starkregret

[starkregret]

Ease My Dread (Trembling Limbs Instead)

or: the soulmates au

when the first bruise appears, a sickly yellow color with purple that runs through it, annoyance will be the first thing that runs through quinn’s mind.

most are thrilled with the first mark; the reminder that someone is out there, for you, waiting for you to find them-instead, quinn wets his thumb and presses the tip angrily into the flesh, trying to rub it off, teeth gritted as he ignores the pain.

his mother will swat at him, gently, with an old stained dish towel and he’ll pull a face, a gentle: “mama.” as his hand falls and she’ll speak:

“most people,” she chastises quietly, “are thrilled when this happens.”

he grumbles, allows himself to slip further into his seat: “most people don’t take a fucking year to show.”

she clicks her tongue: “seven months, quinn.” she says gently and when she sees that it doesn’t perk him up she rolls her eyes and ruffles his hair gently: “some people are worth waiting for, quinn. give them time.”

months pass. quinn counts the time in the marks that appear on his body; the bruise that forms on his thigh, the long scratch down his arm, angry and red, the black eye that he wakes up with and lets his finger trace an outline of, ignoring the way it hurts under his touch.

“i think my soulmate is a psychopath.”

he flops into a seat, bites into his straw as he takes a sip of expensive coffee.

“maybe they’re just clumsy,” jack tries to counter, trying hard to not stare at the black eye that stares back at him: “you weren’t always graceful, remember that.”

quinn chucks whatever he can at jack’s head, this time in the form of a flat paperback that jack always dodges at the last second, something he naturally become good at from being around with him for so long.

for a few weeks, no marks appear on his skin. how he use to twist and bend and mold to look at himself in the mirror, stretching further

no. instead, you found a new way to occupy his mind.

he’ll remember, months later, when you’re tangled into him, how you appeared in these dreams long before he knew a source, before he could put the features together. when you were shaky lines with the contrast too high, a hum pitched too high that always made him wake up sweating.

“you’re thinking too hard,” you’d say in these dreams, your hand tangled into his. “find me. if you’re so smart, come find me already.”

“i must be smart,” he’d say back in this dreams, a smirk on his lips as he pulled you closer, his lips pressed against yours as he talked: “if i can make you up-“

he’d close his eyes in these dreams, ready to kiss you, to finally lean in, before he would awake in his too small bed, sweat dripping down him and the familiar taste of strawberries on his lips.

quinn tried everything but faking his own death to get out of coming to this party. knew by the misspelled text message inviting him it would be a shit storm. he was halfway through his notes app list of excuses when Jack came to his room, all but pulled him out of his room and forced him into the building.

quinn used the excuse of the smoke getting to him to get out of the house. said he could practically feel the smoke wrapping around his neck and choking him, taking his years away from him before he could even appreciate them. all his friends rolled their eyes, made the circle he was in smaller and all but kicked him out, forcing him into the backyard.

outside he could still hear the music but it was lighter, the words harder to understand, had to strain to hear what they were saying. he acted like he didn’t see someone puking in the bushes as he made his way to the kids swing set and plopped into it.

out of habit he slowly started kicking his feet, coming to a steady rhythm that would lift his feet off the ground. out of habit he lifted his arm up, inspecting his own body for any evidence that his soulmate existed.

“this seat taken?”

you don’t wait for a response as you sit in the too small swing seat, slowly kicking your feet.

it was like the sky opened up and projector lights flashed on you. he knew instantly who you were, the messy blob you were before now a perfect line, all the features he couldn’t make out before in front of him. like all those sleepless nights trying to make a perfect form of you, to try and memorize you was finally worth it-

“i dreamed of you.”

nice going, he thinks way to scare of your literal soulmate

instead, you hum gently, a familiar smile pulls at your lips. this isn’t how you imagined meeting him, had much more grander plans for this. didn’t imagine meeting him at a frat party, imagined yourself much more graceful and him more put together:

“was it a good dream?”

he’s staring and he knows it, knows it borders on being too creepy, too focused:

“never as good as reality”

his hand flies out before he can stop it:

“quinn,” he says gently, “i believe I’m the victim of the receiving end of all those bruises.”

you laugh, and it’s a familiar noise, one he didn’t know he was missing until he heard it, promises himself right there he’s going to do everything he can to make you laugh again and again, before your hand is out and shaking his, past the introductions:

“i’m glad i finally found you.”

and because that seems like too much, like that’s too familiar to say before you barely know their name, even if you dreamed them all this time, instead, he shakes his head: “i owe you some dates.”

[starkregret]

i’ll build a boat (when the river gets high)

or: quinn throwaway idea. less of a fic, more of an idea i’ve been tossing around. enjoy question mark

as passengers climb over seats and luggage is thrown into bins overhead, quinn tries to close his eyes, picture himself somewhere-anywhere else.

it’s something he picked up from her; a coping mechanism, she’d roll her eyes at the mention of it, but seconds later insists it works, can still hear her voice:

“imagine you’re somewhere you like,” she’d drawl, her voice low, practically gravel as she spoke: “commit it to memory. smell the air-hold onto the memory-“

and quinn’s exact fucking problem is that he never paid attention to it when she tried to paint this lavish picture in his mind-too busy looking at her lips as she spoke to try and commit that to memory, the way the wrinkles around her mouth moved when she smiled and flowed and ebbed when she frowned; how her tongue poke through her teeth when she spoke too fast-

the lights overhead on the airplane blinked in morse code, as if it was even telling him to get it together, to leave this behind like she insisted, begged and pleaded-

closes his eyes, can still see the blinking lights behind hooded eyelids-brings his fingertips to press anxiously behind them but instead she appears again-

and he’s in his backyard, on a ripped towel that’s yellowed with age and a mere scrap of material now-but she’s pressed against him and right now, that’s all that matters. can still smell her perfume if he thinks hard enough, tries to forget how that’s the first thing he thought of with her and the first thing he forgot after they were no longer tangled into one another-

stars twinkle overhead and she’s talking but he’s not absorbing any of it, his hand over hers as she points to constellations, makes the stories up of the ones she doesn’t know, how the whole world is silent around him-

“sir?” a hand on his shoulder brings him back, “your seatbelt.”

a nod, he obeys, scrambles to click the seatbelt into place. he tries to close his eyes, to hold onto the faint passings of the memory before they slip away, never to be seen again-

the lights overhead on the airplane blink and he makes wishes to them, imagines he’s on his back in the backyard again

[starkregret]

i’m still writing letters home (to let you know i’m alright)

tw/ mention of alcohol/quinn drinking, cursing, mention of smoking/quinn smoking, mention of anxiety, bad coping mechanisms, mention of panic attack, est relationship, falling out-

The air is hot enough that quinn’s shirt sticks to his back with a large spot of wet but if it bothers him, he makes no effort to move it, to try and fan the area

later, this will be what’s melted to his memory. what he sees when he closes his eyes, when he thinks back to North Hanson and the small strip of land he grew up on-chasing the sun up in the mornings, racing the moon to rise, rise up every night over his small house, even smaller town.

his shadow in the streetlight always lingers over hers. when he first noticed this, he tried to make himself bigger on his tip toes, to rise up against hers, smaller and timid behind his. the flower from her house was tucked behind his ear, a gift she gave when running out to meet him at their corner. watching the flowers bloom at her house, the only sign of seasons coming and going in the small town.

Nights spent with scraped knees chasing each other as they take turns on too small bikes, library dates with a squeaky wagon, quinn’s backpack as big as him as they walk back to his house to read books on an old stained carpet in his basement. she was the constant, even in the dark-how the shadows would morph and climb and build and she was always there for them, fighting them off.

the thing about traveling is they leave out a lot of the everyday bullshit. Sure, there's the bright lights and the roaring crowd and the drinks that are passed into his hands, overflowing with amber filled liquid that sloshes into his hand-

when quinn grew up-all elbows and sharp edges, growing into these limbs that seemed like they weren't his-how her words stuck with him: "Don't wait up for me all night."

and he'd still be in his room at the end of the night, lights flicked on to illuminate his small room with memories of her-how her light stayed on and the drapes moved when a sign of life was spotted from his room.

no, the actual bullshit of traveling is left out.

before getting on the rink, quinn is left with a lot of alone time. this is mainly innocent enough, but some black ink still spills into his thoughts, pulls at them and gnaws at him until he finally has to get up, pacing around the too small hallways, or the alleyway or the stadium with shaking hands, too shaky to light the already used cigarette crushed in his pants

the frantic rest stop phone calls fizzle out. two in the morning, when he gets up from shaking on the floor, one foot in front of the other- one two, one two, a practiced recital in his head

the first few she answers, her voice level when his isn't, rises with panic and gnawing anxiety until her voice is over his:

"quinn," Her voice talks him off the ledge, knocks his feet back from hanging over: "You're exactly where you're suppose to be-"

quinn assumed she moved on; time moves on, people moves on-he doesn't blame her-he left, why wouldn't she?

the letters were an exercise he was gifted in therapy, phone calls that he would make with her replaced by an older man-he imagines with crooked glasses on his nose, a warm sweater that eats his body, a warm mug of tea to his chest as he clicks his tongue at him-

His hands shake on the first few letters. knows they won't be answered-get it out of his mind, out of his hands, put the pen to the paper and write-

i know you won't read this scratches it out, thinking of north hanson scratches it out until the paper tears, until he rubs his eyes hard enough to see stars

quinn lays in his hotel bed. alone in the dark, how it's become normal for him now. the bed, the room is small enough that it feels like a coffin, small enough for him for his final rest. when he closes his eyes, he feels the warm heat of the summer on his back, the creaking stairs of her house, the blooming tulips in the alleyway between their houses-he's home and that's enough. the lights in her room flick on, the blinds move, and he's safe.

[starkregret]

obsessed with every sort of this, down to people picking up on his new “habit” of playing with it.

this is the kind of fluff i joined this site for.

the best part?

“Put your ring on it and wear it under your jersey or pads. Then I’m always there with you, even on the ice,” your hand came to rest on his chest, “right over your heart.”

so so beautiful. will be giggling about this the rest of the week

Spinning x q. hughes

Warnings: sappy. Tooth-rotting sweetness. Quinn admiring his ring and reflecting on your relationship. Disgustingly cute. Made me wanna barf (im so lonely). Multiple POVs maybe? I’m on a lonely kick so heres Quinnifer playing with his ring. Southern terminology (fiddling, fiddle)

wc: 1124

It was something that took some getting used to, the weight of the simple gold band on his finger. Though only ounces itself, the meaning and significance of the ring carried what felt like a ton. It had been only months since you and Quinn read your vows, but he still found himself in awe of the simple metal surrounding his finger. 

Quinn often found himself looking at the glint of the gold in the light, especially when out on the boat or sitting outside with you. The way it shone against your skin was another thing he realized his eyes would catch on, whether it be your hand in his, his hand on the bare skin of your thigh, cupping your cheek as you spoke softly to each other, the pictures he found himself looking back on from your wedding, his eyes were always drawn to his ring. The physical feeling of the band was a little odd at first, he had never been one for rings, so it was an adjustment period to not want to take it off every five minutes. Throughout the months, he’d gotten used to it, though. He remembered the first time he’d really taken it off after being outside all summer at the lake, the pale-white strip of skin a stark contrast to how the rest of his hand had tanned. Quinn had stifled a chuckle to himself, slipping the ring securely back on his finger after he finished washing the dishes.

The first time he’d really noticed himself fiddling with the metal was while watching a show with you. His right arm was slung around your shoulders, his hand gently brushing your warm skin, fingers lazily curling your hair. His left hand busied itself with his wedding band, spinning it slowly, shifting it between knuckles, almost like a quiet ritual he’d developed. 

Your eyes caught notice as the flicker of the TV reflected off the metal and the way it moved on his finger. Quinn was lost in the silent rhythm of his ministrations when your voice broke through his haze, “You look like you picked up a new habit.” Quinn’s brows furrowed slightly in confusion, “what am I doing?”

“You’re playing with your ring,” you chuckled, motioning to his left hand, “I think it’s cute.” Quinn smiled and gently squeezed your shoulders, “I think you’re cute.” After that, he found himself doing it even more. If both of his hands were free, he would slide the ring up and down his finger, moving it between fingers, flipping it around, pausing every so often to read the inscription engraved inside. It was a simple script of your wedding date, along with your handwriting that read “Love you forever.” Your wedding band had the same engraving, though with his handwriting. 

Once the season rolled around, Quinn grew a little paranoid about his ring. He was worried someone would break his finger and it would swell and have to be cut off. Or that he would take it off and lose it while playing a game. Or he would get in a fight and seriously hurt another player with it. Or, or, or. (You had laughed and told him he sounded like a seal while he was expressing his worries, earning you a blunt and slightly annoying look, which only made you laugh more.)

The simple solution? Quit wearing it. Leave it in your jewelry box or the safe at home. 

It was easy. Right? WRONG.

Quinn found himself even MORE paranoid about his ring. Plus, he found that he missed having the band around his finger. Not only did he miss fidgeting with the band, but he also missed the feeling of it. The feeling of the ring around his finger had come to feel like his connection to you. It was his constant physical reminder of your love for him, it was what kept him grounded when his thoughts became too much. When things got hard, he could always pull it off and read your simple handwriting. He could grip it in his hand and hold it close to his lips or his heart, talking to it like it could provide real advice. 

So for the first game of the season, you gifted Quinn a simple gold chain. 

“Put your ring on it and wear it under your jersey or pads. Then I’m always there with you, even on the ice,” your hand came to rest on his chest, “right over your heart.”

And that was what he did, and it certainly helped. He felt better about his ring being safe and secure under his pads on the ice or under his shirt as he traveled. Only… he still missed the feeling of it on his finger. Less than a week later, you presented him with the silicone band. It was simple and black, something he could wear in practice and games without worrying about hurting himself or anyone or losing it. 

The simple black band filled the hole of his wedding band better than he expected. It was also just as fun to fiddle with. Clips from interviews soon spread and became edits of him playing with the black piece of rubber. Rolling it up and down his finger as he listened to questions, playing with it and stretching it a little as he answered the press. You saved several of the videos with a smile, finding it almost endearing. 

And if you fiddled with your rings or wore a silicone ring to do the same with? Nobody had to know. 

Except Quinn. Because Quinn knew you better than you knew yourself.  The day he pointed it out, he came home to you subconsciously spinning your engagement ring around your finger as you worked at the computer, brows furrowed and teeth biting your lip as you concentrated on something for work. He hung back for a minute to watch, unknowingly doing the same thing with his own.

“Looks like someone picked up one of my habits,” he grinned, walking over to wrap his arms around your shoulders from behind where you sat in the chair.

“What are you talking about?” You hummed, still slightly dazed from your focus on work.

“Spinning and playing with your ring,” he pressed a kiss to your temple, “you told me a couple months ago about how I do it. All the guys give me hell about it, saying I can’t keep my hands still in an interview long enough to even hear the question.”

“Oh,” your cheeks warmed slightly, “I guess I did… just proves how much you become like the people you surround yourself with.”

Quinn smiled at your words, “I wouldn’t wanna be surrounded by anyone else.”

-------------------------------

@ruinix @loser-pretty-girl

As always feedback and constructive criticism are welcome :)

[starkregret]

okay i’m 90% sure i stole this from a tik tok, but frat!jack date idea

(blurb but if people like it, i’d love to write more for it)

jack needs a date to a funeral.

look, he's desperate. the list on his phone is long, but it's mostly people he wanted to see once and hope and pray to whatever god exists that he doesn't run into them around campus.

he'd rather die than ask you for a favor.

his best friends roommate, who's seen him so drunk he had to be herded back into a small group you were tending to-no fucking thanks.

but the funeral is this weekend and he can't be the only one in his fucking fraternity without a date to something so important-

"i need a favor."

jack’s voice is deep, borders on desperate

you're on your too small twin bed, the laptop settled on your stomach, hoodie pulled up tight against your face since Jack made his way into the small room.

"fuck off," you offer, "you're talking over my show."

"you know how they are about their soap operas"

Chad offers from his own twin bed.

"it's not a soap opera," you mumble, eyes still on the laptop, "and i know you fucking know that. it's a drama-“

"look."

jack kneels on the floor, his arms in a prayer.

this close, you can see the scar that lines his face, white with age, his baseball cap is backwards on his head-

you sit up straighter, shut the laptop:

"are-are you begging?"

"he's trying-" chad interrupted

"if you both would shut the fuck up so i can finish my begging," he mumbles, "please." he adds.

"i don't think ive ever seen you beg."

"i need a date."

"fuck off."

he takes his larger hand in yours, closes his other hand around it:

"it's for Airbud."

you snatch your hand back: "i know you aren't talking about the fucking fish your frat managed to kill after i told you all not to buy a fish."

he throws his head back: "i'm the only one without a date!"

[starkregret]

Lately (you’ve been calling me baby)

or: the one where quinn meets your friends for the first time and realizes he loves you

short, oops! all fluff

your friends don't like him.

ok, maybe that isn't totally fair, but they have pulled you to the side, red solo cups spilled over with liquor, bringing you in close to whisper in your ear like a conspiracy that he seems like bad news-

quinn sees your front door as the front line. inside, nothing but different land mines to overstep, to be careful for, diffuse the bomb, make a group of people adore him, to seem like he's good enough for you. he knows you're far out of his league, that you're amazing-he knows this-he sees the careful looks your friends throw when he talks, he doesn't need a reminder of it.

but suddenly his hand is on the door, and before he can convince himself to leave, abandon this, you throw the door open and you're immediately pulling him into a hug, your hand wrapped around his, and you're dragging him to your friends (who you all warned better be nice to him) and-

you're calling him baby.

it's a simple thing, and he's big on pet names-sometimes when he actually says your name, you either forget he's talking to you, don't respond, or you think he's mad at you-but it's mostly the pet names from him.

so when you push him into the chair, serve him up, a gentle, "Here, baby." and a smile, well-that's all he needs to survive the third degree from your friends.

your friends faces are in their phones, or taking selfies-they think he's stuck up, that he doesn't care for you or something-doesn't see the wink he throws you across the table when you eat, or the way he gets up the second your glass is empty, even halfway across the room, to refill it for you, the way he makes sure you have your food first, that you're sititng and happy before helping himself-your friends always miss that, somehow, a bitter part of him thinks.

but it hits him hard, deep in his stomach as you're humming a song as you scrub a dish clean (he's in charge of drying) your friend kicking their feet over the edge of the counter as they talk amongst themselves- that he loves you. it's scary, of course-but it makes his face flush and he leans down, gently bumps your shoulder so you look up at him, throws you another wink, and you aren't sure what it's about exactly, he'll save it for tonight, the idea terrifies him but-

"You ok, baby?" You ask, and the anxiety, the fear, is immediately squished, he leans down and kisses your forehead in response.

your friend at your elbow gags, but the smile is deep on her face as you splash her with water, and he knows he won at least one of your friends over, and he'll take it.

[starkregret]

i would hate you (if i could)

song fic off the song by turnover (highly recommend)

TW: flashbacks (mostly told in flash backs), angst w no happy ending, cursing, drinking, implied smut, smoking (Quinn smokes)

Quinn spends 90% of his time since you left hating you. the other 10% is exclusively spent seeing you in fucking everything.

he sees you in fucking everything. in his shadow, taking all the sidewalk up as he slowly trots into a bar he didn't want to go to-if he turns his head the right way and tilts his head just right, it's shaped like you-he pulls the almost done cigarette out of his mouth and throws it on the ground, squishes it with the heel of his shoe and shakes the shape of you out of his mind before he enters in.

Mark is seated in a dark corner, an empty seat next to him, a full drink to his immediate right, obviously just missing him-Anthony is to his left, talks enthusiastically with his hands to an audience not listening to him.

"Quinn!" Mark says enthusiastically when he pulls the chair out and all but flops into an unsteady chair.

“great that you’re here-“

"not by choice," Quinn groans, brings the warm liquor up to his lips and makes a face, "i was all but forced-"

"forced is a strong word," anthony argues back immediately, "strongly encouraged, more like it."

"you can't keep sulking at home." Mark speaks gently by his elbow, in a way that says this conversation was just for the two of them.

"it's not sulking," Quinn sinks into himself, "i don't sulk."

"if it helps," Anthony sits up a little straighter, "i heard they-"

it doesn't matter. he isn't listening anyways.

the smoke in a too small bar reminds him of your room, the twin sized bed he practically fell out of-the door closed to not interrupt your roommate that insisted Quinn was loud on purpose-how many times she would come in after being woken up from the laughing, the haze around the room from the smoke he can still taste on your lips-shirts discarded on the floor, pinning you against the wall, his hand rests on your chest, his thumb on your lips as you talk in a haze-

"anthony," mark hisses, "shut the fuck up, dude. Holy shit-"

it's quiet for a minute and Quinn considers apologizing, hating that he made it awkward, not his usual enthusiastic self-

"So," Anthony clears his throat, "the Sharks this year, hm?"

Quinn isn't listening as Mark groans, "dude," he says, "in what world would talking about a shitty hockey team help-"

anthony holds his hands up in the air in surrender, "i don't fucking know dude-"

Quinn’s eyes glaze over as they travel slowly over the bar-shoved in a corner it's-you. his head whips around, narrow-is it actually you, he thinks, has to think if it's actually you or what he just conjures up.

you're fucking laughing.

like something is actually funny; even this far away he sees how your eyes shut and crinkle at the sides, remembers when he use to do that, the warmth that would fill his chest when he did it, like some personal accomplishment. he's jealous-they don't deserve to see this side of you, for you to waste a laugh at them-

the light under you is orange, a hazy color from a half broken light by the dart boards- and the light reminds him of daybreak, breathless on your wooden floor as light breaks through a smudged window, his forearm thrown over his forehead, you're still talking in your sleep-he could never make it out, would drive him crazy as his thumb rests over your lips-always said he'd get it one day-

and if he was fucking talking to you, he'd be making fun of you, like the old times, his arm thrown over your shoulders, hand tangled in his, taking his baseball cap off his own head to jam it over your own head and then your head that way for his lips to clash into his, pulling the hat further down to keep his friends from seeing it, feels like too intimate of a moment for them to be apart of-

he tries to remember the bad, to try and lead you out of the forefront of his mind-telling people you were done with him before he even knew there were problems to begin with-less of your lips clashing into his, the shadow you cast over him and still do-

"and that's why i think hockey is a stupid sport."

mark sits up straighter in his seat, like he's proud of himself for that, but anthony doesn't give him any attention, side eyeing Quinn the whole time, well aware of what's happening-

"Quinn-"

"i think i should go." Quinn clears his throat and stands, yanks his hat over his eyes like that'll do something, maybe make himself smaller, "this beer tastes like ass anyways-"

"we can find a new bar-"

Quinn hates himself even more, for a second. this bar was two towns over, anthony suggested it in hopes he wouldn't see you-

"nah," he clears his throat, "it's late anyways."

and before he can do something stupid, like look over at you or try and make you explode in his mind or even fucking wish you would come over and give him something- fuck, he'd settle for a fuck you at this point, if it meant hearing your voice again-he turns on his heels, makes his way to the door into the sticky summer heat, and lights another cigarette.

[starkregret]

fall asleep to lightning bugs

dad!quinn brainrot

tw: no use of y/n however they are AFAB (use of mama)

waves hit concrete, clash, retreat and repeat. a few lone boats linger on the lake, their lights blinding enough to make you have to cup your hand around your eyes to shield them from the sight

if it bothers the two figures in the lake, they make no indication of it. the smaller figure, a mop of curly brown hair that’s unruly, stands in the knee deep water, the life jacket tight around her neck, her hands cupped as she holds a handful of water-

and the taller figure over her-crouched behind her so he doesn’t tower over her, hair still dripping wet as he stands behind her and carefully picks through her palm, looking at the tiny treasures and any signs of seashells or pretty rocks.

the darkness looms over the horizon, hazy and lazy, threatening to fall any second. mosquitos dance around their feet, zipping in and out, no doubt leaving reminders of their presence to find later

“guys,” you cup your hands over your mouth as you stand, “it’s late-“

“awe,” the small voice pipes up first, a carbon copy of Quinn, “five more minutes, Mama! we’re trying to find a sparkly rock-“

as if she doesn’t already have five from this season alone, like quinn doesn’t take the rocks she gives him very seriously, buried deep in his pockets as he travels, worn now and smooth with age.

quinn says something to her, quieter, and her shoulders slump but she drops the handful of sand back into the water, lets quinn swing her onto his hip as they tread water in.

an hour passes. long enough for her eyes to grow deep with sleep as she threatens to sleep any second.

“Daddy,” her voice says, deep on the brink of sleep, “you promised we were catchin’ fireflies tonight.”

quinn looks at you through the rim of a half gone, half warm beer, questioning you without words, just a raised eyebrow, something the two of you were able to accomplish after many years together.

you two argue without saying anything for a second: it’s late you say, i promised he counters back

“daddy did promise, didn’t he?” you finally say, and quinn and his shadow shoot up at the same time, no longer tired.

you retreat back into the house, gathering up old mason jars from around the kitchen, quinn meets you in there. his arms slip around your hips and rest, his chin on your shoulder as he rocks back and forth slowly. his lips against your ear, voice gentle: “thank you.”

you hum gently back, already lost in the rhythm he has you in: “she missed you.”

“i missed my girls.”

“daddy!” she sticks her head back into the house, “mama! hurry! they’re out.”

“we’re being beckoned.” you tease and quinn sighs gently but pulls away, his hands between your face as he kisses you, hard, on the lips, grabs the mason jars from you and follows you outside.

“oh! behind you, babe!”

standing in the front yard, quinn holds the mason jar as he watches you and his baby chase around the lights that flicker and dance, squealing as they just get away from you, catching one and running to quinn with cupped hands as he kneels and gently slides it into a glowing jar.

“i think we’re almost there, honey.” quinn says gently to his shadow, “maybe one more?”

“help us, daddy!”

he laughs, the mason jar discarded onto the porch steps, she’s on top of his shoulders and his hand tangled in yours as he kisses the back of your hand-

“tell me when you see one.”

there’s loud squealing, and pointing, and many missed attempts (most exaggerated, as quinn hopes those are the memories burned into her mind) before everyone is gathered on the porch, the jar, now filled with grass and a stick and a small army of glowing lights made possible with the holes at the top of the lid.

“we did good.”

quinn is whispering; his baby trying to fall asleep any second, memorized by the lights he promised to put in the flower box outside her bedroom window, a promise she’d be safe, they’d keep watch.

“with her or the fireflies?”

he smirks: “both, obviously.”

and he leans over, grabs your hand and kisses the back of it again before falling into a comfortable silence with his two favorite girls again.

[starkregret]

walk around (breathe you in, new again)

or: three times you ran into quinn again, and one time when you didn’t hate it (childhood friends to enemies to lovers)

tw: cursing, drinking, over use of pet names, flashbacks, quinn is famous, r is afraid of fireworks, no use to y/n, angst if you squint, ambiguous ending, cocky!quinn, mention of all brothers (Luke is the only one who makes an appearance, sorry)

2.5k words

The worst part about coming home (besides the bugs, the lack of turn signals in town, and, the most annoying, the over population in the small town that only occurs during summer, when a trick trip to the gas station turns into a fifteen minute affair that makes you consider moving again-) is the stark reminders of him, that rule every crook and cranny in the small town, bruise you, leaving dark blue and black reminders of him on your bones, indented into your skin.

Without him, it’s small enough. With him in every corner it’s suffocating. Banners that decorate light poles that proudly proclaim you’re in his town (as if the rest of you are just a blip on the map), the only restaurant in town that proclaims is the business of his favorite meal-it’s a lot. Makes you want to ignore the town all the way and stick your head into the concrete as you scream over them: He’s not that great! He’ll leave-

Enough.

You grip the steering wheel tighter as you round into the cul de sac, reminding yourself it’s just 48 hours, he’ll be gone-they’ll all be gone, nothing but a bad memory and the dull ache of the bruise he leaves.

The gravel groans and yells as you park, ignoring the left side of the driveway where you know his initials are-how you can already hear the screaming from the Hughe’s house, even though it’s not even ten in the morning yet-

Internally, you start the clock, the reminder they’re only temporary, grab your backpack off the passengers seat and turn the car off before you can put it in reverse and get the hell out of here.

The house is small. No air conditioning, an audience of fans of all sizes and shapes, all of different sounds, the television is on full blast to compensate for the roar of fans. And there it is, like a welcoming call, your Aunt is slamming pans and conducting an orchestra of metal in the kitchen-and over it all, you can still hear it.

It’s low, at first. Your grandma says something, a loud laugh, and if you weren’t straining to hear it over the routine you automatically fall into, you’d miss it.

Maybe you hallucinate it, you bargain with yourself, three hours of sleep and a two hour car ride of bumper to bumper traffic, it’s easy to hear what you’d want to hear-

“Well, there she is!”

Your grandma wears an old apron that's half falling off of her, the bow she tied in the back barely hanging on, flour covers the front-and if it wasn’t for the sun that blinds you behind her, you might’ve said something-helped her re tye the apron, grab a napkin and blot at the flour anything

“There she is.”

His voice is a low hum but it still cuts through the noise, makes all of it stop for a second, everything is background to him now; low and commanding-his knuckles slowly, gently, tap on the stone counter and you’re hypnotized by it-

“Grandma,” You say instead of saying his name, instead of addressing him like you know he wants you to, “I thought you were going to relax on the cooking this year.”

“Well I was,” She huffs, “But luckily, Quinn here let me borrow some flour-” She motions to him sitting there, now sitting up a little taller, a smirk on his face, “You remember Quinn, right?”

“Yeah,” He says slowly, the smirk never leaves his face, “You remember me, right, sunshine?”

For a second, your friends again and on his porch, the one that always threatens to give out underneath you two any second, and water drips off of you both, panting from pushing each other into the water again and again, it never gets old, and even with the sun slowly yawning, stretching down to welcome the stars and the dark, quinn still cups his hand over his forehead, shielding his eyes as he talks to you as if you’re some blinding light, intoxicating, trying to drink you in-

Bastard.

“Unfortunately,” You say easily, “Don’t you have a brother to antagonize or-”

Your grandma calls your name, gives you a look that clearly tells you to relax, but if it bothers him, he shows no indication of it.

“I have to go anyways.” He’s laughing, a smirk on his face, obviously at your horrible comeback, the red that washes over your face. “Let me know if you need anything else, Miss Rosie-”

He turns, all attention to you: “It was nice seeing you again, sunshine. I’ll see you soon.”

And before you can try and think of something snarky to say back, he’s leaving.

Hours pass without incident. Acting like you don’t stop in your tracks when laughter or yelling rips from the Hughe’s house next to you, like you don’t see them running around the yard, or how every single thing they do is so fucking loud-

Your grandma ruins it. Really, in some delusion, you were thinking you could get away without seeing them again, maybe make it an uneventful fourth with your Grandma-hiding in the backroom with her, Christmas in July movies are playing on Hallmark tonight anyways, make the movies loud enough to hide the yelp from you every time there’s a loud bang, the shaking hands-

And before you know it, a small plate is shoved in your hands- “It’s a thank you,” She says your name, rolls her eyes, “For the Hughe’s for letting me borrow flour. It’s not a big deal-”

“Grandma, I don’t think they’d appreciate home cooked meals anymore. It would be wasted on them. I’ll take one for the team and eat it-”

She says your name again, gives you a look that immediately makes you shut up,slip on some flip flops and slowly trek next door.

The Hughes lawn is a mess of bikes, and discarded hockey sticks, plastic balls and roller skates-it’s just how you remember it as a kid, just a missing you there, even though parts of you remain there-your initials by their mailbox, the dent in the siding from hitting a ball too hard at their garage-you briefly wonder if Quinn notices these and thinks of you, if you’re like a scab on him that he gently picks at even if he knows it’s going to hurt and scar, that nothing good will come from it.

You shake your head. You’re being dumb, of course he doesn’t.

For a second you consider just ringing the doorbell and leaving the plate on the small rocking chair by the door, but immediately decide not to, knowing your Grandma would hate that.

You can do it you tell yourself it’s two minutes-

Curtains immediately rip from the window the second the bell rings, a mop of messy brown hair, slit eyes, before the curtain is back in place and the door creaks open.

Even from outside, your immediately hit by the cold air, the smell that was your childhood, exclusive to the Hughe’s house, a smell you couldn’t replace or replicate even all these years later-the smell of the outdoors, mixed with the smell of clothes dipped into the lake water, the intoxicating smell of burning leaves, stale beer that you were too young to drink that sloshes over your hands-

“I feel like you just can’t get enough of me at this point.”

It’s Quinn, unfortunately. You were half hoping for a different brother, although you weren’t sure how you’d manage the small talk with them, and Jack still won’t look you in the eyes after all that, the dark shadow of regret clouds them.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” You say carefully, “My Grandma made me bring this over. Somehow, she’s still convinced you’re a good person. Crazy, I know.”

Something flashes behind his eyes. Regret? Anger? It disappears just as quickly as it came.

“You’re still mad I left. Jesus Christ, we were kids.”

“Right,” You nod carefully, “And that’s when I was still convinced you were worth something. Take this so I can go.”

He rolls his eyes: “Dramatic. Most people would be happy I got out-”

“Got out,” You snort, “Sure. Take it or don’t.”

You turn, place the plate on the chair harder than intended and leave.

Your fingernails dig into your palm as you walk home. You know it’s dramatic, borders on not fair-but he left not even a goodbye, not an explanation, suddenly some big name guy who definitely wouldn’t remember you, someone who didn’t mean as much to them as they did to you-the Quinn sized hole that it left in you, how all your memories are stained with him.

You stalk back to your house, cutting through their side of the yard to give yourself time to cool down. Talking to Quinn was a chore you didn’t miss, and wouldn't miss after tonight, telling yourself that you’ve done enough, now go back to your house and relax-

Luke sits in the grass in his front yard, swim trunks still soaking wet, sunglasses pushed up his nose, crooked, his hair a million different ways as he carefully tries to fix his fishing pole, slowly, carefully, skilled fingers-

Luke says your name and you stop in your tracks like you’ve been caught.

“Hey!” He stands, wipes his hands on his shorts as if that does anything, “We were hoping you’d be up. We missed you.”

Luke’s voice is always so quiet, like you have to strain to hear it, like he’s carefully choosing every word, knows the weight with them and the force, uses it carefully.

He pulls you into a hug and for a second you stand with your hands at your side before you realize this is Luke-your Luke, who always trotted behind you and Quinn, thrilled to be part of any adventure you two cooked up, always the voice of reason when you and Quinn buttheads-all the memories of Quinn and the lakehouse have a blob of mess curly hair in the corner of all the memories, all smiles, all laughter-all Luke shaped.

“Sorry,” He pulls away and looks guilty for a second, “I fell into the lake trying to get my line out of the seaweed.”

“I take it the seaweed won?”

He sighs, “It always does.”

“Listen,” Luke says carefully, “I know this isn’t your favorite holiday-uh. The Gibsons? Next door, you remember them, right?”

He asks as if they aren’t your neighbors, like they aren’t the reason you hate seashells and going under piers-

“Sure, Lukey.” You say carefully, “Of course I do.”

He nods, “Of course you do! Right. They’re having a huge party tonight-we’d love for you to go-it’ll get your mind off of everything, too. It’ll be fun-like old times.”

You ignore the burn of the ‘we’, know that we is exactly just Luke, but he’s like the little brother you never knew you wanted-

“You’ll come, right?”

You know without a doubt that includes Quinn, but standing in front of Luke, remembering the sound of bare feet on concrete, his sunglasses crooked on your nose because you never remember your own,

“Sure, Luke. I’ll be there.”

He looks thrilled. Like you just said you were moving into the lake house again, not just going to a party for a few hours.

“Great!” He perks up immediately, “It’s at 9. They promised no fireworks.”

His voice drops at the last part, like it’s a secret.

“Thanks, Luke.” Your voice drops around him in a way you can’t help entirely.

He pulls you into another tight hug, promises to see you again tonight, before running off.

Even in the large house party, shoulder to shoulder with strangers and cheap booze that sloshes over the top of plastic cups, the steady boom of the bass-the first thing your eyes fall onto when you walk into the house is Quinn.

He’s in the corner, nursing a beer that’s definitely warm by now, a snapback backwards on his head as he leans in close to someone to be able to be heard-the woman he’s talking to raises her chin at you and he whips around, sees you, smirks as he comes over.

He’s too quick. You aren’t able to run away, or fake your death quick enough as he comes over, a water bottle in his hand.

“You still don't drink?”

It’s a question but feels too familiar,too close to being friends and you aren’t going to let that happen again-

“Leave me alone,” You say carefully, “I’m only here for Luke.”

He mocks as if that was painful, “Ouch, sunshine.” He comes in closer and you smell spearmint and lake water, the aftershave he still uses, even after all these years: “Luke left, too. Like, an hour ago. With a Green. You remember them, Sunshine?”

Luke, the bastard.

“Unfortunately I remember all of you” You shove him gently and begrudgingly take the water bottle.

“You aren’t running away.”

“I’m not the one who runs away.”

He rolls his eyes, “Sunshine-”

A loud boom from a firework shakes the house, makes a few people crane their neck, grab their partner and race outside to see what just happened

“Sunshine?” Quinn says again but this time it’s different. It’s gentle. It’s not mocking you. It’s tangled hands in one another as he pulls you around, as he baits a fishing pole for you (“You’ll have to do this yourself eventually, sunshine”) it’s early morning walks to the cafe hand in hand before the sun stretches over the sky to beat the tourists-it’s a glimpse of him.

“I’m fine.” You insist, “I was just thrown off because it’s barely dark out and some asshole is wasting all that money before you can even see it.”

A light smirk on his face, “Cmon, sunshine. It’s too crowded here anyways.”

He holds out his hand and you wonder briefly if your hand still fits perfectly in his, if his hand was made for yours, his thumb drawing circles over the back of your hand still, draws constellations you could recite thanks to him now.

“Why in the world would I follow you?”

He rolls his eyes: “Do you trust me?”

You want to say no. but as he holds his hand out, wiggles his finger, his stupid laugh you can still hear over bouncing music-he knows you do. Has known you long enough that the hard pieces of you that he left behind are breaking, broken shards now as your hand falls into his.

“Cmon sunshine,” He says gently, “I know just the place.”