had said. “I—he’s dead. It’s my fault.”

You sat up straighter, a chill running down your spine.

“What?” you asked softly. “Noah, what are you talking about?”

But he kept going, more frantic now. “Should’ve been me. I was supposed to... I killed him."

You cupped his face carefully. His skin was clammy and flushed, trembling under your palm.

“Noah, who? Who are you talking about?”

He shuddered. “I killed him,” he choked out.

A knot twisted in your stomach.

“Noah,” you tried again, “You didn’t kill anyone. You’re just... it's a nightmare. It’s the fever. You’re okay.”

"I... killed him." He kept repeating.

“Shh,” you said gently, brushing your thumb across his cheek. “It’s okay."

Eventually, he stilled. His breathing began to slow. His hand, still holding yours, loosened just slightly. His lips moved, but no sound came out. His brow unknotted.

He slipped back into unconsciousness.

You sat there, staring down at him, heart still hammering.

The room was quiet again. But nothing inside you was.

Because now you were left with a thousand unspoken questions.

You brushed your fingers over his temple again, wondering if it was true, if he had really killed someone. If it was a nightmare or a memory.

You sat there long after he’d gone quiet, the words still echoing in your head.

“I killed him.”

It could’ve been the fever. A nightmare. Just fragments of pain and memory colliding in a mind too exhausted to tell the difference. But the way he said it, it didn’t feel like just a dream.

You didn’t know the full story of his past, but you knew enough to know it hadn’t been easy.

Maybe it had been self-defense. Maybe an accident. Maybe something worse. Or maybe it never happened at all.

You didn’t know the truth. Not yet. But you knew one thing: if he had done something, he had lived with it alone for too long. And whether it was guilt or fear or a twisted memory, you wouldn’t let him carry it by himself anymore.

Hours later, when the clock on the wall told you it had been nearly eight hours since you’d given him the first dose of Augmentin, you were still next to him. His breathing was still slow, steady, but his body remained limp. He hadn’t stirred much, drifting in and out of deep, fevered sleep.

You reached for the pill bottle again. Carefully, you picked one out, holding it up to the light, then brought it to his lips.

“Noah,” you whispered softly, brushing a stray lock of damp hair from his forehead. His eyes fluttered open just a little, glazed and unfocused, but he understood. His lips parted, barely audible as he murmured something you couldn’t quite catch, but he swallowed the pill without resistance when you brought a glass of water to his mouth.

You settled back beside him, your fingers tracing gentle, comforting circles on his arm. Hours passed slowly, and you stayed close, watching for any sign of change.

Then, as the afternoon light grew warmer, you started noticing it: the fever was breaking. His forehead, once burning hot to your touch, was now a bit cooler. You have never felt so relieved as you did in that moment.

You carefully cleaned the wound on his leg again, this time with less pus escaping, but still pretty swollen. Noah let out a few low, pained groans, but nothing like the first time. You whispered soothing words as you worked with the sterile gauze and saline.

As evening approached, there was a soft knock at the door, and this time you were sure it was Amber.

You had talked with her on the phone in the morning and she had promised to come by, bringing some groceries, medicine, anything else you might need to help take care of Noah. And she also just wanted to see you and make sure you were okay.

You opened the door to find her standing there with a warm smile and two bags filled with food, vitamins, and a small box of wound care supplies.

“Hey,” she said quietly. “How’s he doing?”

“Better,” you replied, stepping aside to let her in. “The fever’s starting to go down.”

Amber set the bags on the bigger table in the livingroom, then sat down beside you.

You smiled faintly to your friend. “Thank you. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

“We can’t let your new boyfriend die before I even get a chance to talk to him, right?”

You let out a small laugh, rubbing at your eyes with the back of your hand. “He’s not my boyfriend.”

Amber raised an eyebrow, her smirk deepening. “Whatever he is...mysterious underground fighter, patient zero, random handsome man almost dying on your couch...I wasn’t going to let you deal with it all alone.”

“Thank you, Amber. Really.”

Amber leaned back in her chair, looking at Noah. “I just... I kind of hoped the first time I met him in person would’ve been under different circumstances.”

"Yeah, me too."

Amber nudged your knee gently with hers. “He’s totally your type, by the way.”

You groaned softly and gave her a look. “Don’t start.”

She held up her hands, laughing quietly. “I’m just saying, he’s pretty. And I can see it too. The two of you. Together. You would look cute.”

You shook your head, but couldn’t suppress the smile that crept onto your face. “Thanks for the blessing, I guess.”

After a moment of silence, she spoke again. “Anytime. But seriously, you look exhausted. Are you okay?”

“Yeah. I mean, I don’t know. I’ve been running on instinct and adrenaline for like... twenty-four hours. Every time he breathes a little more clearly, I feel like I can exhale again. But it’s all still too close. Too recent.”

She nodded, serious now. “That’s a lot. With Kole, and then Noah... I'm sure it was not super easy.”

“Yeah,” you murmured. “But I think... if he keeps improving, maybe I’ll be able to sleep for more than twenty minutes at a time.”

“I brought chamomile tea,” Amber said, nudging one of the bags. “And those little granola bars you like. Oh, and cold packs. In case he spikes again.”

You nodded. "Thank you."

“Tell your hot coma boyfriend,” she said, smirking. “That your amazing, funny and extremely kind bestie, helped keeping him alive, when he’s awake.”

You chuckled, "I'll try to remember that."

You and Amber kept talking for a while, your voices low and careful so as not to disturb Noah's sleep, and you made tea for both of you.

“So,” you asked casually at some point, “what are you doing later this afternoon?”

Amber tilted her head like she had to think about it, though you could tell she already had an answer. “Might stop by the record shop.”

“Didn’t you go last week?”

“Yeah,” she said, nonchalant. “But I want to go again.”

You sipped your tea slowly. “Something new come out?”

“No,” she said, “I just… felt like going.”

You narrowed your eyes, watching her carefully for a beat.

“You’re hiding something,” you said, setting your cup down. “I know that face. That’s your ‘I’m hiding something’ face.”

Amber scoffed, but there was already a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. “I'm not.”

You tilted your head. “You definitely are.”

She gave a little laugh, tucking a loose lock of blonde hair behind her ear.

“Oh my God,” you said, starting to realize.

“What?” she asked.

“You like someone,” you said, grinning now. “Someone at the record store.”

Amber tried to play it cool, but you saw the way her cheeks colored just slightly.

“Maybe.”

You gasped, hand over your mouth. “Who?”

She didn’t answer.

“Wait. Is it Jolly?”

“God, no.”

"What's wrong with Jolly?"

"Nothing. Just not my type."

You laughed. “Okay, okay. So, who else works there? It’s just Jolly and that girl with the long black locs.”

Amber didn’t say anything, but the way her lips twitched and her eyes flicked toward you again told you everything you needed.

“Oh my God. It’s her. It’s her, isn’t it? Bingo! It’s the dreadlocks girl!”

Amber gave you a look that was both resigned and a little giddy. “Maybe.”

“Don’t maybe me! What’s her name?”

She exhaled, then said it like a secret. “Vivienne.”

You smiled. “That’s such a cool name.”

“I know, right?” Amber said, her voice rising just a little in excitement. “And she's, like, one of the hottest women I’ve ever seen in my entire life. I swear. The first time I walked in and saw her behind the counter, I think I blacked out for a second. I literally spent the next week praying to every god, spirit, and cosmic force that she might be lesbian.”

You burst out laughing. “Did it work?”

“I don’t know yet,” Amber said, grinning now. “But I’ve been... casually browsing vinyl I don’t need every few days in hopes of finding out.”

“That is the gayest thing I’ve ever heard,” you said affectionately.

“Thank you,” she replied. “I work very hard.”

You both laughed.

After a while, your laughter faded into a comfortable silence. You reached for your tea again, feeling just a little lighter than before.

It felt good, almost normal, despite the man asleep and recovering in front of you, despite everything that had happened.

Amber looked over at him again. “This is really just… kind of wild,” she said.

You glanced at her. “What is?”

She gestured vaguely toward Noah. “You’re literally harboring a dying guy in your living room.”

“He’s not dying.”

Amber laughed. “You know what I mean.”

You sighed. “Amber… I promise you, he’s not a killer, not a psycho, not dangerous, not crazy.”

Amber gave you a look. “Babe, no one’s saying he’s the crazy one.”

You blinked. “What?”

She pointed at you with a teasing grin. “You’re the crazy one here.”

You opened your mouth, but she cut you off, smirking. “But hey… what can I say? You do wild things when you’re in love.”

You laughed under your breath, cheeks warming.

And you didn’t deny it.

“I promise… he’s sweet. Once you get to know him.”

Amber looked at you for a moment, then nodded with a little smile. “And I trust you, don't worry. I just like messing with you.”

You were deeply grateful that Amber had come, not just for the groceries or the tea or the cold packs, but for the way she’d made you laugh and talk about something else, even for just a little while.

Before she left, you made sure to wrap your arms around her in a tight hug, holding on a little longer than usual, reminding her that you loved her.

Tags: @anything-more-than-human @ladyveronikawrites @iloveyoutodeathbutimdrowning @fadingangelwisp @xmads-omensx @iwasntstable @thisbicc @pathion @flowery-mess @into-the-grey @lacy1986 @tosoundlessdarkistare @stardustsirenmelody @thewrstinme @hurricanesfollowyou @ichoosetenderomens @chey-h @alwaysfightforwhoyouare @follow-me-down-to-wonderland @missduffsblog @pandora-08 @geminigirlfromfinland @bloody-spades @rumoured-whispers @astronoids

Fresh bruises tags: @1toreyouapart @respectfulrebel @dragoncopper @overmydeadbodysblog @fear-its-beauty @xslavicprincess @concreteangel92 @super-btstrash-posts @pipidoll @pipidoll @bluehairpunklol @tktstomydwnfall @jesuisunchaton @brutallysoftmuse @acatatonicpeace @spookieolson @dontwantthemoney @renegadebirch @awkwardalex @nojoyontheburn

91 notes · View notes