#i miss writing her <3

[twentyfivemiceinatrenchcoat]

COME REST YOUR BONES NEXT TO ME ; SATORU GOJO, SUGURU GETO

synopsis; satoru shares the first snowfall of the year with the two people he loves most. 

word count; 4.6k

contents; satoru gojo/reader/suguru geto (poly relationship!!), gn!reader, you're all whipped, reader referred to as spouse, fluff fluff fluff!!, sickeningly domestic, just comfy vibes all around, mostly from satoru’s pov, suguru has a favorite (its you) (but also not really he just likes bullying toru <3), satoru gojo may or may not have unresolved mommy issues

a/n; happy satosugu holidays to those who celebrate <33 geto died today isnt that crazy. dont u think its fucked up how love figuratively and literally killed him. anyway! help urself to two very whipped husbands <33

”holy shit!”

the raspy tilt of satoru’s voice echoes throughout the bedroom, stirring you from your comfortable slumber. a soft groan spills from suguru’s lips, deep and husky, as he pulls you closer into his embrace — smoothing a warm palm down the back of your head. trying to soothe you back to sleep, muttering under his breath.

”satoru, it’s too early for this...”

”it’s snowing!” said man continues, unperturbed. unmistakably giddy. he’s standing by the window, hands pressed flush against the cold glass; entirely entranced by the sight in front of his cerulean eyes. 

your eyelids begin to flutter. a tiny tug of your subconscious, a pang of something excited flowing through your veins, an alert to your sleepy brain.

(snowing.)

with groggy movements, you wriggle out of suguru’s grasp — a displeased grumble leaves his throat, almost a whine — allowing you to scramble out of bed. ”really?” you chirp, rubbing the sleep from beneath your eyes. a raspy, meek little voice spilling into the air.

satoru grins, watching you move closer, watching as a tiny gasp pushes past your lips. watching as your droopy eyes widen — brightening, glittering, starlight and snowflakes painted on the interior of your iris. a breathtaking sight, he thinks. 

maybe even more breathtaking than the winter wonderland reflected in it; beyond the pure opaque frosting of the window’s glass, out into your backyard, buried beneath a thick layer of snow. soft and fluffy, covering the city, suguru’s long-frozen tulip garden, the bare branches of your apricot tree. every roof in sight. all of it dyed a pure white, glittering in the light of a morning sun yet to fully rise, tiny snowflakes descending down to earth. 

it’s beautiful. 

satoru loves winter. he always has, he thinks. it comes to him as a memory — blurred at the edges, gleaming even still, the first time he saw those snowflakes up close. someone held him in their arms, he recalls. a warmth long faded. 

all he can properly remember is that sight. one that knocked the breath from out his tiny lungs, all glitter and something almost other-worldly, something frightening in its majesty. like it broke through a rift in the stratosphere. 

the first snow of the year.

and he’s loved it ever since; the soft crunch of snow beneath his feet, an air heavy with the scent of cinnamon and candied apples, bouts of laughter to be heard from faraway apartments. red and green glimmers of artificial light, sweet frosting on the christmas cake he would always gobble up alone in his room. the cold wind, nipping at his bare fingers — a reminder of his capacity for ache.

there are lots of things to love. lots of memories to cherish. and every single year, he gets the chance to make more.

like this; the light in your eyes, the smile on your face, the excitement in how hurriedly you turn to meet his giddy gaze. a nostalgic kind of joy simmering in the space between you.

and before either of you know it, satoru’s pulling you towards the hallway, intent on dragging you outside to see it all up close. almost tripping over his agumon plush, lying unassumingly on the floor, kicked off the bed once again. 

(probably by satoru himself, though he’ll always insist it was suguru’s doing. overcome by his jealousy, surely, unable to stand the sight of his cute husband cuddling up to a plushie instead of him. satoru understands, he does — he feels the same when he sees you hug that 3’0 cat plushie of yours.

and, sure, maybe once or twice he’s been lucid enough to register the subconscious kick of his leg and agumon’s subsequent fall to the floor — but he’ll still blame suguru in the morning. if only to see the way said man rolls his eyes, clicks his tongue, maybe flicks his forehead if he’s really lucky.)

high on the spirit of christmas, spurred on by childlike elation and sleep-deprivation, you stumble towards the door. satoru pulls one of his jackets over your shoulders, delighting in the way your hands don’t fully reach through the sleeves. wrapping you up in a cozy scarf when suguru shouts at you both to dress warmly, barely awake and already tired of your antics.

and the moment you step through the door, satoru is engulfed by it. that mystical, mystical feeling. 

a little lonely, a little too satisfying to pass up. a cold breeze that nips at his fingertips, snowflakes that brush against his cheeks and stick to his white lashes. a warm hand in his, as you cling to his side, shuddering — but smiling, as you look up at the sky, putting a hand out just to feel the snowflakes melt against the skin of your palm.

he feels you let go of him, but doesn’t mention it. a little too mesmerized to tug you back. dipping his toes into the bittersweet nostalgia of it all, staring at the flurry of white all around you, the skeletal branches of your apricot tree. suguru’s poor tulips. humming a jolly tune, subconsciously. a little delighted.

— until something cold and wet hits the exposed skin of his neck.

satoru twitches, a chilling shudder trickling down his spine. the snowball just thrown at him begins to melt, droplets sticking to his nape, and he turns to you with a raise of his brow. a devilish grin on his lips, when he hears your muffled laughter, sees the crinkle of your eyes.

(you’re cute, he thinks. but you need to be humbled.)

”oh, so that’s how you wanna play?” he drawls, eyes gleaming with amusement. taking a step forward, reaching down to gather some snow in his palm. a wide grin on his glossy lips. ”fine by me.” 

he's fast, but you act quickly, running towards the apricot tree with laughter in your throat. feeling the pitter patter of your heartbeat resound in your ears, as the snowball misses its mark by just a hair — and you waste no time in making your own.

it’s a hard-fought duel. snowfall blocking your vision, nerves beginning to numb, red cheeks and runny noses as you chase each other with giddy breaths. unfortunately for you, satoru’s arms are unfairly long, fingers unfairly nimble, and his stamina never even seems to falter.

so before long, your energy begins to dwindle. chest heaving, hands too cold to form a proper snowball, while your husband seems like he hasn’t even broken a sweat. they just keep on coming, snowball after snowball colliding with the fabric of your jacket, and when one of them hits your collarbone you squeal — falling backwards, right into a fresh pile of snow.

satoru moves forward, a triumphant smirk on his handsome face. you’re out of breath, and your hands are red, and he’s fairly certain you’re gonna catch a cold. suguru’s going to scold him, but right now all he can think of is you. the frown you’re wearing, the little huff that slips from your lips.

”ready to admit defeat, sweetheart?” he practically purrs, standing above you with his hands on his hips. smug. and you grin right back.

”never.”

a hum. something glimmers in his eyes, a devious little glint, and you come to regret your decision when satoru gathers a heap of snow with his overgrown arms; only to drop it all on top of you. too tired to fight back, all you can do is shield your face, silently accepting your fate.

a shiver wracks through your body, and satoru almost feels bad. just a tiny bit. but then you finally relent, murmuring bitterly under your breath. ”fine, fine…” a soft pout forms on your lips. ”you win.”

and satoru smiles. crouching down to meet you at eye level, on his knees in front of you. there’s a teasing mirth in his eyes, when he reaches out to cup the fat of your cheek. ”that’s all i wanted to hear, sweet pea,” he drawls, trying not to giggle when you exaggeratedly roll your eyes.

his voice curls down an octave when he continues, leaning forward to brush his nose against yours. hot breath against your chilled skin. ”now, for my prize…”

his lips meet yours, sweet and chaste — a little cheeky. you scoff into the kiss, but satoru’s smile only grows. honeyed, a little bit adoring. his tongue flits out to lick at your cold bottom lip.

he lingers, for a bit. like he’s trying to savour the way you taste, faded strawberry chapstick sticking to his lips, smudged against your own. and you sigh, softly, melting a little, comforted by the fleeting warmth that blossoms on your face. 

when he's finally satisfied, having dragged his prize out to its completion, satoru helps you up. brushing snowflakes off your jacket, cradling your ice-cold hands in his. they’re not faring much better, but a worried tug of his heartstrings compels him to warm you up. bringing them to his lips, hot breath fanning over your skin, tender little kisses against the knots of your knuckles.

you can’t help but blush, and a raspy chuckle flows from out his lips. 

hazy morning sunshine licks at the branches of the apricot tree behind you, illuminating the contours of your face, the shine of his eyes. a blue smudge on a canvas painted white and gray. the air smells of pine cones and something smokey, crisp. it courses through his burning lungs when he inhales, exhales, a breath of vapour that scatters up into the sky.

satoru loves winter. always has. but now, he’s certain he loves it even more.

because now, he has two people to share it with. two people to drag out into the snow, two people whose hands he can tenderly warm up, two people who’ll laugh and sigh at his antics and still indulge him. two people to pelt with snowballs. 

what more could a man want?

”hey, idiots!” 

the voice that echoes throughout the air is exasperated, a little teasing. yet fond. suguru’s got his hair tied into a messy half done bun, black turtleneck sweater enunciating his broad chest and the curve of his waist. there’s a fatigue in his eyes, the creases of his face, but a lazy smile is playing at his lips.

”i’m making breakfast,” he shouts, voice deep and smokey and soft even still. ”come in and warm up before you catch a cold.”

”is that any way to speak to your husband and spouse?” satoru chimes back, a melodic lilt to his sugarsweet voice. something satisfied. pleased.

suguru shoots him an unimpressed look, but his eyes soften. melting a little, at the words that spill from satoru’s lips, as if they were always meant to be there. 

(husband. spouse. suguru wills himself not to smile.)

with matching grins on your faces, the two of you stumble back towards the door. snow crunching beneath your feet, a happy noise pushing past your lips when you collide with the warmth of your husband’s chest.

”look, suguru. isn’t it pretty?” you chirp, smiling brightly. an expression he mirrors — brushing some snow from the top of your head, warm palms caressing your cold skin, setting a mental reminder to scold satoru later. sparing a brief glance at the snowy veil over reality.

then he exhales. a fond hum. ”it is.”

satoru joins you both by the door, stretching out his lanky limbs. tousled hair, wet strands sticking to his skin, reddened cheeks and a signature pout. ”suguru, my hands are cold,” he whines. ”warm ’em up for me?”

a click of his tongue. ”should’ve put some gloves on, satoru.”

a hum buzzes in your throat, and you put your hands out. itchy, a little dry. a sad frown tugs at your lips when you speak. ”my hands are also cold.”

and, like clockwork, suguru’s eyes soften. a coo tiptoeing on his tongue, engulfing your hands in his larger ones. ”aw, c’mere, my love…” his breath fans over your frozen fingertips. ”let’s get you warmed up, hm?”

satoru gasps, a hand on his chest, and you stifle a giggle. he’s acting, you both know, being a little drama queen. he knows you’re just exaggerating suguru’s double standard as a bit, that your husband would probably set himself on fire to warm either of you up.

despite that, his voice comes out thoroughly offended. ”oh, i see how it is,” he huffs, walking past the both of you. pouting deeply. ”you hate me. you hate me, and you want me to die. i understand.”

”satoru,” you coo. he hmphs, but stills, waiting for you to wrap your arms around him. and you do — a little too eager to appease your giant baby of a husband.

”we’re just joking around,” you assure him, holding back a humorous chuckle. squeezing his waist with palpable fondness. ”love you sooo much. you know that.”

satoru stays silent. but he cranes his neck, to meet suguru’s gaze, standing just behind him. narrowing his cobalt eyes — a meaningful look.

suguru sighs.

”yes, yes. we love you oh so much.” he takes a step forward, ruffling the white head of hair by the door. a lazy smile on his lips. ”now behave and go change out of your pyjamas. they’re soaked.”

his voice is teasing. exasperated, more than a little condescending. but it’s suguru, so satoru accepts it — following you both into the warmth of your home. the scent of cinnamon and vanilla hangs heavy in the air, a hint of espresso and firewood, lulling him into a sweet state of tranquility. rich with comfort, safety.

he changes out of his wet clothes, pulling a black hoodie over his head before waltzing into the kitchen. and you do the same, emerging from your bedroom in one of suguru’s cozy sweaters, knitted and smelling of bergamot. 

when suguru notices, his gaze shifts into something fond. palpable. a look satoru always finds in the scope of those warm eyes, amber and cedar bleeding into something sweet, only ever directed at the two of you. a look said man assumes goes unnoticed. he’s not as slick as he thinks.

the kitchen simmers with hazy sunlight and gentle movements, something sleepy and kind. satoru is a little bit enamored with it; from bowls of cat food by the corner, to camellias by the windowsill, cookie jars and dried lemon slices, the fading scent of baked goods and wishlists stuck to the fridge.

(yours and satoru’s are filled with scribbles, new ideas popping up daily, while suguru’s is almost entirely blank; mostly necessities, one or two things he’d like for himself.

and then, of course, the same thing he writes at the top of his wishlist every year; some peace and quiet.)

suguru shuffles around the kitchen, long strands of black hair cascading down his back, swaying with his movements. he sends you both an affectionate glance when you step in, already in the process of making satoru his cup of hot chocolate — topped with marshmallows and whipped cream, colorful sprinkles in the shape of tiny stars, a touch of cinnamon. satoru licks his lips.

when it's finished, the cup is promptly handed to him, paired with a tender kiss to his forehead. and suguru starts the meticulous brewing of your coffee, steady hands, finely chosen coffee beans, the low purring of the espresso machine. soothing.

that’s when you attach yourself to his back. wrapping your arms around his waist, a sleepy yawn muffled into the fabric of his turtleneck. he places a big palm on your hand, thumb smoothing over your knuckle, and you nuzzle into him silently. suguru smiles.

”still sleepy, baby?” he questions, a coo on the tip of his tongue. his voice is soft, palpably so, buzzing with warmth and safety and something that makes you want to stay cuddled up to him forever.

satoru senses an opportunity to insert himself into the conversation, and forces out a yawn of his own. stretching his limbs like a big cat, blinking drowsily, eyelashes fluttering. hoping it’ll come off as endearing. ”mhm.” 

but suguru shoots him an unimpressed look. ”not you,” he tuts, patting your arm, ”this baby. i wasn’t asking you.”

a pout. ”why are you so mean to me?” he whines, shooting you a doe-eyed look. bottom lip jutting out slightly, a feigned glassiness to his eyes. ”sweetie, tell your husband to stop being so mean to me.”

you smile. indulgent, as always. ”don't be so mean to him, suguru. you know he’s sensitive.”

a sigh. deep, tinged with exhaustion. satoru shares an amused look with you — stifling a shared chuckle at suguru’s exasperation.

and suddenly, he feels something warm flutter in his ribcage. a sunkissed butterfly, wings brushing against his ribs, coaxing his lips into curling up. unmistakable fondness, almost too much to bear. the need to reach out and touch you creeps up on him, a hunger he can’t deny, but he holds back; you look comfy like that, curled up against suguru’s spine. so he only inches closer, without a word. 

his husband casts him a glance, but satoru stays silent. lips pursed, waiting for something. patient.

and suguru relents. he reaches a hand out, to tuck a stray strand of white hair behind his ear — an excuse to touch him. a silent apology. 

(i'm sorry, you big baby.)

satoru grins.

you shift from foot to foot, leaning over to see what suguru is doing, pressing buttons and taking two ceramic cups out from a wall cabinet. your eyes zero in on a particular shelf, narrowing in suspicion, before flitting over to meet your husband’s gaze.

”satoru, did you use up all my peppermint sweeteners again?”

he stiffens. just a tad, before swallowing a gulp — followed by a silly chuckle, sheepish and performative, eager to wiggle his way out of your cold gaze. ”… which sweeteners do you mean, honey?”

”don’t pull the ’honey’ card.”

”and don’t play dumb, either.”

a pout crosses his lips. betrayed. ”suguru, who’s side are you even on?”

said man gives him a look. that one look, characteristically suguru, the same one he always sends satoru’s way. one so thoroughly unimpressed it makes him feel like the world’s biggest clown. 

and satoru plays along. your dutiful, beloved clown, his posture wilting like a sad flower. suguru exhales through his nose.

”don’t steal their sweeteners.” he smooths a thumb over your knuckle, absentminded, meeting the cold metal of the ring on your finger. smiling a little at the sensation. ”buy your own.”

satoru huffs, drawn out and childish. crossing his arms, leaning against the kitchen counter. ”ah, i see how it is. leaving your sweet husband to buy his own sweeteners?” he clicks his tongue. ”chivalry is dead.”

you bite back a little chuckle — satoru recognizes the cute noise you make when you do — and suguru rolls his eyes. fondly, always. ”remind me next time i go to the store and i’ll consider it.”

”hmph.”

suguru is smiling. it’s small, but genuine, worth a thousand words. and you are, too, the vague crinkle of your eyes giving you away. even as you bury your face in the curve of suguru’s back.

and ah, satoru thinks. there it is again. 

that sickeningly sweet sense of deja vu; the sensation of a certain something flourishing deep inside his chest. warming him up, trickling through his frost-bitten veins. that one little itch he never manages to satisfy, that never goes away, something that took root inside his heart years ago — watered by the sweet looks on your faces.

this everyday slice of heaven, right in front of him, that he’s been greedily partaking in ever since he moved in with you. since he married you.

(married.)

sometimes he still can’t believe it. 

”it’ll be done in a minute,” suguru hums, and satoru blinks. broken out of his syrupy stupor. ”you two go wait by the kotatsu, okay? must be cold, poor babies.” 

and, as always, his voice is a little teasing. a tiny bit condescending, if you really strain your ears, in typical suguru fashion. but it’s laced with a touch of sweetness; one that would be too much for either of you to stomach, if it were to drip out of his lips with nothing to water it down. so satoru accepts it. welcomes it, even.

and you follow his suggestion. making your way towards the living room, satoru trailing behind you, continuously enamored by every little thing he sees. every little piece of the home you’ve built for yourselves.

your living room is cozy. several potted plants seated here and there, a thick quilt to cover the kotatsu, a bowl of satsumas on top of it. a sleepy cat on your couch, golden sunshine ruffling her fur. a santa hat lies beside her, and satoru snags it without much thought. pulling it over his head.

his gaze shifts to the christmas tree over in the corner, eyes filling with a childlike kind of wonder. it’s decorated to completion, weighed down by colourful ornaments and lights, a star at the very top. suguru cut it himself, bringing the biggest and prettiest one he could find back home.

(satoru had gone with him. partially to help carry it back, mostly to get a glimpse of suguru's biceps flexing with the swing of the axe. he’s a simple man.)

and beneath it, presents are already beginning to pile up. carefully wrapped, in bows and silken paper, growing more each day. shattering suguru’s hopes of maybe having a more lowkey christmas this year — but satoru couldn’t be more relieved. this is the only time of year you let him get away with pampering you both to his heart’s content.

a smile blooms on his lips. he plops down on the floor, crossing his legs, right as suguru walks in with a coffee pot in hand. their gazes overlapping.

and something mischievous begins to brew within the blue of his eyes, something that makes suguru narrow his own. satoru pats his thigh, twice, a coo on the tip of his tongue. santa hat sitting pointedly on top of his head, fluffing up his hair.

”c’mere, suguru! sit on santa’s lap.”

”— you’re disgusting.”

the words are playful, but a pout still slips into the curve of satoru’s lips, and he huffs out a displeased little breath. his husband pretends not to hear it, so satoru turns to you — sitting so prettily to his right, already anticipating his next move. puppy dog eyes on full display, he gives you a soft tilt of his head, snowy tufts of hair falling over his eyes.

and you sigh, in what he knows is resignation. his faux pout turning into a satisfied grin.

you curl up in satoru’s lap without much of a fuss, letting him circle his arms around you. an indulgent smile rests on your lips, but he knows you love this; his broad chest against your back, the heat of the kotatsu warming your feet. breathing in the fading scent of your shampoo, he leaves a peck on the sensitive spot right behind your ear, and you try not to shudder.

then satoru smiles. squeezing you, lightly, sweetly, eyes rich with honeyed affection. voice dripping with playful endearment. ”there we go,” he coos. ”what does my angel want for christmas, hm?” 

”i want you to stop stealing my peppermint sweeteners,” comes your answer. instantaneous.

silence fills the room. a moment passes. outside your frosted windows, a bird takes flight from the branches of your apricot tree. and satoru clicks his tongue.

”… santa can only do so much, baby.”

two deep scoffs fill the air, heavy and bemused. one from you, one from suguru. satoru only giggles.

”just kidding!” he chirps, planting a kiss on the top of your head. ”don’t you worry. santa’ll give you all the peppermint sweeteners you could ever want.” 

you raise a brow, exhaling amusedly. craning your head to meet his gaze. ”and he won’t end up using them all himself?”

”of course not! blasphemy.” 

a moment passes.

”… maybe one or two. as a treat.”

a string of protests slips from your lips, and satoru tries not to burst into a fit of giggles. suguru just watches, silently, smiling lightly as he pours hot coffee into two ceramic cups. steam wafting up to the ceiling, a cat jumping down from the couch to curl up in his lap. he places one in front of you, not taking a single sip of his own until he hears you hum blissfully at the taste — pink lips against white ceramic. a bitter taste on his tongue, sweetened by your approval.

then he starts peeling three satsumas, absentmindedly, and satoru swallows down the love-ridden honey choking up the back of his throat. pretending the domesticity of such a simple action doesn’t melt his heart down to the marrow. 

he turns his attention towards the window. frost sticking to the glass like spider-woven webs, soon to be melted by the glow of the mellow winter sunrays. flitting in through the curtains, cascading over the room, splattering across the floorboards. framing the hue of your hair, the smile on suguru’s lips.

and a memory comes to him. sudden, hazy, faded at the edges. ghosting his subconscious.

he remembers the frost, the biting wind, the frightening majesty of the snow that fell that day. breaking into his world through a rift in the stratosphere. he remembers the contrasting warmth of the person who held him, who cradled him close; the soft lull of a woman’s voice. 

for a moment, satoru thinks he can almost, almost see it before him. hear those gentle words, see her tired smile. why was she always so tired?

(look, satoru. isn’t it pretty?)

— he can’t recall how it sounded. if it was melodic and soft, or raspy and broken, happy or sad. but he does recall that it made him feel safe. safe enough to find comfort in a sight so other-worldly, so very foreign.

it should’ve been frightening, but it wasn’t. the first snowfall satoru ever saw knocked the breath from out his lungs, stole his heart with cold hands, left him with a suffocating nostalgia. but the memory is precious.

and now, he feels that sense of other-worldliness in this; a kotatsu for three, a warm house, peeled satsumas and promises of a christmas cake soon to be baked. one lovely spouse in his lap, the other gazing at him with that fond look he always assumes goes unnoticed. a cocoon of safety — a ghost he doesn’t need to chase anymore.

warmth. enough warmth to make up for the snow and frost outside your home, all the experiences he missed out on as a child. warmth, warmth, warmth. funny, how that happens to be satoru’s favorite thing about winter. 

he looks at the two of you, hoping you won’t pay any mind to his silence. for once, he hopes you’ll stay wrapped up in your awful, awful coffee, so bitter that just looking at it makes his throat feel dry. just so he can get away with admiring you for a little longer. from the contours of suguru’s face, to the skin of your collarbone, to the rings on your fingers. ones he put there himself. 

and ah, satoru thinks, there it is again. again and again, as always, forever. that warm, warm feeling flourishing in the depths of his chest. 

he hopes it never goes away.

[floccinaucinihilipilificationa]

Hey hey hey may 31th anon! How's 2024 going? ☆ヾ(*´▽｀)ﾉ This year I have for you a leaked Sherlock season 5 image. Thinking of you!! And everyone!!

[stuckinapril]

I genuinely love not having a crush like I’m not over here feeling physically sick over some mid guy being dry to me I’m literally chilling

[love-letters-i-never-sent]

[fudgecake-charlie]

cosmic harbingers!pearl brainrot YET AGAIN. i literally cannot stop thinking about her!!!!!! an official-ish ref for her outfit and a very old WIP piece that I’m not gonna get round to finishing. I will do some complimentary grian drawings some time! I hope!

I’ve also been thinking a little bit about false’s design and much less on martyn’s but! They both have a solid place in the AU (mumbo too! gem also a little!) and have their own plots sort of worked through. subject to change since this AU has flipped its vibe like 3 times since I first started it.

[stevie-petey]

hi! could we get a blurb that like shows how bug and maxs relationship develops aft season 3? i would love to see bug being a big sister and comforting max, and even the other way around. i LOVED the last chapter by the way i hope you know that the way you depict bug is so so special to me and to so many other people!

thank you for loving bug :')))

enjoy !

"if youre not going to talk to me, can you at least sort the books?" you ask max, sighing when she doesnt turn around. "theyre already in their assigned genres, all you have to do is sort them alphabetically."

max still doesnt acknowledge you. she walked into bookstrordinary thirty minutes ago and hasnt spoken one word to you. shes had her headphones on the whole time instead. blocking out the world around her as she sat in the stores window sill.

its been like this all week.

the closer she gets to starting high school, the further you see max draw into herself. almost as if she doesnt want to start the school year without billy. in a way, you suppose that you understand.

"max," you sit beside her now. music leaks through her headphones and you recognize the song as the one you recommended to her earlier this summer. before the death happened. "i cant help you if you dont let me."

she doesnt say anything.

she isnt ready to come back quite yet.

so, you prepare for when she will. you leave her alone the rest of the afternoon, though you lay out some cookies next to her alongside some water. her lips are chapped, her eyes sunken in, she looks tired.

max doesnt look at you when you place the food down. she doesnt drink from the glass next to her. she remains stoic, staring out the window with a lifeless look in her eyes. dull. grey.

they used to be blue. like billys.

sometimes you forget theyre step siblings.

were. they were step siblings, you remind yourself.

the hours drift on. max doesnt move the entire time. shes almost catatonic, coma like. it disturbs you, but you know theres nothing else you can do.

you look down and find a pen next to your hand. to your left is a piece of scrap paper, messily torn off from an old receipt. an idea sparks in your mind. quickly you scrawl some words onto the paper, careful not to smudge the writing, before you carefully fold the paper into a small origami frog.

inside the note are words max needs to hear from you. words she probably doesnt know that are true. well, not necessarily true, but theyre honest. theyre raw and vulnerable. grief is messy and its complicated and cruel and difficult. theres no right or wrong way to grieve. there is only the hurt that you can feel.

it isnt much, but its what you can do.

you place the frog down next to the plate of cookies and leave max alone for the rest of the time shes there.

later, much later that night, after max has shoved the frog into her pocket and left the store, she takes her down undoing the delicate folds. shes alone in her room. the cookies you left for her now sit on her desk.

maxs fingers tremble as she undoes the creases. it takes her a long time to unfold everything, but she finds the task soothing. inside, in your messy yet beautiful handwriting, are four simple words.

i miss him, too.

[saetoru]

and before i part with you all once again i wanted to share that i have for the first time (and perhaps last time) 36 starred abyss

[unfinishedslurs]

welcome to eden

this is a love letter. inspired by this song

As soon as Steve picks up the phone, she knows she’s making a mistake.

“Rob?”

“No,” she says instead of hanging up like she should. 

“Nancy?” He sounds more alert now, and she can picture him standing up straighter, calling to attention at the sound of her voice. “What’s wrong? Are you okay?” 

“Not really,” she sniffs, hating herself for it. “I—can we talk?”

He’ll say no. He’ll say no, because it’s one in the morning and he was probably asleep before the phone rang and she shouldn’t be asking to talk years after she broke his heart and didn’t even remember—

“Of course,” he says, and Nancy could kick herself. “Over the phone?”

“No. Not over the phone. I’m sorry, it can wait, you can go back to bed.”

She hears him huff a laugh, even though there’s nothing funny about any of it. “I wasn’t in bed,” he assures her. “Am I picking you up?”

Tears spring anew to her eyes. “If that’s okay.”

“Works for me,” he says. “See you soon.”

“See you,” she echoes, and hangs up. 

She spends the time it takes pacing quietly in front of the front door, berating herself for using him like this. But she needs to talk to him, and the sooner it’s over with the better. 

Headlights cut through the window way too soon, and she nearly throws herself out the door. 

She gives him a look when she opens the car door, telling him she knows how many traffic laws he must have broken to get here this quick. He just grins in return, ready to point out the felony in her closet. 

“Where are we going?” He asks, and her heart clenches. He’s so good. He’s so good, and she couldn’t-can’t love him like he wants. She has to tell him. 

Tonight probably wasn’t the best night for this conversation, but her skin feels like it’s peeling off and the faster she says something the quicker it will be over with and she can go back to how it was before. Back when she didn’t have anyone to talk to, because Robin might never speak to her again after she breaks her best friend's heart for the second time. 

Just rip the bandaid off, Nance. 

“I don’t know,” she says instead. Maybe she’s a coward. “A field? Somewhere I can see the stars.”

“I can do that.”

The drive goes by in silence, Nancy staring stubbornly out the window. She can feel Steve periodically checking on her, and she knows he wants to know why she called. She can’t open her mouth to say it in the suffocating enclosure of the car. She rolls down a window. 

They get to a field almost out of Hawkins, and the car is barely in park before she’s climbing out, going around to sit on the hood. Steve cuts the engine and follows. 

She still doesn’t say anything. She called him to have a talk, why can’t she just open her stupid mouth—

“Nancy?” Steve asks, gentle in a way that used to make her melt. She pulls her legs to her chest, feeling vulnerable. “What’s wrong?”

“Jonathan and I broke up,” she finally gets out. 

“Oh shit.” He looks genuinely surprised. “That sucks, I’m sorry.”

“Yeah, well, it was never going to be forever.” Except she’d thought otherwise. She thought they were Nancy and Jonathan, the two of them against the world. She hunches her shoulders. “We never talk anymore, and he was pulling away from me, and he was lying to me for months-“ she shakes her head, clearing the anger she feels at that. “It doesn’t matter. I’m starting to realize there’s things I need to work on, too. A lot to work on, actually.”

“I don’t know what that could be,” he says, flashing her a smile filled with boyish, roguish charm. “You’re already the best person I know.”

She sniffs, and suddenly she’s crying into her knees, shoulders shaking. He freezes beside her, before wrapping an arm around her and pulling her into his side. She leans in for a second, chasing the comfort, before remembering what she came here to do and ripping away violently. 

“Fuck,” she whispers. “Fuck, I’m so sorry. I don’t—I can’t—this isn’t what I—“

“Hey,” he soothes. “Slow down. Let it out.”

She wipes her eyes, suddenly furious. “I don’t want to date you,” she says, finally looking him in the eyes. “I don’t—I’m sorry for calling you. I just remembered how much better you used to make me feel, but then I realized that’s like…really shitty of me.”

“Why?” He asks, as if Nancy didn’t come out here to break his heart again. “I want to make you feel better. I like knowing I can make you feel better.”

“I don’t want to lead you on,” she says, mouth screwing up. “That’s why I called you out here. And I know it’s shitty of me—“

“Nancy, you’re not leading me on. I…I don’t want to date you either.”

That stops her in her tracks. “Oh.”

“Yeah, oh,” he echoes quietly. “I—don’t take this the wrong way, okay, ‘cause I know I’m gonna sound like an asshole saying it, but, uh, I can’t do that again. And even outside of that, I don’t like you that way anymore. Uh, sorry.”

She tries not to sag at the overwhelming relief she feels at that. 

“Are you sure?” She studies him closely, trying to see if he’s saying this for her sake or if he means it. “Back in the Upside-Down, and when we were fighting Venca, it seemed…”

He grimaces, and Nancy thinks if it wasn’t dark she’d see the beginning of an embarrassed flush on his ears. “I…may have been feeling things,” he admits. “I was testing the waters, I guess. I started feeling nostalgic, and you were there, and everyone was encouraging me, and it all just ended up in this weird…feelings soup. Sorry.”

“You said you wanted to have six kids with me,” Nancy reminds him. “And travel the country in a Winnebago.”

He groans, covering his face with his hands. “I am,” he says, “so sorry. I don’t know why I said that. That had to be so weird for you.”

“It was kind of sweet?” She tries, not letting her relief show. Not yet. 

“We haven’t been together in years, and I decided to tell you I used to dream about you having my babies. How do you deal with me?”

“Well it helps to know you were dropped on your head. Puts everything in perspective.”

“Yeah, yeah, yuk it up.” He looks at her, really looks at her, and she tries not to fidget under his gaze. Too earnest, too caring for someone who doesn’t deserve it. He’s always tried so hard. To woo her, to be a better person, to keep back the vicious streak she still sees in him. “I meant it, when I said I loved you,” he tells her gently, no sign of that cruelty that had him painting her as a whore for the whole town to see. “Back then, I mean. I just wanted you to know that.”

She wants to cry. “I know. I’m sorry I couldn’t say it back.”

“It’s okay,” he says like he means it. He leans back against the windshield, looking at the sky. After a moment, she copies him. 

They watch the stars together, and the air feels clearer. 

“Where do we go from here?” She asks, afraid of the answer. 

“What do you mean?”

“What happens with us now?”

“Well,” he says gingerly, like he’s testing the waters. “I don’t know about you, but I’ve heard you’re a pretty kickass friend.”

Friends. She doesn’t know that she and Steve have ever been friends, not properly. Even after the apologies they made to each other, she doesn’t know that she could call what they had friendship. It wasn’t substantial on its own, needing Jonathan as the barrier between them. When it fell, so did they. 

“I haven’t had a friend in a while,” she admits. “Robin is kind of a novelty for me. She’s amazing.”

It’s funny, in a way. She was so jealous of Robin, of how close she was with Steve in a way Nancy wasn’t. She’d thought, at first, that it was because they were so clearly dating. After Robin told her they weren’t, she realized how badly she’d just wanted friends. She missed hanging out with Steve, missed his laugh and his squint and his bitchy attitude. She’d hoped that eventually they’d get to that point, was sure they were almost there before Starcourt. In a way, she’d been jealous of Robin for stealing Steve. She knew it was ridiculous. Steve had found a friend, a real friend who hadn’t cheated on him or slept with his girlfriend. She couldn’t begrudge him that. 

She just missed him. 

“She is, isn’t she?” Steve grins, but sobers up quickly. “I didn’t really think about that. How lonely you must be, since…”

She’s already shaking her head. “It’s not your fault. I didn’t reach out.” 

“I didn’t exactly reach out either.”

They fall silent again, at a loss for words. Barb’s death, as always, the canyon between them. 

Finally Nancy huffs. “It’s both of our faults,” she declares, “or neither of our faults. I don’t know. I just missed you.”

“Well shit, Nance, I missed you too,” he says, touched. 

“I’ve heard you’re a pretty kickass friend too, you know,” she says, glancing at him. He smiles. 

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, Nancy Wheeler, I would be honored to be friends with you,” he says, and sticks out his hand to shake, like they’re meeting for the first time. 

She stares at him, and starts laughing. “You’re an idiot, Steve Harrington.”

She shakes his hand. 

Max has always felt like a mirror. One Nancy wanted to smash, pull her out of the shards of her reflective grief and hug. Stroke her hair the way she wanted someone to do for her and say you’ll get through this. So Max could hear it from someone who knows. 

Except Nancy doesn’t know anything. Still drowns in her guilt, the ball and chain dragging her into the depths. She can’t help when she’s still such a mess, three years later. 

Her hands clench when Mike says Max is pulling away from Lucas. She wishes she could look her in the eye and tell her you don’t have to be me. You can be better. 

She’s Mike’s friend. They barely know each other outside of a quick hello as they cross paths or fighting monsters. Max has enough on her plate, she doesn’t need her friend’s weird older sister butting in to tell her how to mourn the right way. 

Nancy just hopes she’s getting out of bed. Remembering to eat. Brushing her teeth. She had more cavities in the year after Barb died than she’d ever had in her life, and she knows Max doesn’t have insurance. 

Now, sitting next to Max’s hospital bed, Nancy wishes she’d reached out. 

With school back comes studying, and with studying comes Eddie Munson, in all his super-senior glory. Nancy is going to get him a diploma if it kills her. 

He laughs when she tells him so. “Shit, Wheeler,” he says. “The day something manages to get you is the day this shithole goes down for good.”

Robin turns down her offer to form a study group. “I’m pretty sure if I joined, I’d just distract Eddie, and let him distract me, and we’d end up throwing things at each other until you killed us. Sorry. Steve’s going to help me study for finals, though!”

She looks at Steve, eyebrow raised. She’s pretty sure it’s fair to be dubious, since she was the reason Steve passed his finals in the first place. 

“I’m her rubber duck,” he says as an explanation, and she nods in understanding. 

Her mom isn’t about to let her study alone with a boy in her room, though, and especially not a boy like Eddie, so she drags him to the library three times a week. He complains, he bitches, he tells her he doesn’t care about his fucking history class anymore. She just hands him a Rubik’s Cube she found to keep his hands busy as she quizzes him. 

Three sessions in, he slowly puts a worksheet down and screams into his hands. 

“Stop that!” She kicks him in the shin. “If you get me kicked out of the library I’m never forgiving you.”

“I can’t do it,” he says, staring up at the ceiling. “I’m so fucking stupid, Nancy. I can’t even get past question two. Is this torture? Did I die and go to hell? That would be fitting, wouldn’t it? Doomed to repeat high school for the rest of eternity?”

“Stupid” her ass. She knows what kind of work goes into those campaigns of his, has absently flipped through his annotated fantasy novels and left feeling as if she’d seen the story anew. Plus, she went and made a tape of everyone’s favorite songs, just in case, and she knew damn well how quickly he’d taught himself to play the song he did in the Upside-Down. “Stupid” and “Eddie Munson” don’t belong in the same sentence, much less belong in the same space in his brain. She hates Hawkins High just a little bit more for it. “Stop being dramatic. What are you stuck on?”

“Fucking nothing! I can’t focus, it’s driving me fucking insane. I keep trying, I swear, but it’s like I can’t even read anymore! This always happens, I swear to God it’s killing me more than the fucking demobats ever did.”

“Don’t joke about that,” she snaps. “You’re smart, Eddie, you know that. You just need to try.”

His face twists, and she realizes that was the wrong thing to say. 

“Oh, thank you, Miss Wheeler, why haven’t I thought of that? Sorry for wasting your time, I’ll get out of your perfect hair now—“

“Sit down,” she protests as he gathers up his stuff. “Eddie, I’ll help you work through the problem, okay? Just sit down, please.”

“No, Nancy!” He swings around, eyes wild. “It’s what everyone always says. Just sit still, stop doodling, be quiet, pay attention, try fucking harder…I tried, okay! I’ve been trying, I tried for fifteen fucking years, and I can’t do it! I might as well just drop out and get it over with. I’m fucking sick of this.”

“Okay!” She feels herself getting riled up. “You want to fail so bad, fine! I’m not your keeper, do whatever you want.”

“I will!”

“Fine!”

“Fine!”

They stare at each other, not moving. Finally Eddie storms off in a huff, flinging open the library door in a grand gesture she pretends not to see. There’s a sinking feeling in her stomach, but she can ignore it. 

She pretends not to notice when he comes slinking back five minutes later, shuffling his feet. 

“Sorry.”

“For what?” She asks primly, going over her notes. 

“Nancy, please.”

She sighs. “I’m sorry too. I’m just…frustrated.”

“I’ve been told I’m pretty frustrating,” he offers. 

“It’s not…”

“It is,” he says, sitting down. “It’s okay. God knows I piss myself off with this shit.”

She studies him, looking over his defeated face like he’s one of her flashcards. “You’re trying your best,” she says, sounding it out. She can’t really make sense of it. After all, trying her best has always been straight A’s, not stopping until she knew everything she needed to and more. 

“It’s not good enough.”

“It will be,” she says. “You’ve got me this time.”

“Listen, I know you’re trying to help—“

“Do you want fries?”

“What?” He blinks at her, shocked, as she starts packing up her things.  

“We’re not getting anywhere today. Sometimes you have to step back, and come back with a clearer head.” Usually she locks her door and cleans her guns, the repetitive motion soothing her mind until she can think again, but she has a feeling that won’t work for Eddie. 

“I usually just give up.”

“I don’t. Get your backpack, we’re going to the diner. Dinner’s on me tonight.”

At the diner, he makes her laugh so hard soda comes out her nose. The next day, they go to the library again. 

After a couple of days, he solves the cube. After three weeks, he nearly kicks her door down rushing to show her the B he got on a test. 

Two months later, he throws his cap into the air and his cane on the ground. Swings her around, both of them laughing. 

“Nancy fucking Wheeler!” He crows. “Achieving the impossible yet again!”

“Eddie, put me down!” She shrieks gleefully as he stumbles. She barely makes it back to solid ground before two more bodies are slamming into them, Steve and Robin whooping in their ears. 

It was weird, to see Steve and Robin effortlessly communicate the way she and Jonathan always had and have it be so unabashedly unromantic. She’d always thought that knowing someone like that was a sign you were meant to be, and they did it while still loudly proclaiming Platonic with a capital P. 

She and Jonathan didn’t do it much anymore. It was like dancing to a song that was always a beat off, syncing for just one moment before stumbling again, unsure that they were still allowed this. 

She’d known him better than anyone, once, and he’d known her the same. Now she wonders if that was ever true. 

“So,” Eddie says, throwing himself onto her bed. “Steve.”

She sits in her desk chair, raising an eyebrow. “What about him?”

“You broke up with Jonathan, right? Are you going to get back with him? I thought you would, but it's been months and neither of you said anything.”

“No,” she says. “No, that’s not what I want. It’s not what either of us want.”

“Really?” He rolls over, eyes searching. “What happened there, anyway? With both your boys. I’m a nosy little asshole, and I wanna hear it from you.”

It makes her laugh, the way he admits to it so freely. He grins wolfishly at her, baring his teeth in a grin. That’s probably why she tells him the truth. 

“I wasn’t okay, when I was with Steve,” she says honestly. “I was distant, grieving…I was a mess, and I stayed with him because I didn’t know what else to do. With Jonathan…I was getting closure, I was healing, and things were good between us. They were so good, but after a while, we just started to…deteriorate. I don’t know if we lost momentum, or if the stress just got to us, but we started fighting more and more,” She traces the desk with a finger, remembering the sour taste of Oliver Twist on her tongue. It was a shitty thing to say. “I thought we’d figured it out, for a little while, but then we just…stopped talking. I think, maybe if we’d talked more, we could have worked it out. But I’m…not upset that we didn’t, you know?”

It’s a different kind of loneliness when your partner won’t talk to you. It was different than grieving, different than not having anyone to talk to at all. Because even when she didn’t have friends, she had Jonathan. And then, slowly, she didn’t anymore. 

“Nancy, you’re one of my best friends, so-”

“Steve is your best friend.”

“Steve is my best best friend,” she agrees. “But he’s also more than that? Like, I think we’re literally soulmates. Platonic with a capital P soulmates, but, like, it feels like more than friendship sometimes? Like sometimes it’s like he can literally feel my bad days even when I haven’t talked to him yet. He told me once he just knows sometimes. It’s like I hit my hip on my desk and he felt it, but emotionally. It’s wild. It’s like the drugs literally combined our minds. Where was I going with this?”

“I don’t know,” she says, slightly bewildered. She wants to ask how they do that, but Robin barrels forward. 

“Right. So outside of mine and Steve’s platonic more-than-friendship, you’re kind of my best friend? And you’re, like, the coolest person I know.”

She blinks. She’s not sure she’s ever been described as cool before. 

After Barb, Nancy tried to cut her own hair. 

Her mom found her in the bathroom, unshed tears in her eyes and hair a mess on the sink and floor. 

She hadn’t laughed, hadn't said oh, honey, your beautiful hair. Just clucked her tongue and took the scissors from her hands. Stepped behind her and took over, took the uneven mess and made it something good, something presentable. 

She didn’t say anything until she was done, setting the scissors on the counter. “Sometimes,” she said, wetting her lips. “Sometimes we need a change, before we can move forward.”

The closer she gets to Emerson, the more she feels like she’s letting someone down. Mike. Max. Jonathan. All the people who have relied on her, all the people who trusted her to fight.

In a strange turn of events, her mom is the only one she doesn’t feel is disappointed in her. Her mom is more excited about college than she is sometimes. Chattering excitedly over dishes about the classes she’s going to take as Nancy dries and smiles and tries not to feel like the ground is being pulled from under her feet.

This is everything she’s ever wanted. Why does it feel so wrong?

She takes Eddie to the gun range, because having a gun in her hands has always made her feel safer. More in control. More like the badass protector she wants to be, than the scared little girl she feels sometimes. 

Eddie stares down the scope of the gun and shoots like he has experience, but doesn’t hit a single bullseye. 

“Your hands are shaking.”

“I’m in a fucking gun range and a bunch of small town hicks were hunting me not too long ago,” he snaps, taking another shot and missing the target completely. He swears and changes the magazine. “Excuse me if I’m a little bit on edge.” 

She hadn’t really thought of it like that. “You didn’t have to come,” she says. “I just thought with everything that’s happened, you should know how to use one. Just in case.”

“I know how to use a gun,” he rolls his eyes. 

“You know how to shoot one.” She looks from him to the target pointedly. “Not the same thing.”

“Deep. I could really feel the judgement there. Tell me, is there anything else wrong with me?”

“There’s security cameras all over this place. We’re not in Hawkins, so there’s no mob coming after you. I’m here, and I do know how to use a gun. No one is going to hurt you here.”

“I know all that.”

“Do you?”

He scowls at her. She looks back unflinchingly. She’s been here plenty of times, and the guys laughed at her until they didn’t anymore. By the time she brought Eddie, all she got was a raised eyebrow and a “boyfriend?” from Hunter at the desk. She didn’t know what was more incriminating, so she just shrugged. 

“You’re kind of a pain in the ass, you know that?”

She rolls her eyes, taking the gun from his hands and lining up a shot. “I’ve heard worse,” she says, thinking about Nancy Dre-ew, and Nancy “the slut” Wheeler, and priss, and shoots. It hits the bullseye. 

So do her next five shots. 

Eddie looks begrudgingly impressed when she reloads and hands the gun back to him. It’s more satisfying than it should be, to realize that while he’d known she had guns he’s never seen her actually shoot before. 

She raises a challenging eyebrow at him, and he huffs around a smile. “All right, all right,” he says good naturedly. “Let’s try this again.”

He does a little better this time around, now that he’s actually trying. He does a little dance when he hits one of the inner rings. 

“Take that!” He crows. “I bet Steve couldn’t do this. In your face, Harrington!”

“He’s much more of a close-combat kind of guy, isn’t he?” Nancy agrees. 

“Oh, yeah, definitely,” he says. “Does he really have a bat with nails?”

She blinks, caught off guard by the fact that Eddie hadn’t seen it. She never registered that he hadn’t used it during Vecna. Something about the fact seems weird somehow, as if it was as integral to Steve as his coiffed hair. “He keeps it in his trunk.”

“You and Byers need to update your Steve manuals. He said it’s under his bed now.”

“Ah,” Nancy says, thinking of all the times she’s slept with her pistol under her pillow. Empty, because she’s not stupid enough to sleep with a loaded gun when her little brother sometimes wakes her up after a nightmare, but the comforting weight of it alone makes it easier. 

“Just tell me one thing,” he says, widening his eyes imploringly at her. “Did he look as sexy as I think he did? Byers won’t give me a straight answer.”

It’s a joke, but his cheeks are a little pink. She’s not dumb, she’s seen the looks the two of them share, as if he and Steve were circling each other. Caught in a whirlpool, waiting for the moment the vortex would drag them down and they could finally touch. 

The looks between Eddie and Jonathan, too, that share a certain camaraderie she doesn’t entirely understand and at the same time understands all too well. Steve and Jonathan had always had a strange relationship, too close to not be friendship but not quite there. Surprisingly enough it was better after she and Steve broke up, Jonathan no longer avoiding them and the talk she’d forced the three of them into clearing the air. Sometimes, she’d wake up to Jonathan climbing into her bed, smelling of cigarettes and a hint of something stronger, and he’d tell her it was Steve who drove him there. 

She’s a journalist. It’s her job to notice things. She just wasn’t ready to confront that reality, where the two boys she’d wanted wanted each other as well. But she’s grown since then. 

She also knows that whoever Steve chooses, it won’t be easy. 

“You know,” she says, considering, “when we were dating, Steve never pressed me up against the wall or anything you’d expect from the King.”

Eddie gets this look on his face, caught between confusion and caught out. “…okay? Did you want him to do that or something? Are you trying to ask me to hint to him?”

“No,” she says. “I’m just saying, he never did any of that. It was kind of funny. He always made it so that he was the one pressed against the wall.”

Eddie misses the next five shots entirely, and she laughs at him through it all.

She’s hyper aware of touching other girls now. She didn’t used to be. Even with Robin, who is a lesbian and definitely won’t hate her. Who’s probably gone through the same thing. She can’t help it. 

What if they get the wrong idea? What if someone else sees? What if they can tell, what if they know, what if they hate me?

She hates feeling like this. She doesn’t know why it started, doesn’t know what’s wrong with her. She’s no stranger to casual affection—or at least she didn’t used to be. Why does it make her feel so tense now? It’s been years since she realized she liked girls, shouldn’t this have happened back then?

Deep down, she knows why. The Reagan sign in her front yard. Her dad sitting in his chair, the news always on. “Always that nasty disease, Karen, I swear some people are just asking for it.” She’s always known she could never tell him, but now she knows that if she gets sick he’ll say she deserves it. She doesn’t know what her mother thinks. She’s afraid to find out. 

She’s growing up, and her fear is growing with her. 

Objectively, Nancy knows she and Eddie don’t make sense. 

They’re not cut from the same cloth, like Steve and Robin. They don’t calm each other down, like Jonathan and Argyle. They’re too different, too alike in all the wrong ways, for them to get along. They’re both snappy, a little mean. Eddie’s dramatic enough to get on her nerves, and she’s prim enough to get on his. At their worst, they have earth shattering arguments that end in them not speaking to each other for days. 

When people see them walking down the street together, they whisper about “that nice girl Nancy Wheeler” and “that awful Munson boy.”

It’s not fair, never has been. Nancy hasn’t felt nice for a long time, maybe before Barb ever disappeared. Eddie isn’t always particularly nice either, but the court of public opinion takes it to extremes, twists him into something cruel instead of the kindness he carries under his leather armor. Someone to keep their children away from. It really is a shame, because Eddie loves kids in a way Nancy never has. She can see it in the way he interacts with them, his bright smile fading when a parent comes to drag them away. Even when he’s expecting it, his face falls, just for an instant, before spinning around with a grin that won’t reach his eyes. 

Nancy wants to take him out of here. There’s an offer on the tip of her tongue that she knows he’d refuse.

He’s not her brother, but he’s not…unlike one. It’s almost like talking to an older, flashier Mike. He’s annoying, is what he is. He picks at her, keeps pressing over the littlest things. Tries to get under her skin, succeeds, until she’s on the verge of stabbing him with her pencil. Looks triumphant whenever Robin has to grab her arm to drag her away, rambling an excuse about “some girl thing I totally forgot, yeah it’s an emergency,” while Steve drags him the other way to have bro time. 

“She loves it,” she’d heard Eddie crow delightedly once, when Robin didn’t get her out of hearing range fast enough. “Do you see that fire in her eyes?”

“Do I?” She asked Robin. “Love it?”

“I mean, far be it from me to tell you what you do and don’t like,” Robin answered. “But, uh, as far as I can tell, you totally love it. You look like you’re going to rip him to pieces and enjoy it, and he loves that. I didn’t think you’d be this much of a nightmare together, seriously, like, how are you two at each other’s throats one second and then best friends the next? Steve and I have debated locking you in a bathroom until you get along, but we’re kind of afraid you’ll kill each other.”

So no, Nancy and Eddie don’t get along. They’re kind of a nightmare together. They don’t make sense, and they don’t try to. They have other friends, who they get along with better, that they can seek out. 

But when Eddie knocks on her window, the only surprise is that he could even get there. 

“How?” She hisses, opening the window. He tumbles in, doesn’t even try to play off the utter gracelessness he’s displaying. 

“Wowie, I am never doing that again,” he breathes, flat on his back. “You’re going to have to help me down the stairs when I leave, had to leave my cane at the bottom and I cannot get back down that way.”

She doesn’t even want to know what he had to do to get up on her roof with his bad leg. “What are you doing here?”

“I’m but another lover, nothing but an ant in the face of your unwavering beauty, my queen,” he says, batting his eyes at her. The dramatics don’t hit the way he intends, given that he’s stuck on the floor. He holds a hand out pleadingly, and she rolls her eyes, hauling him up until she can get him to her bed. 

“Never mind.” She puts her hands on her hips, a gesture that is so obviously Steve she removes them immediately. From the glint in Eddie’s eyes, he notices.

She tries not to be jealous. She tries, she swears, but…

Three of the four (five? she doesn’t know what Argyle thinks of her) friends she has are dating each other. Two of them dated her, first. She can’t help but wonder, if she’d known that was an option, if everything would have been different. If she wouldn’t have this aching bitterness between her teeth. 

(Nothing would have changed, she knows. She’d been too desperate for other things. Trying so hard with Steve so her best friend didn’t die for nothing. Staying with Jonathan because he understood her more than anyone else, so maybe they didn’t need to talk. It wouldn’t have helped anything. She still wonders.)

It doesn’t matter. What’s past is past, and she needs to move forward. She can’t stop to think about could-have-beens, because thinking about boys is what got her into this mess in the first place. 

She closes her eyes, taking a shaky breath. That’s not fair. None of this is fair. None of it is fucking fair because Nancy stopped caring about fair when Barb died. 

She needs a drink. She needs a nap. She needs to stop feeling like Atlas with the world on her shoulders. 

She doesn’t do any of that. She calls Robin.

“Barb was my first kiss.”

“Really?”

“Yeah,” Nancy says, and keeps talking, because Barb is dead and Robin is a lesbian and she’s long forgotten what Barb’s favorite chapstick was back then. “We were seven, and I liked it but I didn’t know if I liked her. But I was convinced I was going to marry her, until my mom told me that girls don’t marry other girls. And I knew she liked girls when she died. She told me when we were fifteen, and I didn’t know the word bisexual but I knew I loved her and that was all that mattered. Not—not like that, not romantic, or maybe it was but it doesn’t matter because she was my best friend and I still love her but she’s gone forever. I loved her.”

She feels Robin lay a tentative hand on her back. 

“I had to look her parents in the eye and pretend. All those fucking NDA’s, I had to pretend there was hope. Pretend she was still missing. It was like everyone forgot about her except for me and them, and they sold their house to find their dead daughter and I wasn’t supposed to say anything and Steve kept reminding me about the fucking NDA’s—“

 “Nancy…”

“It’s my fault,” Nancy says, staring at the water. “I lumped in Steve, because it was easier than being alone. He didn’t know her like I did. She was worried about me. She stayed because she cared, and look where that got her.”

“That’s bullshit!” Robin’s eyes are wide, and she waves her hands around as she talks. “If it’s anyones fault, it’s those—those scientist guys experimenting on El! They knew there was a problem, and they tried to cover it up instead of making sure people were safe. You didn’t know it was dangerous. How were you supposed to know it was going to end up as anything other than normal teenage drama? None of this is supposed to be real, you didn’t know—“

“But I left her,” Nancy cuts in. “I left her alone to go lose my virginity to a boy she didn’t even like—“

“He was your boyfriend, it shouldn’t have mattered if she liked him—“

“It doesn’t matter!” Nancy shouts, and Robin falls silent, mouth still moving. “It doesn’t fucking matter how it happened, because it did and now she’s dead and she’s never coming back and it’s all my fault.”

Nancy is sick of crying. Sick of feeling helpless. Sick of not being able to change the past. 

“It’s not just Barb. I took Fred to the trailer park—he didn’t even want to be there, and now he’s dead. Eddie needs a cane, Max is almost completely blind and might never walk again and it was my plan that put them there. My plan that almost killed them. I’m responsible—“

“Fuck that.”

“Robin…”

“No, you listen to me, Nancy Wheeler,” Robin says, grabbing her by the shoulders. “You are one of the most remarkable people I have ever known. Max would have died without that plan. We all would have died. Venca-slash-Henry-slash-One would have won without that plan, and I am not going to sit here and listen to you blame yourself for saving lives. And-and Fred! Venca had already marked him, you know that. You couldn’t have done anything! And Barb is not your fault, okay? I-I-I know I can’t convince you, but I’ll say it as many times as it takes until you start believing it, because it’s true. You didn’t kill her. You didn’t kill anyone.”

“I killed Bruce,” she says, just to prove Robin wrong. And isn’t that shitty of her, to forget about him until she can use him to prove a point? She’s a fucking awful person.

“I don’t know who Bruce is, but given your track record I highly doubt that.”

“I bashed his head in with a fire extinguisher.”

Robin pauses, and Nancy’s stomach sinks. This is it, she thinks. This is what will convince her, this is what will make her see that I’m wrong, that I’m poison-

“What was he doing?”

“What?”

“Bruce. You had to have a reason for it. What was he doing?”

It’s like Robin doesn’t even care that Nancy just admitted to first degree murder. “He was flayed,” she admits, knowing Robin will take it as proof that she’s right.

“That’s not murder, that’s self defense,” Robin says, just like she knew she would. “Also, if he was flayed he was already dead. Sorry, I’m sticking to your side on this.”

“But I’m less torn up about killing my asshole coworker than I am about anything else. How does that not make me a monster?”

“He was already dead, Nancy!” Robin shakes her. “You’re not beating yourself up over it because you know he was already dead, a-a-and I know you’re using him to try and push me away and I won’t let you.”

“Robin…” she says, tears springing to her eyes. She’s so fucking sick of crying. So sick of the way she never seems to stop anymore. 

“Nancy,” Robin says. “None of us are going to leave you. Stop trying to make us.”

She pulls her into a hug, and Nancy sags into it, boneless. 

There, sandwiched between the sky and the water, Nancy starts to feel like she could forgive herself. 

“Nancy,” Steve says, putting a hand on her shoulder and ducking his chin to look her in the eye. “They won’t be alone.”

Tears well up, unbidden, at the way he seems to understand her now in a way he never did before. 

“I want this,” she insists. 

“I know you do,” he says. “Which is why you’re going to go out there, kick ass, and take names. We’ll be here, okay? We’ll keep an eye on them.”

“I know you will.” She swipes a hand across her eyes. “Can you talk to Holly, too? She gets lonely.”

Steve smiles. He’d always loved Holly, when they were dating. He used to braid her hair sometimes. Asked her about her drawings, her TV shows, listened to her talk with the same attentiveness Nancy’s father had never shown any of them. He’ll be a good dad, someday. To someone else’s children.

“I’ll talk to Holly,” he promises. “Does she still like princesses?”

“Ladybugs,” she says. “It’s ladybugs, now.”

“Ladybugs. I can do that. Black and red, and they’re all ladies. What’s not to like?”

“There are male ladybugs.”

“Wait, seriously?”

She laughs, tearfully, but they’re happy tears. Steve wipes them away gently, and she smiles at him to let him know she’s okay. “You’re an idiot, Steve Harrington.”

“You’re the best person I know, Nancy Wheeler,” he replies, achingly sincere. “You’re gonna have the whole world under your thumb, I just know it. Ever thought of running for President?”

“Can’t be worse than the one we have now,” she says, grimaces as her own joke lands too bitterly to be funny. She sees his jaw tighten before he forces himself to relax. 

“I’d vote for you.”

She grins at him, sharp to punch through the tension she’d made. “I’ll make Eddie my Vice President.”

“Oh, fuck no. You lost me,” he says, and Eddie makes an offended noise from where he’s stealing snacks from the glovebox. Jonathan swats him, and she smiles at him too. He smiles back, tentatively, and wanders to her side. 

“You gonna be okay up there?” He asks quietly. She can hear the guilt in it, still, and she reaches down to squeeze his hand. The one with the scar that matches hers, so their palms line up. It feels full circle, somehow, the three of them together like this. 

“I’ll be okay,” she confirms, and feels the truth of it in her chest. Her boys are here with her, the ones who have been there since the beginning. Eddie’s watching them fondly, munching on a granola bar. Robin is inside somewhere, rambling at her mother. Mike and Holly are probably still bickering over the last cupcake. She loves them so much, all of them. 

“Of course you will,” Steve says. “You’re Nancy fuckin’ Wheeler. Nothing stops you.”

She wants that to be true. She can feel in her bones that it will be. Eighteen has nothing on who she’ll be at thirty. 

She’s Nancy Wheeler, and the world won’t see her coming. 

[tommyohnosworld]

i love hearing your heartbeat. it’s an extension of you, it’s rhythmic, it’s soothing.

laying on your chest, my breathing slows. i become weightless, falling into your skin. your skin glows, its warmth shines rays onto my body.

your lips find my hair, leaving the gentlest kisses embedded inside the weaves. i leave a kiss on your chest, letting the action whisper its love to your ears. your heart.

[ghosttotheparty]

something like bones and glass

warnings: homophobia; religious homophobia; f slur (several times); brief mention of pedophilia; past child abuse and neglect; violence/fighting; blood; rough sex also on AO3

Steve’s parents come home. Without warning.

Usually they call a few days in advance, just to let Steve know, probably because they assume Steve has friends over, has parties that he has to clean up after, but it’s been a while since that happened. It’s still nice to know when they’ll be home, just so he can prepare himself. So he knows what day he can hole up in his room or escape to Robin’s or Nancy’s.

But he hears their car pull into the driveway as he’s kissing Eddie against the wall by his bed, as Steve is pushing his hands under Eddie’s shirt to press into his skin, as Eddie is pulling his hair, and they both pull away at the same time to blink at each other in confusion.

“Nancy?” Eddie questions, still gripping Steve’s hair, and Steve shrugs.

“She didn’t say she was coming over.” He pecks Eddie quickly before letting go and going to the window. Eddie leans against the wall, watching him smooth his shirt down before he freezes, his eyes widening. “Shit— It’s my parents.”

Eddie’s stomach drops.

“What?”

He crosses the room, joining Steve at the window to see Cathrine and Walter Harrington, pulling suitcases out their car, talking across the roof of it.

“Fuck,” Eddie says, stepping away from the window in case they look up. “Uhm. I can— I can hide up here.”

“Your van in the driveway,” Steve says. His voice is almost distant, and he’s still looking out the window, his face fallen.

“You can say you borrowed it from someone,” Eddie suggests desperately. “Or— Or I can say I’m doing maintenance work? I know about, like, electrical work, we can say your A/C wasn’t working, or—“

“Eddie.”

“Or I— I know about cars, I can say I was working on your car and you invited me in for— for water or something, and—“

“Eddie.”

“And I mentioned music so you’re showing me your tapes, or, like—“

“Eddie.”

Eddie shuts up, staring at Steve with wide eyes, his heart pounding. The front door opens. Steve takes a shaky breath, his gaze unwavering from Eddie’s as something clatters downstairs.

“It’s fine,” Steve says quietly, firmly. “It’s…”

“Steve,” Eddie says softly.

“It’s fine.” Steve shakes his head. They can hear his parents’ voices downstairs, muffled by walls and doors and distance. “We… We’re friends. Right?”

Eddie exhales and nods.

“Come meet my parents,” Steve says with a little eyebrow quirk, and Eddie scoffs. Steve’s smile is fake. Eddie can tell.

“They’re gonna hate me,” he says quietly.

“I don’t care,” Steve says, his voice sharper, and Eddie’s eyes linger on the way his jaw is set, the way it clenches as he looks at Eddie intently. “I don’t— I don’t care what they think. You’re mine.”

Eddie stares at him, his eyes flickering to Steve’s lips.

“Fuck. Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Okay. Following your lead,” he says softly, and Steve smiles weakly, tugging him in by a necklace for a lingering kiss.

“Hey,” Eddie says as Steve is moving toward the door, and Steve pauses, his hand on the doorknob. “I love you.”

“I love you too,” Steve says earnestly.

Eddie follows Steve out the door, hesitating to rip off his battle jacket and throw it back into Steve’s room. He smooths his shirt down and rolls his eyes when he realises what he’s wearing (Judas Priest; there’s a hand holding a giant razor blade, and he wonders why he didn’t just wear a plain black shirt). The chains hanging from his ripped jeans rattle as he walks down the hall and down the stairs, and he tucks his necklaces under his shirt anxiously before he smooths his hair back. Steve pauses at the bottom of the stairs and looks up at him.

“What are you doing?” he asks quietly, glancing at his chest, at the absence of necklaces.

“Trying to look presentable,” Eddie whispers. Steve stares at him, smiling softly.

“You’re adorable.”

“Shut up.”

Cathrine and Walter’s voices get louder as they head into the living room, where they’re both standing with their suitcases. Eddie lingers by the door, pushing his hands into his pockets in tight fists.

“Hi,” Steve says like he’s asking. Eddie watches his shoulders tighten like he’s bracing himself.

Catherine’s hair barely moves even though she whips her head around to look at Steve. It’s tall and curly and fluffy looking but stiff with hairspray, and she’s wearing a grey pantsuit, her shoulders boxy, and her heels wobble on the carpet of the living room. Walter is also in a suit, his tie loosened, his hands in his pockets.

Eddie takes a deep breath, repressing the simmering anger in his chest as he looks at them, trying hard to keep a neutral, friendly expression.

Steve’s told him about them. About how they left him at home starting when he was nine, and how he was left with nannies and teenage babysitters before that. How they’d lose their shit if he spilled juice on the kitchen floor, if he stained or tore a shirt. How he raised his voice when he was eleven and saw the back of his father’s hand and then the floor, and the gold band around his finger haunted Steve’s dreams.

How his mother constantly, shamelessly, told him it was his fault she wasn’t young and beautiful anymore. That he was the reason his father wasn’t loving and caring, as though Steve ever has any say in his own existence.

“Whose van is in the driveway?” Walter asks sharply, sans greeting even though it’s been a few months since he’s seen Steve.

“Uhm.” Steve turns slightly toward Eddie, who steps further into the room, raising a hand and suddenly wishing his nails weren’t painted.

“That— That’s mine,” Eddie says lightly, putting on a smile.

Catherine’s eyes widen, and Walter stares, facing Eddie. The room is silent except the quiet ticking of the clock on the mantle.

“Steven,” Walter says in a careful, measured voice, his eyes trained on Eddie. “Why is there a killer in my living room?”

Eddie’s stomach drops further, his cheeks flaming, and he shoves his hand back in his pocket as Steve says sharply, “He’s not a killer.”

“Steven—“

“He’s not,” Steve snaps, and Eddie looks at him. “Those charges were proven wrong, and dropped, and Eddie’s one of my best friends.”

Eddie stares at Steve, at the firm set of his jaw like he’s just daring his father to argue.

The room is silent again, tense and awkward.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

“Walter,” Catherine says quietly, breaking the silence, placing a gentle hand on Walter’s shoulder as he and Steve stare each other down. “Let’s be polite to… Steven��s guest.”

Eddie blinks at her, trying ignore the pressure behind his eyes that always comes when he remembers that people actually believe that he’s a murderer. His hands are shaking.

“Your name is Eddie, right?” she says, sickly sweet and so kind it makes Eddie feel nauseous. It reminds him of the way kids in school used to feign interest in D&D, used to ask questions and prompt him to tell them excitedly about it just to make faces at their friends while he talked. Just to complain about how weird he is.

“Yes, ma’am,” Eddie says tightly.

“Would you like to stay for dinner, Eddie?” she says like she’s speaking to a child.

Eddie looks at Steve.

Who’s staring back, his gaze intense, his expression firm, and he nods slightly when Eddie silently asks him.

“Yes, ma’am,” he says again. “I’d like that. Thank you.”

She and Walter leave to take their luggage upstairs, and Steve tugs Eddie’s shirt, pulling him into a secluded corner in the living room, and their eyes lock. Steve looks like he wants to cry, and Eddie can hear the way his breath is trembling, and Steve’s lips are pursed to keep them from quivering.

“‘S okay,” Eddie says softly.

“I’m so sorry,” Steve says weakly, still clutching at Eddie’s shirt.

“No, stop,” Eddie tells him gently, moving closer. “It’s not your fault, Stevie.”

Steve inhales sharply, pressing his lips together.

“They are assholes,” Eddie says softly, reaching up to touch Steve’s cheek. “And that’s not your fault, you got it?”

Steve nods, swallowing.

“Yes.”

“Come here.”

He pulls Steve into a tight hug, pressing a kiss to his cheek.

“You’re doing so good, baby,” he murmurs as Steve’s arms wrap around him tightly. “And after dinner we can say my van broke down and you can take me home.” He pulls away to look into Steve’s eyes. “And you can stick with Wayne and me for a while. How’s that sound?”

Steve nods, his mouth twisting, and Eddie’s heart aches because Steve is trying not to cry.

“I love you so much,” Eddie whispers. “‘S gonna be okay.”

“I hate them so much, Eddie,” Steve says. His voice wavers.

“I know, baby.” Eddie kisses him. “I know. But after this we’ll go home. And we can get high if you want.”

“Will you fuck me?” Steve asks in a small voice.

“Absolutely.”

“Cool.” He exhales and pulls Eddie into a kiss. “Love you.”

“Love you too, sweetheart.” Eddie kisses him again, pulling back when a door shuts upstairs, but Steve tugs him close, kissing him chastely before he carefully pulls Eddie’s necklaces out of his shirt.

“Don’t hide.”

Eddie melts a little bit.

Eddie fidgets with his necklaces while Catherine scours the fridge and freezer for a dinner to her liking, complaining about how unhealthy pizzas are and just sighing when Steve points out that he babysits children. She settles on a lasagna that she finds buried in the freezer and some lettuce. Without dressing. (Eddie thought rich people were supposed to eat better.)

Steve sits next to him at the dinner table. Eddie’s never seen plates on this table. It’s usually filled with cards or dice or maps and drawings and crayons. Steve stares sullenly at his plate, poking at his food with his fork as Eddie chats with his mom as best he can. He can still hear the ticking from the clock in the living room as they talk.

He tells her that he met Steve through Dustin, that he knew Steve at school because everyone loved him, and then he found out everyone loves him even outside of school. That the kids he babysits practically worship him. He catches Steve fighting a smile as he speaks.

The conversation dies down after a while. Under the table, Steve sets a hand on Eddie’s thigh and squeezes tightly. He’s shaking.

Eddie subtly reaches under the table and squeezes his hand, rubbing the back of it gently.

“Mr Harrington,” he says politely when they let go of each other. “Steve said you had work in, uhm, was it San Francisco?”

“That’s right,” Walter says dryly.

“I’ve never been,” Eddie says, trying desperately to keep his voice light. “How is it?”

Walter sighs, taking a bite.

“Not as nice as it used to be.”

“Oh,” Eddie says, taking the opportunity for a real conversation. “Why’s that?”

“Not as clean,” he says. Eddie hates his voice. So pompous and dry like the world bores him. “Posters and banners everywhere, all these fags walks around the streets holding hands. Disgusting.”

Eddie’s blood runs cold. In his peripheral vision he sees Steve tighten.

“Oh.” He twists his fork, seeing Steve’s hand grip the table cloth tightly. “Sounds real different from Hawkins.”

“Sure is.”

Eddie shifts so he can press his foot to Steve’s because he can’t lean over and kiss him. There’s a long stretch of silence. Eddie counts seventeen ticks of the clock before he speaks again, the silence unbearable.

“Mrs Harrington, Steve mentioned that you collect pottery.”

When he mentioned it, he said he wanted to smash all of it. Eddie doesn’t say that.

“I do,” she says brightly. “I started collecting when I was nineteen, after I married Walter—“

“Why is it disgusting?” Steve interrupts abruptly, looking across the table at his father. Catherine falls silent, staring at him. Eddie says his name softly.

“I’m sorry?” Walter says, lowering his fork.

“The fags,” Steve says coldly. “If they’re just holding hands. What’s the problem?”

Walter stares at Steve, a challenge in his eyes, but Steve keeps his ground, staring back, unblinking.

“You know why.”

“No. I don’t.” Steve lifts his chin defiantly. Eddie wants to marry him. “Tell me.”

“It’s not right.”

“Why?” Steve says, but it’s hardly a question. He almost growls. Eddie shifts in his seat.

“Men are supposed to be with women,” Walter says, his voice measured like he’s lecturing Steve. Eddie can hear the way Steve is breathing, can see his fist trembling as it grips the table cloth. Eddie kind of hopes it rips. “Homosexuals— They— They go against God’s word.”

A small part of Eddie is happy to see him get flustered.

“Right,” Steve breathes. “God’s word.” He’s nodding, his jaw tensed the way it does when he’s particularly mad. It’s hot. Eddie sets his fork down. “Because God always wants the best, right?”

Walter just stares. Catherine’s hands are in her lap.

“That’s why priests rape little boys when they go in for Sunday school, right? Because they know God’s word.” Eddie looks at him, taking a deep breath. “That’s why you married an eighteen year old when you were twenty seven.”

Eddie’s eyes widen, and he looks at Catherine, who clears her throat delicately and wipes her lips with her napkin even though there’s nothing there. Walter’s face turns red.

“God also says don’t get drunk,” Steve continues, his voice strong. “And we all know you don’t have an issue with that.”

“Steven,” Catherine says firmly, but Steve doesn’t spare her a glance. The air feels like it’s tightening, like they’re all holding their breaths.

“So what’s the problem with fags?” Steve asks, his cheeks red. “Why do you hate them so much? You’re not better than them.”

“Why are you so defensive—”

“Because I am one.”

Steve is yelling.

Steve never yells, not like this. He yells to be heard over rambunctious bickering and laughter, he yells to be heard across the trailer or the house. He doesn’t yell out of anger. But he is now.

The rooms falls silent. Eddie looks from Steve to his parents, to their wide eyes, and he slowly reaches for the knife next to his plate. He grips it in his hand, his muscles tense the way they were when he was fighting the demobats with Dustin. Ready to move at any given second, like his veins are stiff with adrenaline.

“What are you saying?” Walter says coldly, quietly.

Steve scoffs, humourless.

“I think that was pretty clear.”

“Steven—“ Catherine tries to say, but Steve interrupts.

“But you want me to be clearer? I can be clearer.” He pushes his plate away, toward his dad, and leans over in emphasis. “I like men. And I’ve known for years, and I never told you because I knew you’d try to beat it out of me, but you can’t do that anymore.”

Walter throws his fork onto his plate with a clatter, his mouth twisting, and Steve just grins.

“I can be more specific,” he says in a low voice. He leans back, moving his arm to run his fingers through Eddie’s hair more gently than Eddie thought possible at a time like this. “This is my boyfriend, Eddie,” Steve says. Eddie smiles at him. “And I love him more than life itself, and I love when he holds my hand, and when he kisses me, and—”

Walter interrupts by moving out of his seat, the chair scraping loudly on the floor, his face bright red, as though anything Steve’s said is scandalous. Steve seems to have the same thought, pulling his hand away from Eddie and standing too, his eyes following Walter as he moves away from the table.

“I can tell you more,” he says loudly, defiantly. Eddie scoots his chair back, watching raptly, just in case. “I love it when he fucks me.”

Catherine gasps, and a laugh bursts out of Eddie as he watches Walter’s face redden even more.

“And he fucks me hard,” Steve continues, ignoring his mother as she says his name weakly and begins to cry. “And I fucking love it. And I bet that pisses you off even more, doesn’t it.”

He’s breathing hard, and his whole body is trembling, and Eddie feels prouder than he’s ever felt in his life.

“That I’m the one taking it,” Steve says, quieter as Walter stares at him. “You always wanted me to be a man, but I love it when my boyfriend makes me his bitch.”

Heat pools in Eddie’s stomach. He slides his tongue across his lips, wanting to pin Steve to the wall and kiss his breath away.

“And aren’t you angry,” Steve breathes. “That you don’t have another son to fix the Harrington name.” He’s moving closer to Walter, and Eddie watches carefully. Walter’s hands are shaking, his chest rising and falling with each breath that rattles around in the quiet room. “Because you’re an only child,” Steve says thoughtfully, like it’s a new discovery. “And you only had a faggot,” he adds quietly, close enough to press two fingertips into Walter’s chest as he whispers, “Harringtons end with me.”

The air snaps.

Catherine screams when Walter’s fist hits Steve’s face, and Eddie stands from his chair, his vision red, moving quickly as Catherine cries Walter’s name. Walter is trying to hit Steve again, and Eddie grabs the back of his jacket, jerking him off and holding him back as Steve takes a breath.

His eyes are shining in a way Eddie’s never seen before, with malice and rage and twenty years of anger boiling and bubbling out of him. His cheek is already blooming red, and Eddie can see the subtle mark of Walter’s wedding band. Eddie jerks his jacket again, holding him in place.

“I’m not fourteen anymore, Dad,” Steve says evenly.

The crack of his fist on Walter’s face echoes around the room, and Eddie finally drops the jacket, but not before shoving Walter against the wall hard to disorient him. He steps away as Steve punches him again, watching.

Catherine is yelling at them to stop, her voice shrill and high, but Eddie just… watches.

He’s heard Dustin and the others tease Steve for not winning fights. Losing the fight with Jonathan Byers, the fight with Billy Hargrove. But he’s also heard them all praise Steve for beating demodogs with a baseball bat. And he’s seen Steve throw a demobat into the ground by gripping its serrated tail, seen him step on its wing and rip it right in half before flinging its body away and spitting its blood on the ground. And Eddie’s known, for as long as he’s known this Steve Harrington, that he pulls his punches.

But he isn’t tonight.

Walter’s face and Steve’s hands are painted red with blood, and the sound of them both yelling and Cathrine sobbing and the sound of bone and blood are echoing around the kitchen until Walter is dropping to the floor.

Steve is gripping the front of his blood stained shirt, hitting him and hitting him and hitting him, and Eddie startles at the sound of the front door breaking in, blinking hard and realising that the room is lit up by red and blue flashing lights, that Catherine isn’t in the room.

He steps forward to pull Steve away, his vision focused on Steve as shouts fill the room, but Steve shoves him back and Eddie gets a glimpse of his face.

His top lip is split, bleeding, and his cheek is darkly bruised, and he’s crying.

Tears mix with his blood as they slide down his cheeks, and Eddie knows it must hurt as a tear hits his lip, and even though Steve must not be able to see well, he isn’t stopping. Eddie desperately shouts his name, wrapping his arms around him and pulling him away from Walter, who falls onto the floor, weakly saying something about Steve being a bastard. Catherine is sobbing in the doorway as cops pull Walter off the ground, and Eddie holds Steve back.

Steve is sobbing too, and Eddie’s whole body hurts. He’s saying Steve’s name, trying to get him to look at Eddie, wants to prompt him to breathe in all the way, but Steve won’t look at him, his arms straining against Eddie’s grip. He’s still yelling.

The cops push Walter toward the door as one of them, Powell, moves toward Eddie. Eddie recognises him. He was there when Eddie came back, when Hopper came back. He arrested Eddie once when Eddie was fifteen, but he didn’t seem to hold a grudge was Hopper and Joyce Byers filled him on the shitshow that been going on in Hawkins for the past few years.

Powell is staring, wide-eyed, at them, his mouth hanging ajar with an unspoken question.

“He threw the first punch,” Eddie says, gesturing to Walter’s wriggling body as he’s led outside, his voice shaking.

Walter is yelling at Steve, even though he can’t see him. Calling him a bastard, and a faggot. Yelling that Steve isn’t his son.

As soon as he’s out the door, Steve’s body relaxes, and Eddie pulls him close, tugging him into a hug. He’s breathing hard, and shaking so hard that Eddie can feel it even though Steve’s fists are gripping his shirt tightly. The cop looks at them, watching, but Eddie doesn’t care. Let him see.

Eddie holds his face gently when Steve’s crying slows, and he watches the flashing police lights reflect in his glistening eyes and his tears. Eddie wipes a drop of blood from his lip, nodding when Steve’s chin quivers.

“You’re okay,” Eddie murmurs. His hands are shaking too. Steve takes a deep, trembling breath, his eyes flicking back and forth between Eddie’s.

“My ear’s ringing.”

Eddie’s eyes widen, and he reaches up to Steve’s right ear, touching it gently. There’s some blood in his hair above it, and anger flashes in Eddie’s chest. He wants to go outside and beat Walter some more, regardless of the cops, regardless of his already garbage reputation. But he doesn’t. Because Steve is clutching to his shirt, and he’s crying.

“Can you hear me still?”

Steve nods, squeezing his eyes shut tightly. Eddie pulls him into another hug, moving so his mouth is above his right ear, and he knows he’s getting blood on his face, but he doesn’t care.

“‘S gonna be okay,” he says softly. “I got you, sweetheart, you’re alright.”

Eddie closes his eyes, and they sway, and they can still hear the distant, unintelligible shouting of Walter outside. Powell waits next to them patiently until they part slowly. Steve is sniffling, and Eddie wipes his face, under his eyes, under his nose, wipes away the blood on his lip.

“Steve,” Powell says gently. “You gotta tell me what happened.”

Steve takes another deep breath, swallowing thickly before he looks at Powell, setting his shoulders and jaw again.

“I’m queer,” he says firmly. Powell doesn’t react, just looks at him. “I told him.”

“He hit you first?” Powell asks, reiterating what Eddie said earlier. Steve nods.

“I…” He hesitates, reaches down to take Eddie’s hand, and Eddie laces their fingers, squeezes tightly. “I provoked him. Taunted him.”

Powell pauses, looking out the window to see the cars outside, and he slides his tongue over his teeth, seething.

“Wait here a minute.”

Eddie nods, and Steve leans against him as Powell leaves. Eddie wraps his arms around Steve tightly, pulling him close.

“God, you did so good, Stevie,” he murmurs in his good ear. “‘M so proud of you, baby.”

“Eddie,” Steve says weakly. His voice is rough. Eddie kisses his forehead gently.

“I know, baby,” he says just loud enough that Steve can hear him. “But it’s done, okay?” he says. He looks into Steve’s eyes. “You’re done with him.”

Steve exhales, closing his eyes.

Eddie shifts, pulling to guide him to the table, but Steve tugs at his shirt, opening his eyes and leaving a hard, lingering kiss on Eddie’s lips. Eddie closes his eyes, holding Steve until he pulls away, and when Steve looks at him blearily, he lets out a soft laugh that seems out of place.

“I got blood on you,” he says quietly. Eddie scoffs.

“I’ve had worse bodily fluids of yours on me.”

“Gross,” Steve says, grinning, and he winces when it stretches his lip. There’s blood in his teeth.

“C’mere,” Eddie says, pulling him over and pushing him to lean against the table between Eddie’s and Catherine’s plates before he goes to get a paper towel. Steve snatches it from his hand as he stands between his legs, and Eddie lets out a small indignant noise, but Steve shushes him, reaching up to clean blood off his lip. Eddie waits, holding Steve’s hips.

“Love you so much,” Eddie murmurs.

“Love you too.”

“Is your ear still ringing?”

Steve shakes his head before he pauses, tilting his head and closing his eyes as his brows furrow. Eddie takes the paper towel.

“Little bit. Not as bad. I think it’s fine.”

Eddie gently, tenderly wiping blood off Steve’s lips before he presses it to the split, watching Steve wince slightly. He can feel Steve’s heartbeat against his fingertip. It’s still fast.

“Deep breath,” Eddie says softly. Steve closes his eyes, inhaling deeply. “I got you, baby.”

Steve’s hand finds his waist, holding him tightly as he exhales.

Eddie leans in and kisses his forehead softly, feeling Steve fall forward against him. He pushes his fingers through Steve’s hair, kissing across his forehead, kissing his temple, tilting his head to kiss Steve’s ear tenderly. He whispers to him quietly.

When Powell comes back in, Eddie has to nudge Steve’s cheek gently to make him open his eyes, and Steve turns his face slightly. Eddie pulls away the paper towel. His lip doesn’t seem to be bleeding anymore.

“He’s being held overnight,” Powell says, pushing a notebook into his pocket. “Paying bail, should be released around noon tomorrow.”

Steve nods.

“Your mother’s going with him,” Powell continues gently, like he can see the anguish it causes in Steve’s eyes. “She’s staying at a friend’s tonight.”

“Okay.”

Powell hesitates, looking from Steve to Eddie.

“You have a place to stay?” he asks. Eddie guesses it’s unspoken knowledge that Steve can’t stay here.

“Yes.”

Eddie knows Steve knows he can stay at the trailer for as long as he has to. And Claudia Henderson’s offered her guest room, as well as Joyce and Hopper. Robin’s offered her bedroom floor. Nancy’s offered her basement.

“And you?” Powell asks, looking at Eddie. Eddie starts for a moment, blinking at him blankly before he nods.

“Uh, yeah.”

“Okay.”

Powell hesitates for a moment longer before he looks at Steve, his eyes shining earnestly.

“He shows up again,” he says carefully. “At your work, or wherever you stay, if he threatens you… Or tries anything.” He points at Steve, so serious the air feels tense again. “You come to the station. You tell me, and if I’m not there you tell Flo, and she’ll find me, okay?”

Steve nods, staring at him, biting his lip.

“I’ll take care of it.”

“Okay,” Steve says quietly.

“And if you need another place to stay,” Powell adds. “Let me know. My wife and I have a spare bedroom.”

Steve smiles weakly.

“Okay.”

“You too,” Powell says to Eddie. “Got it?”

“Yes, sir,” Eddie says, smiling softly.

Powell claps Steve on his back gently.

“You’re a good kid, Steve.”

Steve pulls Eddie closer when he leaves, and Eddie moves between his legs again, touching his hair gently. The blood above his ear is dry.

They stand in silence as they listen to the cars leave the driveway. Three cars. After a moment the red and blue lights are gone, and Eddie exhales.

Eddie gazes at the bruise on his cheek. His lip is a little swollen, crusted with dry blood. After a moment, Steve leans forward, resting his head on Eddie’s sternum, and Eddie runs a hand over his hair gently.

“What do you need?” Eddie asks quietly. “You wanna shower? Go to bed?”

Steve lifts his head and looks up at him.

“I need you to fuck me.”

Eddie stares at him, looks back and forth between his eyes, watching them shine earnestly, and he stands up straight, tossing away the paper towel.

“Turn around.”

Steve grins and stands up, turning around to face the table, already tugging his shirt off and tossing it across the room. Eddie steps up behind him, tugging Steve’s hair to make him tilt his head before he presses kisses along the side of his neck.

Steve hums breathlessly when Eddie pushes him so the fronts of his legs press to the table, and Eddie reaches around him to unbutton and unzip his jeans.

“Colour?” he asks roughly, pausing as he grips the waistband of the jeans, and Steve whines, his head falling back to Eddie’s shoulder.

“Green, baby, please.”

Eddie grins, shoving Steve’s jeans and boxers down his legs and pushing at his back so he bends over the table.

“Spread ‘em,” he says, kicking at Steve’s foot, and Steve spreads his legs, groaning softly and turning his head so his cheek presses to the table. “Pretty boy.”

“Eddie,” Steve says weakly. “I love you.”

“I love you too, baby,” Eddie murmurs. He leans over and kisses his back, down his spine. “So fucking much.”

He kneels on the ground behind him, running his hands over Steve’s ass and his thighs, squeezing and kneading before he leans in to bite at him for a moment before he licks across his hole, holding him tightly.

Steve whines loudly, pushing his ass back toward Eddie, who snickers quietly before eating him out in earnest, licking and sucking and nibbling as he listens to the sweet sounds Steve makes above him.

Steve is groaning and whimpering and whining, and Eddie has to pull away to laugh when a plate falls from the table and shatters on the ground.

“Fuck, sorry,” Steve says, laughing, and Eddie stands to find him gripping the table cloth tightly.

“‘S okay,” Eddie says, breathing hard, tugging Steve’s hair so he stands up again, and Steve releases the table cloth. Eddie wraps his arms around him, kissing his neck. There’s some blood on the table cloth, and Steve is drooling, and Eddie smiles. “Love it when you get all wild. My perfect boy.” He lifts a hand, presses two fingers to Steve’s lips, and Steve whimpers, opening his mouth.

Eddie bites his neck as Steve’s tongue swirls around his fingers, pressing desperate kisses around the back of his neck until he reaches his right ear.

“You have any idea how amazing I think you are?” Eddie asks softly. Steve moans, his head falling back as Eddie pushes his fingers deeper into his mouth, pressing into the pooling spit under his tongue. “Love of my fuckin’ life.”

Steve reaches up and pushes his fingers into Eddie’s hair as soft noises escape his throat.

“You feel good, sweetheart?” Eddie asks. Steve moans quietly, nodding. “You wanna feel better?”

Steve smiles around his fingers, giggling softly, and he tugs Eddie’s hair as he nods.

Eddie pulls his hand away from Steve’s mouth and takes a moment to look at Steve’s spit dripping over his fingers before he reaches down to press a finger inside him.

“Fuck,” Steve groans loudly. Eddie beams.

“Yeah?”

“Fuck, Eddie, I need— Gimme more, baby, please—”

“I’ll take care of you, Stevie,” Eddie murmurs into his ear. “I got you.”

“Feel so good, Eddie.”

Eddie smiles again, biting at his neck, fingering him open as he whispers to him. Tells him how pretty is. He gets three fingers in before Steve finally whines, tugging sharply at his hair.

“Eddie,” he gasps. “Please, please, I—”

“Bend over.”

Steve grins again, leaning to lay on the table again, resting his head so his right ear is up.

Eddie kisses his back before he steps back, unbuckling his belt as he moves to the the counter, noisily opening and shutting cabinets until he finds what he’s looking for.

Steve whines Eddie’s name, looking up at him, and Eddie pulls his belt from the loops of his jeans, shaking the bottle of olive oil at him with raised eyebrows. Steve snorts loudly and lets out a childish, juvenile laugh, grinning and hiding his face in his arms.

Eddie’s always hated this olive oil. It’s Catherine’s, expensive and fancy and ordered from Italy, always hidden away in her special occasions only cabinet. But Eddie thinks this counts as a special occasion, because the man of his dreams is bent over the dining table and Eddie doesn’t want to go all the way upstairs for lube.

Steve’s fists grip the tablecloth when Eddie pushes in, the same way he clutches at the sheets when they’re in bed. The cloth comes up, and a glass falls the floor, shattering, and Eddie laughs again, setting the olive oil down.

“You’re makin’ a mess, baby.”

Steve just lets out a long groan.

Eddie gazes down at him, at the scars that cover his back and backs of his arms, at the mess of his hair. He slides a hand over his back, smearing oil over his skin.

“How do you want it?” he asks breathlessly.

“Hard.”

“Got it. Hold on.”

Steve giggles, gripping the tablecloth, and he lets out a sharp gasp as Eddie snaps his hips into him.

Eddie loves when Steve gets like this. All loose and relaxed, going with every movement Eddie makes. Unfiltered and loud, groaning and whining and almost screaming when Eddie really gets going, his hand to the small of his back. He’s always like this, even when Eddie fucks him softly and kindly like the first time they had sex (or made love, as Eddie put it dramatically once they’d finished. Steve shoved him away and then promptly pulled him closer to tuck his face into his neck.), tangled in blankets in the back of Eddie’s van, breathing into each other’s mouths, whispering and giggling.

Another plate falls from the table.

Eddie is grinning down at him, watching, listening as he swears and moans.

“Eddie,” Steve wails. Tears are sliding down his face, staining the tablecloth.

“Yeah, baby,” Eddie says roughly, his hands gripping Steve’s hips tightly. “What do you need?”

“Fuck, spit on me,” Steve whimpers. “Make me yours, Eddie, please.”

Eddie exhales, running a hand down his spine tenderly. (That night in the van, Eddie also learned, to his delight, that Steve is even kinkier than he is. It’s fun.)

“You are mine,” he says gently. “Always.”

He fucks into him three more times as he gathers spit in his mouth, and then he pauses, letting it drip over Steve’s back. Steve lets out a soft yes, almost hissing it, and Eddie smiles down at him, rubbing the spit into his skin as he moves again.

“Eddie, right there—”

“I got you, baby, I know.”

“Eddie, please, Eddie, EddieEddieEddie—”

He presses his hand against Steve’s back hard, fucking him harder, faster, until Steve is sobbing, until the two remaining plates and the bottle of olive oil fall to the ground and shatter to pieces. Eddie laughs again.

Steve comes on the table cloth. Eddie lifts him up to wrap his arms around him when they finish, and Steve’s head falls back against Eddie’s shoulder. Eddie doesn’t pull out, just holds Steve close and pulls his necklaces around to hang backwards so they aren’t pressing into Steve’s bare skin.

“You okay?” he asks softly after pressing a soft kiss to his earlobe. Steve exhales.

“Holy fuck.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Steve breathes. He presses his hand over Eddie’s forearm, slides it down to lace their fingers.

“Look at that, baby,” Eddie says softly, nudging him so look at the table. Steve’s eyes flutter open, finding it. A mostly empty glass, rolling on its side in spilled water, the pale blue tablecloth uneven and folded and stained with blood and oil and come. “That’s all you.”

Steve exhales, resting his head on Eddie’s shoulder.

“I’d say you helped.”

Eddie snickers into the side of Steve’s neck, his arms tightening, and Steve moans softly.

“Smartass.”

“You love me.”

“I do.”

Steve sighs. Eddie can feels his pulse on his lips. It’s slower.

“What now?” he asks quietly.

“Shower,” Steve says, squeezing his hand. “And pack.”

Eddie hums and kisses his neck tenderly.

“And then we’ll go home,” he murmurs.

Steve smiles.

“Then we’ll go home.”

They shower slowly, carefully washing each other’s hair and bodies, washing away blood and sweat and come in the hot, running water. Steve’s shampoo smells warm, like cinnamon and other spices Eddie’s never been able to afford to keep in his cabinets. (Nutmeg? Allspice? Eddie doesn’t even know what he would use them for.) After they dry off and dress, Eddie stuffs the shampoo, along with his conditioner and body soap, into a plastic bag to take with them. Steve adds two cans of Farah Fawcett hairspray.

Eddie helps him sort through his clothes, pick what to take and what to leave behind. He finds one of his own sweaters in Steve’s closet as Steve is stuffing a bag with underwear and socks, and he giggles to himself before throwing it at Steve. Steve’s cheeks flush pink, and he wordlessly stuffs it into the bag.

Steve packs most of his shirts, except a few he says his mother picked out, and most of his jeans. Eddie gets a garbage bag for the clothes Steve doesn’t want anymore, and he laughs as makes his way through the kitchen, looking at the mess he and Steve made and next behind. They aren’t going to clean it up. Just because.

Steve’s room is pathetically empty by the time they finish packing. It was already pathetically empty before, if Eddie’s honest. No framed pictures, no keepsakes. No stuffed animals or childhood toys. Steve’s bags, a duffel bag and a backpack, are both stuffed with clothes and soap, with a bottle of cologne and a copy of the Hobbit that he tried to hide from Eddie.

Eddie finds it, of course. And looks up at Steve with a beaming grin, even as Steve rubs the back of his neck, blushing bright red.

“You love it so much, I just…”

Eddie crosses the room and wraps his arms around his neck, swaying like they’re dancing.

“Do you like it?”

“I’m trying to.”

“You don’t have to like it,” Eddie says, grinning. Steve wraps his arms around Eddie’s waist, pulling him close. “It’s fine if you don’t.”

“I know,” Steve says shyly, swaying with him again. “Think I’m just a slow reader.”

“‘S okay, baby,” Eddie says softly. “You don’t have a due date or anything.”

“Thank God.”

They go to bed in the Harrington house for the last time.

Eddie wakes up to Steve’s lips pressing down his neck, and he smiles at the ceiling without opening his eyes, tilting his head back to give him room. He hums softly.

“Whassa time?” Eddie mumbles weakly, reaching blindly to find Steve’s hair.

“Six twenty-seven,” Steve says before he licks a slow line up his neck. Eddie groans.

“Forgot I’m in love with a morning person.”

“‘S sweet,” Steve says lightly. “Just relax, baby.”

Eddie sighs, tugging at his hair again, but his hand falls when Steve moves, tossing the blanket up so he can duck under it. Eddie shivers at the gust of cold morning air that hits his body, and then he shivers again as Steve tugs at the waistband of his boxers.

“I’ll make you coffee,” Eddie says breathlessly when Steve comes back up from under the blanket, cracking his eyes open to find Steve grinning brightly at him. His split lip doesn’t bleed even as he smile. The bruise on his face is colourful, reddish purple and blue, and somehow achingly beautiful even as it makes Eddie’s chest hurt like he’s been shot.

“I’d like that,” Steve says softly.

They get out of bed slowly, lazily, and Eddie tugs on one of Steve’s hoodies as he yawns.

Steve always looks beautiful in the morning light. Even in gray mornings like this, he seems to glow brighter than the sun.

Steve goes to the bathroom while Eddie goes down to make the coffee. He finds Steve’s favourite mug in a cabinet, the cute blue one, and he leans against the counter as he waits on the coffee, looking at the dining table and smiling to himself.

He’s shaken out of his thoughts by a car pulling into the driveway.

He blinks, tilting his head to listen like he can’t tell where it’s coming from, and he turns around, leaning to look out the window to see Catherine.

Anger flares in his chest, and he’s swinging the front door open before she’s even out of the car, careless to the fact that he’s in his boxers.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” he asks sharply as she approaches the door. Her eyes skim over him, her hands folded in front of her. Her hair isn’t as nice as it was yesterday, and Eddie can see traces of her makeup that ran down her cheeks last night.

“It’s my house,” she says primly.

“Well we’re not gone yet,” Eddie snaps. “Come back in a few hours.”

She takes a breath, opening her mouth to speak, but Steve’s voice interrupts her.

“Eddie?” Eddie turns sharply, looking to see Steve coming down the stairs, and Steve’s face hardens when he sees his mother on the front step. “Oh.”

“We don’t have to deal with this, baby,” Eddie says quickly. “Just get your stuff, we can go.”

Steve pauses, staring at Catherine coldly, his mouth twisting thoughtfully before he says, “No. Let’s have coffee,” in a voice that’s far too calm, too light.

He continues down the stairs and turns wordlessly into the kitchen, and Catherine steps past Eddie.

Eddie shuts the door, his stomach knotting, and he follows them to the kitchen. Steve is sipping from the mug, leaning against the counter, and Eddie joins him, watching with a suppressed smile as Catherine looks at the table.

“What do you want?” Steve asks coldly.

“What happened to the table?”

“Eddie fucked me on it. What do you want?”

Catherine’s face turns red, and she looks away from the table, clearing her throat delicately.

“I wanted to talk.”

“So talk,” Steve says dryly, sipping the coffee. He’s still staring at her, almost seething.

Catherine hesitates, taking a breath and looking at the floor, eyeing the broken bottle of olive oil, but she doesn’t say anything about it.

“I know,” she says slowly. “That what happened last night is not… reversible.”

She looks up at Steve.

“But you are still our son,” she says kindly, and Eddie scoffs. “And I want you to know that you still have a home here.”

“No.”

She blinks.

“No?”

Steve inhales deeply, biting his lip, and he carefully holds the mug out to Eddie, who takes it as Steve crosses his arms.

“I have never had a home here,” Steve says calmly, “Mom.”

“Steven,” she says softly. Like it hurts.

He shakes his head, pressing his lips together.

“I’ve never felt…” He pauses, swallowing. “I’ve never felt safe here. Or— Or loved. I’ve never felt fucking— at home here. This has always been just— just a sad empty… lonely house for the sad empty lonely little boy.”

Eddie looks at the floor, biting his lip as he focusses on the heat of the mug in his hands.

“I know you don’t mean that, darling,” Catherine says softly.

“You don’t know anything about me,” Steve says coldly.

“Steven, of course I do—”

“No, you don’t,” Steve shouts. Eddie flinches, and he turns to set the mug on the counter. “No, you don’t,” Steve repeats, breathing hard. “You don’t know shit about me. You know my name because you picked it, but you don’t know who I am.”

“Steven—“

“You left me,” Steve interrupts, his voice shaking. “You— You left me. Here. With— With teenagers, while you went off on holidays and fucking business trips, you left me here, while I was trying to grow up, and then I had to figure out to be a grown up, all by myself because you weren’t here.”

His lip is quivering, and he steadies it between his teeth.

“You don’t know me,” he says again, quietly.

“Steven, you’re my son,” she says softly.

“I’m half deaf.”

She blinks.

“What?”

“One of my ears,” Steve says slowly, “has no hearing.” He stands up straight, off the counter, and gestures to his ears with a hand. “Can you tell which ear it is?”

She stares, wide-eyed.

“Steven—“

“Can you tell me,” he says shakily, “when my hearing started going?”

Silence.

“Because I can tell you,” Steve whispers. “The fucking day.”

He moves closer, his breathing unsteady.

“July sixteenth,” he says quietly. “Nineteen eighty.”

Eddie grips the counter, biting his lip as he watches. Catherine’s are welling with tears, but Steve doesn’t seem to even notice.

“When your husband gave me a concussion,” he continues, whispering. “And I looked up to see you leave the room, and shut the door behind yourself.”

Eddie’s eyes jump to Catherine, his vision red. Her lip is quivering. Eddie doesn’t care.

“I have had four concussions in my life,” Steve says, holding up four fingers before he lowers two of them. “Two of them… were from your husband. And both times, you left.”

“Steven,” she says weakly, but Steve snaps.

“You left,” he shouts. Catherine flinches. Eddie doesn’t. “You picked him,” he says, pointing toward the door. “Twenty fucking years, and you picked him, again, and again, and again.” He chokes, and his voice breaks. “My whole life,” he says weakly. “You picked a man, who never loved you, over your son.”

Eddie’s eyes burn, and he looks at the ground, swallowing thickly.

“And last night you picked him again,” Steve says.

Catherine stares at him. A tear slides down her cheek.

“So no,” Steve says after taking a breath. “You don’t know me, and you don’t get to. This is all you get.”

He stares her down for a moment, and Eddie blinks his tears back, watching proudly.

“Fuck you,” Steve says softly. “And fuck him, and fuck this house. I’m fucking done.”

“Steven, please,” she begs quietly. “You don’t have to come here, or— or see him, but I still want to be… a part of your life, darling, I—”

“You’re not better than him,” Steve yells, crying. “You let him, you let him do everything he did to me.” He’s panting, and Eddie’s chest tightens. He stands up straight. “You made me hate myself before I was old enough to understand why you hate me.”

“I don’t hate you, darling—”

“Well you don’t fucking love me either,” Steve yells. He stops short, blinking like he’s realises it just as he says it, and Eddie wants to pull him into a hug, but he also wants to find Nancy’s gun and shoot both his parents for ever making Steve feel like this. “Even if you think you do,” he says softly. “Whatever kind of love you think you have for me. I don’t want it.”

He stares for a moment longer before wiping his face hard and shaking his head.

And he leaves.

Eddie holds his breath, listening as Steve storms up the stairs, listening as Catherine cries quietly, a hand pressed over her mouth. Steve comes back down after a few moments with his bags, and he pauses in the doorway, looking at Eddie, who looks up.

“Go to the van, I’ll be there in a minute, babe.”

Steve looks at him for a moment before he steps close and tugs him by his shirt into a kiss, sliding his tongue into Eddie mouth and holding him close desperately. Eddie pushes his fingers into Steve’s hair, closing his eyes and exhaling, tasting the coffee on Steve’s breath.

They’re both breathless when they part, and Steve looks into Eddie’s eyes. Eddie nods, touching his cheek.

Steve goes outside.

The door shuts behind him, and Eddie hears the van door open and shut. And then he just hears Catherine’s soft breaths. And the ticking of the clock in the living room.

He leans against the counter, looking at the floor, hesitating before he looks up at her.

“He is… the best thing that’s ever happened to me,” Eddie says slowly, softly, his voice almost echoing in the kitchen. “He is the bravest, kindest, strongest, most— most selfless person I have ever known.”

She’s still crying. But she’s looking at him, listening.

“And you…” He pauses, taking a deep breath, his hands shaking, his lip quivering. “And you fucked… every chance you got to have him in your life. Twenty years. You got twenty years of chances, and you fucked them all up.”

He stares for a moment.

“I can tell,” he says softly, “that there’s… a small part of you… that cares about him. Somewhere in there. So to that… small part.” He steps forward, his eyes burning. “I swear, I will… love him, and care for him, and look after him, and do everything I fucking can to make sure he feels as loved and protected as he is.”

He points a trembling finger at her.

“Because that is a privilege that I have.” He’s breathing hard, his eyes burning, his heart pounding in his chest. “And I will do everything in my power to not lose that privilege.”

He hesitates a moment longer, watching her cry before he turns around and picks up the mug and dumps the coffee in the sink. He rinses the mug quickly and shuts off the water harder than he needs to.

And he leaves. Without giving her a second glance.

He hands Steve the mug as he slides into the driver seat, and Steve laughs wetly, taking it.

“Thank you,” he says softly.

Eddie looks over at him, biting his lip. His face is tear-streaked, his lashes clumped, his cheeks and nose rosy red.

Broken and slowly pieced back together.

His eyes are gleaming, and he looks so awfully exhausted that Eddie wants to tell him to get in the back of the van to take a nap, but he also looks so relieved that Eddie just pulls him into a kiss.

“I love you,” he whispers, pressing their foreheads together. “With all my fuckin’ heart and soul, baby.”

“I love you too,” Steve whispers back.

Eddie kisses him again, sucking on his lower lip for a moment and holding his chin gently, and he pauses when they part, taking a soft breath.

“You’re not wearing any pants,” Steve says, laughing tearfully again, and Eddie scoffs, blinking tears back as he pulls out of the driveway.

“Who gives a shit?”

Steve giggles, clutching the mug to his chest.

“Let’s go home.”

“Okay.”

[youdontneedhenry]

Random thought but I miss Patrick winking at Eliza (3x3) and generally being mischievous (all of season 2 and episode 3x6 with William.)

He’s way more professional with her in season 4, for obvious reasons. He’s still fun, and they have fun, but it’s different, which is a testament to how respectful Nash is, contrary to how he’s sometimes talked about by viewers who are simply not paying attention. Also, I don’t think it’s JUST that she’s his employee. I think he caught feelings and is trying to recalibrate how to act with her (less schoolyard teasing and even more sincerity).

In Season 4, Eliza softens and teases Nash more than he teases her (after she wins at the races, the end of the telephone episode). He lets her lead, really, in that regard, because he's not going to cross a line given the power dynamic in their relationship when she works at Nash & Sons.

So we've seen rivals (season 2 with the shift in 3x3) to friends and colleagues (3x6 and Season 4) and now LOVERS (Season 5) ????

I really wonder what Season 5 Nash will be like.

Edit: to add: the natural chemistry and attraction that’s been there didn’t lead to romance yet because they’ve had really clear boundaries: being rivals AND then being colleagues meant really clear lines they didn’t or couldn’t cross- even if they toed them sometimes. There were rules of engagement. Those boundaries will be gone session 5- so their friendship can flourish into something else.

[maefansblog]

I miss Pen. Why hasn't she written to me?

She looks so pretty in her yellow.

[dreamofbecoming]

part two, this one is still mostly stobin and pre-steddie. the first part does provide some context, although i imagine you could figure most of it out yourself, but i'd recommend reading it first anyway!

ao3

part 1

platonic stobin, mentions of steddie

rating: t

wc: 3k

---

The conversation dies down and Steve goes back to filling bottles to hand off to Robin, eyes on Dustin where he's still goofing off with Munson. Good, he should get to have as much fun as he can. This is what he should be doing. What they should all be doing. Steve hates that these kids have to be fucking…soldiers so much of the time. He hates that he can't do anything to shield them from it. Not that they'd let him if he could.

Maybe Robbie has a point, about regular teenage life stuff being pointless right now, but god, what the fuck? Why should it have to be? He's 19! He can't even buy a drink yet! Robin is still in high school!

Fuck it. They should get to be kids and think about stupid pointless stuff, too.

"So I know you said you didn't want to talk about your love life, which is fair, but if I keep thinking about dying I'm gonna lose my shit, so you wanna talk about mine?"

She raises an eyebrow at him. "Oh, are we talking about how fucking weird shit has been between you and Nancy?"

Ah, fuck, that backfired almost immediately.

"What? No. Definitely not. Ok, it's been weird, but it's not a thing, ok?" She looks even more skeptical than before. "It's not! I mean, ok, maybe it is," she snorts at him, which. Rude. "But it's just like. Regular weirdness, ok?"

"What the fuck is regular weirdness?"

"You know, like, exes who haven't talked in a while in a high-pressure situation weirdness. The kind of weirdness anyone would be having in our shoes. Normal weirdness!" He throws his hands in the air, agitated.

Munson looks over at the sound of his raised voice, lifting an eyebrow and smirking. What is it with everyone raising their eyebrows at him today? He's being normal! Normal and regular! It's not his fault everything around them is weird and that makes his normal look weird by comparison. He's not doing anything wrong, so get off his nuts already! Geez!

Steve isn't sure how much of that very normal and regular monologue shows on his face, but it must be some because he can see Munson laughing at him as he goes back to playing keepaway with Dustin's hat. Bastard.

"Ugh! No, I don't want to talk about Nance. Like I really super don't. There's nothing there, it's done, it's over, there's nothing to say."

"Yeah, I wouldn't want to talk about that debacle in the bus either. Six kids, Steve? Really?" Oh Jesus. He was really hoping no one had heard that.

"Bobbie, please, why are you torturing me?" He rarely deploys the Sad Eyes on Robin, mostly because they don't work especially well on her, which is insane, because they work like an atom bomb on literally everyone else. He may have left King Steve behind him, but he has plenty of skills left over from those days, not to mention he looks as good as he always has. He knows what he's working with, ok?

Anyways, this is a moment to pull out the big guns, which means Sad Eyes are a go.

As usual, they aren't as effective on Robbie as they are on other people, but she does know him well enough to realize that if he's pulling them out, it's out of desperation, so she takes pity on him anyway. Whatever. He'll take the win.

She sighs, and rolls her eyes indulgently, but she's smiling just a little. He can tell. God, he loves her. He'd burn the world down for her, is maybe going to have to. He doesn't know what he'd do without her.

"Alright, bubba, I'll bite. You want to talk about your love life, but you don't want to talk about Nancy. Whatcha got for me?"

And, oh. Shit. This is the part where he's going to have to say it out loud. He hadn't planned this far, mostly was just anxious to get the swirling feeling in his chest out into Robbie's hands because he knows she can keep it safe, mostly just trying to wipe that awful, scared, defeated look off her face, but now he has to actually do the thing. He has to say it out loud, on purpose, the way he hasn't since that day in her bedroom when his whole world shifted a little to the left, and she was the only thing holding him steady.

Fuck. Ok. He can do this. It's just Rob. No one else is close enough to hear them, and Robin will always keep him safe. She'll never let him be alone.

"So, uh. You know the, uh, the thing? That we talked about that one time?"

"Yeah, we talk every day, I'm gonna need a bit more than that, bubs."

"The, uh. The thing we decided we didn't have to talk about right away? Because it wasn't important? Or, no, it was important, but it wasn't, um. What did you say? Relevant. It wasn't relevant to my everyday life?"

"Relevant to your…oh! Oh shit! The thing! The thing we talked about! That thing!" Her eyes are wide and so so blue and her hands are flailing a little, like she wants to pat him down for injury even though that's not remotely helpful. He carefully takes the bottle out of her hand and stuffs the rag into it himself, setting it on the ground where she can't dump gasoline on herself. She smiles a little sheepishly.

"So what about the, uh, the thing?" She lowers her voice like she's in a goddamn spy movie, leaning close and waggling her eyebrows. She's so ridiculous. He loves her so much.

He gives her a pointed look. She shakes her head in response, looking confused. Jesus fuck, she's gonna make him say it.

He tries one more time, bobbing his head at her to try and make his facial expression more forceful. He doesn't miss his old crowd, really, he doesn't. He does, however, occasionally miss being around people who were constantly alert for even the smallest social shifts, who he could have a whole conversation with using nothing but subtle changes to the shape of his mouth or the width of his eyes. He loves Robin and Dustin more than life, would kill or die for them, has proven it several times over, but Christ on a cracker they wouldn't know a social cue if it whacked them in the head with a hammer.

She's still furrowing her brow at him, so he sighs, and gives in. "I think it's maybe become…relevant. I promised to tell you right away, remember?"

Her eyes go even wider than before, and she thwaps him in the chest with the back of her hand. Hard. Ow.

"Dingus!" She's whisper-shouting, but he still doesn't think anyone is close enough to hear. "What the hell!"

"Ow, Robbie, Jesus, watch the open wounds!"

She flutters her hands around his middle, like she can fix his bandages through his jacket. She does look apologetic, so that's something.

"Sorry, sorry, fuck, sorry! Are you ok? Sorry. Just, what the hell! What? Who? When?!"

He smirks at her. "What, no why or how?"

"I'm going to set you on fire with one of these cocktails if you don't start talking, Dingus, I swear to god!"

He's laughing, she's so much fun to rile up. God, he hopes he doesn't have to miss this. He hopes he gets to keep this much, at least, when they're done. He'll probably go crazy otherwise.

"Ok, ok, I won't tease, I'm sorry. So I guess, to answer your questions, uh…I found a boy to crush on, who the hell do you think, and I promised to tell you right away, didn't I?" He counts them down on his fingers while he answers them, because if he can't act like a little shit to her then honestly, what is even the point?

"Right away…holy shit. Holy shit! Steve!" She looks frantically out at the field, where Munson has now knocked Henderson over and is sitting on him, wearing his hat and crowing victory, while Dustin flails wildly on the ground. Thank fuck neither of them are looking this way, because holy hell she isn't subtle.

"Robbie, don't look, what the hell! Do you want him to know we're talking about him?"

"Oh, so we are talking about him? Eddie "The Freak" Munson?"

He cringes a little at the reminder of his earlier dismissal. "Alright, ok, so I maybe didn't give him much of a chance at first, but the Upside Down changes things, you know that! It did for us, right?"

She looks thoughtful. "I guess, yeah. So go on, loverboy, what do you like about him?" She's grinning and waggling her eyebrows again. Ugh, this may have been a mistake. She does owe him for the Tammy Thompson thing. Still, there's no one alive he'd rather talk about this with, and he has to talk to someone, or he's going to explode, and they have a…wizard…demon…thing…guy to kill. Whatever. They have killing to do, so he needs to get this off his chest so it's not clogging up his brain.

"He has…really nice eyes. And really nice hands." Robin lets out a soft "Oh, ew," before he glares at her and she motions for him to go on. "He's funny, and weird but in like, a charming way? Kind of like you, but different. The way Dustin is weird and charming like you, but different, you know?"

"You have a thing for nerds, Dingus."

"Ugh, maybe, yeah." His mind drifts back to Eddi- Munson. Gotta keep calling him Munson, at least until they get out of this. Can't afford to be distracted. "He's scared out of his mind, but he's coming along anyway, which is the kind of brave and stupid this whole group kind of runs on. He thinks he's a coward but he's not. Going back to school instead of dropping out is brave. Trusting us is brave. Acting like he does even when everyone hates him for it is brave. I wish I had been brave enough to do that, you know? Maybe I would have dropped the King shit earlier. And he's good with the kids, which you know I'm weak for. I don't know, Robs, I just…I want him to like me, you know? I want him to be impressed by me. Is that stupid?"

When he looks up, Robin's eyes are wide and shiny. She looks surprised, and a little scared. That's not good, probably, but he can't take back anything he said. He meant all of it.

"It's not stupid, bubba, it's not stupid at all. I guess I was thinking…I don't know. That it was like an adrenaline thing? Like a 'you're hot, we're in danger, I'd rather think about making out with you than dying' kind of thing? Like what Nancy was clearly doing with you earlier, you know?"

"Ugh, Robbie, I so don't want to talk about Nancy right now, please," he groans.

"Yeah yeah, I know, whatever. I just mean, it doesn't really sound like that's what's going on with you, for Eddie, right now. It kinda sounds like you, you know, like like him."

"Like like him? What are we, 12?"

"You know what I mean, Dingus, it just sounds like there are actual feelings here, not just sexy thoughts."

He shifts a little on his stool, feeling kind of exposed, but it's ok. It's just Robin. "I mean, yeah, I guess I kinda do? Have feelings. Or maybe I will? I'm kind of trying to hold them off, I guess, until we get out of here, you know? I barely know the guy, honestly, but also every time this happens I end up bonded for life to someone new, so why not him this time? I mean, the first time with the demogorgon even got me and Nancy back together, and we were like, donezo, for real, after that thing Tommy did to The Hawk. This shit is better than superglue, you know?"

Robin barks out a laugh. She squares her shoulders and puts on her best announcer voice. "Do you have trouble making friends? Looking to join a new crowd, but can't find a way in? Try Hell Beasts! Our near-death experience package will create lasting trauma that will bind you together forever! There's no escape now!"

The two of them collapse into giggles, drawing the eyes of several their friends scattered around the field.

When she composes herself, Robin gives him a soft smile. It's one of his favorites. Almost no one ever sees it but him, and not very often. "Well, I guess we had better all make it out of this in one piece, then, huh? So we can do all our sad gay pining together."

"I dunno, I think maybe I have a shot," he says thoughtfully, eyeing Edd- no, stop it, Munson, where he's flopped on the grass next to Dustin, chatting happily.

Robin boggles at him. "What the fuck do you mean, a shot? Are you- oh god, are you just gonna tell him? Steve!"

"Wh- Not right away or anything! And not for sure! I have to figure out if he's flagging on purpose first!"

"If he's whatting on what?"

"Oh come on, you remember that one zine that talked about the, uh. The whats it. The code! The hanky code, that was it!" He snaps his fingers in victory, triumphant.

She's still looking at him like he's grown a second head though, so maybe not.

"I don't know, maybe you skipped that one? From what I could tell it was more about men anyway. I think they mentioned that ladies use, uh, caribou. The clip things, you know?"

"Caribeeners? Dingus what the hell are you talking about?"

"It's this thing, right? That like, gay people, gay men, I guess, use to like, signal each other, kind of. It's basically like, you wear a hanky in your pocket, and what color it is and what pattern is printed on it and which pocket you wear it in tells people what kind of sex you like."

Robin looks even more shocked, if that's possible. "What does that even mean, what kind of sex you like?"

Oh, right. Lesbian virgin. Fair enough. "Like, do you like to uh. Give, if you know what I mean. Or receive. Do you like blowjobs, or handjobs, or like. I dunno, weird stuff. Like spit or whatever."

She's waving her hands frantically, her face screwed up. "Ahhhh lalalala that's enough! That's plenty of information, thank you!" He holds up his hands in surrender. She asked.

"Anyway, what does all of...that...have to do with you having a shot with," she switches back to her not-at-all-subtle stage whisper, "Eddie?"

"Haven't you noticed he's had that bandana in his pocket the whole time?" She whips her head around so fast he's surprised he doesn't hear her neck crack. Jesus, Robin.

"Would you chill out? You're going to make him look over here and then I'll have to let Vecna eat me because there's no way I'll survive the humiliation if he hears us, Robin!"

She glares at him. "Don't even joke about that, Dingus. You're making it out alive or I'll kill you myself."

He knows he's smiling adoringly at her, and if Henderson is looking he's never, ever beating those "in love with Robin" allegations, but whatever. "Noted, Buckley."

"So, what, you think he might be...like us? 'Cause of the bandana?"

"I mean, maybe, yeah? I might be crazy, but I also feel like he was definitely flirting with me earlier. Like in the Upside Down, and also at the trailer, you know?"

"Now that I think about it, that "Big Boy" thing was super weird. I figured it was just Eddie being Eddie, they call him The Freak for a reason, right? But I guess that could have been called flirting."

"Right? That's what I thought! And when we were down there, he was like, all up in my space, and he gave me his vest, and he seemed annoyed when I talked to Nance, even though he was trying to push me back to her. Which was insane, I didn't tell you this part Robs, oh my god. I was fully staring at his lips, just laser focused, like I would be on a girl I want to kiss, right? And he won't stop telling me how Nancy is definitely still in love with me and I should get her back! What the hell! Who does that? So I don't know," he sighs, feeling a little lost. "Maybe he isn't into me after all. But I have to at least check, right?"

"I mean, I don't think I'm the right person to ask about that, bubba, but if it goes sideways, I'll burn his house down if you want." She wiggles a molotov cocktail at him, grinning.

"Jesus, Bobbin, alright. Let's, uh. Let's call that Plan B, yeah?"

"Roger that, captain!" She gives him a stupid little salute, and for a moment he's back at Scoops, before everything went shit-shaped, but she's still his Robin, and they're safe and alive and nothing hurts.

And then he blinks again and he's sitting on an overturned bucket in front of a stolen RV, making molotov cocktails with his soulmate, watching his baby brother and the guy he might maybe sort of have a crush on tussle in the grass, hoping against hope they all live to see morning.

He picks up another bottle.

part 3

[littencloud9]

kunichuu + "you're not winning"

hehehe hii!! the sillies ever

"You're not winning," Kunikida mutters under his breath. Unfortunately, Chuuya hears him, and they squawk indignantly. "What the hell kind of boyfriend are you!" From the other end of the table, Yosano holds a glass of wine, swirling it around. She watches them with a confident smirk. Her lips are stained red. "You're a lightweight, sweetheart," Kunikida sighs. "You can't defeat Yosano-sensei in a drinking game. I don't think you can defeat anyone, to be ho—" He's interrupted by Chuuya tugging on his ribbon, dragging him roughly. Before Kunikida can say anything else, he's silenced with a fierce kiss. Yosano makes a gagging noise that goes ignored. When they separate, Chuuya has a fire blazing in their eyes. Kunikida should've known better than to say they cannot do something, because now, Chuuya will do absolutely everything to prove him wrong. Even if it means passing out in the process. He shakes his head. How did he fall in love with such an idiot? "If I win," Chuuya begins, poking their finger to Kunikida's chest, "you will let me do whatever I want. For... for a week!" He holds back a laugh. "Sure. I'll even let you blow up Dazai's dorm." "Fuck yes!" Chuuya pours themself a glass of wine, raising it to Yosano. "Bring it on." Yosano grins, clinking their glasses together. "Of course." Chuuya ends up passing out after three glasses. Kunikida expected nothing else.

[sagesolsticewrites]

Love’s Light Wings: Chapter 2 (“The course of true love never did run smooth”)

John Brady x Juliet Thompson (OFC)

Job interviews, wedding planning, and first meetings, oh my! John and Jules navigate his homecoming and start planning for their future while reckoning with the impact the past two years have had. Juliet finally puts a face to a name regarding a certain dear pen pal, along with several other new friends.

Word count: 6.4k

Warnings: description of a panic attack and PTSD symptoms (please let me know if there's anything I missed!)

Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction based off the portrayal by the actors in the Apple TV+ series. I hold nothing but respect for the real life individuals referenced within.

Hugest of huge shoutouts to @winniemaywebber and @blakelysco-pilot for reading this many many times before I posted it; our girls are finally together! 🥹 I love y’all 💕

Masterlist | Prologue | Chapter 1 

Juliet wakes, as she always does these days, with a smile.

It’s been around two weeks since her Johnny came home— two wonderful weeks since he’d proposed in the back garden— and she’d loved every second. John had been settling back into life at home in sleepy Victor, New York, taking the time to grieve the friends he’d lost overseas and process the passing of his father, happy to have his mother fussing over him while he took a break before resuming the search for a job.

Juliet had indeed asked around as promised and found that Victor High School was in the market for a second music teacher— poor Mr. Brown was getting overwhelmed with the class load and was looking forward to some help. So today, John had an interview with the principal, and Juliet was coming along to introduce him.

Beaming, she rolls out of bed to get ready for the day. Once her face is washed and she’s donned her favorite light green shirtwaist dress, she races to her vanity for her new favorite part of her morning routine: slipping on her engagement ring.

A warm wave of joy rushes through her feeling the subtle weight of it on her finger, the emerald and two tiny diamonds sparkling in the sunlight.

She skips downstairs once she’s deemed herself presentable, greeting her parents with a kiss on the cheek.

“Good morning,” her mother laughs, “you’re certainly in a good mood today.”

“It’s a good day,” Juliet shrugs, trying to downplay her excitement.

“Because you get to see John?” 

“Yes…” she drags out at her mother’s knowing look, unable to hide her smile, “And because of my lunch date with the girls, remember?”

“Oh yes,” her father laughs from his place at the table, “How could we forget?” In a more sincere tone, he continues, “I hope you plan on thanking Olive for all her letters when you meet her.”

“Of course, Daddy,” Juliet replies, “She was such a wonderful friend to have when Johnny was…”

She trails off, then clears her throat, continuing with an unbothered smile. 

“And I can’t wait to meet Val, she sounded like quite the character in Olive's letters.”

“You’ll be home in time for dinner, yes?”

“Yes, mama, I will.”

Breakfast passes quickly with quiet conversation, and promptly at 10 o’clock there’s a knock at the door.

Juliet jumps up from her chair with a squeal, racing to the front door. She pauses, taking a moment to brush any wrinkles from her dress and adjust her favorite brooch before opening the door to a smiling John Brady.

“Hi sweetheart.”

Butterflies flurry to life in her stomach as he leans in to press a chaste kiss to her cheek, mindful of her parents nearby.

“Hi, Johnny,” she smiles, “You look very nice, honey.”

Her boy preens in that shy way he does whenever she compliments him, stepping into the foyer.

“And you look lovely as always, Jules.” He nods to her parents lingering in the hall with a smile, “Good morning, Mr. and Mrs. Thompson.”

Greetings are exchanged, going over the schedule once more— interview, then John will drop Juliet off at the station so she can take the train into town for her lunch, he’ll be driving into town later to meet up with his fellow members of the 100th and dropping Juliet at home promptly at dinnertime.

Juliet’s parents wish John luck, reminding them to be safe, her mother urging her to say hello to all of the girls for her, and with some difficulty they manage to get out the door and into the car.

“You have your resume?”

John’s lips twitch slightly as he holds back a soft laugh, nodding to the glovebox, “Yes, dear—”

“And your c—”

“— and my cover letter, yes. As well as a few references.” He looks fondly over at his fiancée, “I have done this before, honey.”

“I know,” Juliet flushes a rosy pink, “I know, I just— I want to help in any way I can, Johnny.”

“You are helping, Jules,” he assures her, reaching to clasp her hand in his, thumb stroking gently over the back of it, “You’re introducing me to the new principal, you absolutely didn’t have to do that.”

“I want to,” she insists, “And besides, someone has to come in there and show you off,” she teases sweetly, “Knowing you, you’ll be the humble gentleman you always are and downplay all your experience.”

His lips quirk up into a smile reminiscing on his time as a teacher, which had come to an end when he enlisted after the Pearl Harbor attacks.

“Ah yes, my whole one semester of experience.”

“Hey,” she scolds at his sarcastic tone, “One semester is more than most people wanting this job have.” Her tone softens, giving his hand a gentle squeeze, “You’ve got this, Johnny.”

“Thank you, sweetheart.”

Upon arriving at the school, Juliet directs him to the principal’s office, occupied by a man who seems to be about the same age as her father. The two exchange a friendly greeting, Juliet turning on her brilliant, most charming smile as she turns to her fiancé, making the brief introductions and subtly slipping in a comment about how John’s “looking forward to being back.”

“Well, I’ll let you two talk,” she smiles demurely, slipping quietly out the door and clicking it closed behind her.

An hour later, a familiar figure stands in the doorway of her classroom where she’d decided to make some progress on her curriculum preparations. Looking up, she can barely hold back a squeal.

“Johnny! How did it go?”

His smile tells her everything she needs to know, even as he says, “I think it went really, really well. Mr. Asher said I should hear from them in a few days with their decision.”

She flings her arms around him, beaming.

“I knew they’d see how amazing you are. We’ll be working together again!”

“Honey, did you hear the part where I have to wait a few days to hear their decision?”

“That’s just a formality, Johnny,” she assures him as they begin the walk back to the car, “If I know Mr. Asher, he wanted to give you the job right away.”

Her fiancée just laughs, pulling her close to press a kiss to her temple as he opens the door for her.

He drops her off at the station with a kiss and a “Say hi to Olive and Val for me— they’ll love you, honey, I promise,” and she passes the time quickly with the paperback tucked into her purse.

At the station, Juliet scans the crowd for her friends— despite her protests, they’d insisted they meet her there and walk to lunch together.

She grins as she spots Jo and Jean standing with two other women, racing towards them.

“Jo! Hi darling!” She says, flinging her arms around her friends, “And Mrs. Croz, looking lovely as always.”

“Thank you, honey,” Jean laughs.

“So good to see you, Jules.” Jo beams, and then her attention turns to the stylish brunette standing beside her, “This is—”

“Val DiRosano,” the woman beams, reaching over for a handshake, which Jules ignores as she goes in for a hug.

“So wonderful to meet you at last, Val.” She says, “I’ve heard nothing but wonderful things from Johnny.”

“I should hope so,” she grins, green eyes sparkling as she gestures towards the woman beside her, “Same here, from both Brady and Olive.”

The sweet brown-haired, hazel-eyed girl gives Juliet a wave.

“Hi, Jules,” she says softly, her accented voice a surprise to Juliet’s ears, “So happy to finally meet you.”

A wave of emotion wells up in Juliet as she recalls the dozens of letters she’d exchanged with the girl before her, pouring out her worries about John, her dreams for when the war was over, essays pages long in which they rambled about Shakespeare, eagerly forming a friendship on countless sheets of paper. She recalled the two letters she’d gotten on that awful October day— one from her friend wishing her the happiest of birthdays, no doubt informed by Johnny, the other in which Olive somberly informed her that her boy had gone down, with a promise— soon fulfilled— that she’d write as soon as she had any more news. This was the girl who had talked her through some of the most horrible months of her life an ocean away, and before she knows it, Juliet is moving to pull Olive into a tight hug, tears welling up in her eyes.

“I’m so, so happy to meet you,” she murmurs, “Thank you for—” she swallows around the sudden lump in her throat, her voice tight, “for everything.”

Olive’s arms squeeze around her just as fiercely.

“Of course, darling.” She whispers, “I wish I could’ve done more—”

“No,” Juliet insists, “You were a lifeline when I needed one most, and I’ll never be able to thank you enough for it.”

With one final squeeze, the girls separate, matching teary smiles on their faces.

“Well,” Juliet giggles, trying to lighten the mood as she brushes her tears away, “I knew you were a Brit, but somehow the accent was still a surprise.”

“It was for me, too,” Val laughs.

“It seems I’m just surprising in general,” Olive smiles, “Now come on, ladies, I’m starving.”

They soon find themselves seated in a booth at a sweet little diner, laughing like they’ve known each other their whole lives.

“No, really! Baseball superstar Val over here decided to take over entertaining Meatball and threw it right into the briefing room!”

“You know I didn’t mean to!” Val laughs, “And besides, Chicky wasn’t too mad at us.”

“Chicky?” Jean’s brow furrows, Jo mirroring her confused expression, and Olive snorts.

“Her little nickname for Colonel Chick Harding.”

“Wha—?”

“Oh please, I know he liked it no matter how many times he complained,” Val laughs, tucking away a stray hair behind her ear.

It’s then that Juliet catches a glimpse of a lovely emerald ring glinting in the light.

“Oh Val!,” she gushes, “That ring is gorgeous.”

“Oh! Thank you,” the girl seems to go soft as she glances down at her left hand, and the girls swoon as she recounts the story of Everett Blakely’s proposal, a wide smile lighting up her dignified face.

“That’s so sweet,” Juliet says, pressing a hand to her heart, and the other girls lean in to examine it as Val holds her hand out proudly.

“Wait, Jules, we haven’t gotten to see yours yet!”

Jo was right, Jules realized, she had phoned her and Jean as soon as she could to gush about John’s proposal, but in the excitement of meeting Olive and Val, actually showing them the ring as she’d promised had slipped her mind.

She politely waits until the girls are done ooohing and aaahing over Val’s exquisite ring to extend her own for inspection.

Olive’s eyes nearly bug out of her head.

“Juliet Thompson, Brady proposed and you didn’t tell me!”

“I’m telling you now!” Juliet laughs, “It was such a surprise… apparently he asked my parents for permission the night he came home,” she says, visibly softening at the memory, “and the next day he was down on one knee in our back garden with his grandmother’s ring.” She locks eyes with Olive, knowing she’ll appreciate this next part as she squeals, “He quoted Tempest.”

Olive lets out an outright gasp, “He did not!”

She nods fervently, beaming, “I would not wish—”

Olive finishes the quote with her, “— any companion in the world but you! Oh, that’s lovely, Jules.”

Val grins as she examines Juliet’s ring, extending her hand next to hers so the two emeralds are sparkling in the light.

“Brady’s got good taste, I see.”

“Looks like your Everett does, too,” Juliet laughs.

“Well of course he does,” Val says with a playful toss of her hair, “He’s with me, isn’t he?”

Jean lets out a happy sigh, her gaze scanning over the girls huddled together in the booth.

“It’s so wonderful that we’re all together now, isn’t it?”

“Almost all of us,” Jules reminds her kindly, “Vika wasn’t able to get away from the hotel— but she promised she’ll be at our next little get-together.”

“Vika?” Olive asks, the unfamiliar name having piqued her interest.

“One of my school friends,” Juliet replies, the glow of happiness surrounding her seeming to intensify, “We drifted apart a bit after graduation, but we’ve since reconnected and it’s been wonderful.”

“She’s been a darling addition to our little group here, you two will absolutely adore her,” Jean assures Olive and Val.

Jo, Jean, and Juliet fill Olive and Val in about their time spent with Vika, as if trying to fill the space where she should be.

“I can’t wait to meet her,” Val says, red lips turned up into a sweet smile, “She sounds lovely.”

They talk for hours, though it seems like no time has passed at all when John enters the diner, scanning the room for Juliet, followed by several other men.

“Oh goodness, is it that time already?” Juliet glances at her watch as her fiancé makes his way over to their little booth.

“Hi sweetheart,” John says, bending down to press a chaste kiss to her cheek, then nodding to the rest of the girls, “Ladies. Olive, Val, very good to see you again.”

“Wonderful to see you, Brady.” Val grins. 

“Congratulations, by the way,” Olive says in a mock-offended tone, “I can't believe I had to wait two entire weeks to find out you proposed, Brady.”

The smile on his face stretches into a wide grin, seeing right through the act, “Well, you’re all invited to the wedding, will that be enough to make it up to you?”

“I suppose, “ Olive replies with a smile, her eyes going soft as her gaze drifts to the blue-eyed mustachioed man standing next to Brady, “Hi, honey.”

“Hey, Ollie,” the man replies sweetly, sliding into the booth next to her, then turning back to Brady, gesturing to the little group gathered around, “So, Brady, you gonna introduce us?”

With a good-natured roll of his eyes, John settles next to Juliet in the booth, gesturing between her and the boys.

“Gentlemen, this is my fiancée. Juliet.”

She gives him a tender smile, a swell of warmth rushing through her at her name on his lips alongside fiancée, though she soon remembers her manners and turns her attention back to the men, the names of whom John is currently listing— she had heard lots about them from the girls, but seeing them and putting faces to names was another thing entirely.

Rosie Rosenthal— the man Jo had been worrying over for months since he signed up for a second tour— gives her a kind smile, mustache twitching upwards. Harry Crosby— Jean’s beloved Bing— a softspoken man with kind brown eyes, greets her with a “Pleasure to meet you.” Everett Blakely beams, reaching over to greet her with a firm handshake, hazel eyes sparkling as he tells her how happy he is to finally meet the girl “Brady wouldn’t shut up about”, the comment bringing a blush to her cheeks. James Douglass— the man settled next to Olive, blue eyes bright and happy— perks up at her name.

“So I have you to thank for the Shakespeare lessons!”

“Yes, I’m glad they came in handy,” Juliet laughs, glancing pointedly at Olive. In one of his early letters, Johnny had asked for some of her particular favorite passages to pass on to Dougie in an attempt to help him woo Olive, and she was happy to see that they had helped— especially after she’d heard about the “I hope” incident.

“I mean, I don’t think I was that bad before, but—”

“‘I hope,’ sweetheart.”

“You are never gonna let that go, are you Ollie?”

“Never,” Olive beams, her smile matching the one on Dougie’s face.

The introductions quickly turn into another hour of talking before Juliet realizes how much time has passed. After a series of rushed goodbyes and long hugs, John ushers her into the car to begin the drive back upstate.

“Well? What did you think?”

“Of your friends? Johnny, they’re all wonderful,” Juliet smiles, “I'm so looking forward to getting to know them more. And Olive and Val! I feel like I’ve known them forever.”

She turns smiling to look out the window at the blur of trees passing by, green eyes turned golden in the setting sun.

“Yes, I think we’ll all be very good friends.”

“It was nice of Benny to offer to escort Vika home,” John observes a week later on their way home from their informal engagement party— they had gathered all of their friends at one of their favorite restaurants in the city, with the addition of Benny DeMarco and Juliet’s dear friend Ruthvika Patel— formerly “Ruthie”, now “Vika” thanks to the encouragement of the girls.

“Well of course he did,” Juliet laughs, “He’s absolutely smitten.” She sighs happily, “I knew he’d like her.”

“Really? How could you tell?”

“Are you joking, honey? He could hardly take his eyes off her the whole time,” she reaches over to poke him playfully, “Very similar to a certain someone I met in college.”

“Wha—? Okay, I was not that obvious…” John glances over at her, “Was I?”

“A little bit.”

“Well anyway,” he glosses over this revelation entirely, “I know DeMarco, if he likes her that much he’ll be asking her out in no time.”

“No, I hope he takes his time,” Juliet says, “Vika’s shy, and I don’t think she’s ever been in a relationship before. It’ll be better if they get to know each other as friends first.”

“Well, it’ll be interesting to see how it goes. They seemed to be getting along.”

“We’ll see if there’s any progress next week.”

“Next week?”

“Remember, your golf game with the boys? The girls and I are going shopping for the wedding while you all are out.”

“Shopping? But I thought you already had a dress, honey.”

Juliet shoots him a look.

“I need other things besides a dress, my love.”

“Of course, of course,” John says, holding one hand up in surrender, “I hope you girls have fun.”

“Thank you, honey.” Her tone is sincere as she reaches to intertwine her fingers, the car slowing as they pull up to the Thompson home.

“Hey,” he murmurs, turning to face her, “I love you.”

Her heart goes soft as he leans in to press a tender kiss to her mouth, pulling away just enough to meet her eyes.

“And I can’t wait to marry you.”

“I love you so much,” Juliet says softly, leaning in for another quick kiss, lingering as their eyes meet before she reluctantly slips out of the car, “I’ll see you soon, honey.” 

“Oh!” She calls, pausing as she makes her way up the front walk, “Do you still want help with putting together those lesson plans?”

“I'd love that,” he smiles, “Come over tomorrow? I know my mother would love to see her future daughter-in-law.”

“Yes! I can’t wait to catch up with her,” Juliet replies, lighting up at the prospect of seeing Mrs. Alice Brady.

John shakes his head, “Sometimes I wonder if you’re marrying me just to get to her.”

“Oh no, you caught me,” Juliet laughs, “What can I say, honey? We bonded.”

He chuckles, giving his fiancée a fond smile, “I’m glad you two get along so well. See you tomorrow?”

“See you tomorrow,” she confirms, blowing one last kiss his way before making her way inside, John only pulling away once the door is closed behind her.

One week— and one delightful visit to Mrs. Alice Brady— later, she and John are once again driving into the city.

“What are you girls shopping for again?”

“Just some accessories. And Jean said she was looking for a new dress— oh, and Olive wanted to stop by a bookstore at some point if there’s time—”

The corner of his smile twitches, just barely holding back a fond laugh, but all her fiancé says is, “Sounds like you have quite the day planned. I can’t wait to hear all about it.”

“Careful what you wish for, sweetheart,” Juliet laughs, “The girls and I will be talking your ear off at dinner.”

“I’ll tell the fellas to be prepared.”

“You girls have fun!”

“We’ll meet you for dinner at 6, alright?”

Juliet, Jo, Jean, Val, and Olive all wave off their respective men— and Vika shyly waves off Benny— with promises that they’d be at the restaurant at the agreed-upon time.

The boys went off to their golf game, and the girls drag Juliet along the bustling New York streets for the most important shopping day of her life.

“Oh Jules, look at that!” Jean gushes from her place beside her friend, pointing to a lace and tulle fascinator displayed in a boutique window.

Giggling, they descend upon the boutique, searching through the merchandise with girlish delight.

“Remind me, what does your dress look like, Jules?” Jo asks, picking through a selection of white gloves.

“Mama’s fixing up her own dress for me,” Juliet says with a wistful sigh, “I’ve always loved it. Ivory satin, gorgeous full skirt, pearls on the bodice…”

“Oh, it sounds lovely,” Val smiles, “Don’t you think, Vika?”

Vika glances up from where she’s fiddling with the lace of a fascinator, looking almost surprised to be included in the conversation even after several months of being embraced as a part of their little group.

“Hm? Oh!” She smiles shyly, “Yes, it sounds beautiful, Jules.”

“Oooh, what about this?” Olive holds up a truly ostentatious floral headdress bursting with tulle, “It’ll go perfectly with your bouquet.”

“I think that might be a bit much for Johnny.” Juliet laughs, glancing to make sure the woman who’d greeted them as they walked in is still busy helping another customer before whispering, “Is that what people wear to weddings in the future?”

“Not quite,” Olive giggles, “But you’re right, let’s find something else.”

“Jules,” Vika calls from a secluded corner of the store, “What about this?”

Juliet and Olive exchange a glance and follow her voice to the rest of the girls examining a selection of hats. Vika is standing next to a sweet ivory pillbox hat, a tulle veil attached at the top beneath a cluster of pearls.

Juliet is speechless.

“Isn’t it perfect?” Vika asks, brown eyes sparkling.

“It is,” Juliet squeals, rushing over to pick it up.

The girls cluster around a nearby mirror as she tries it on, and squeals of “gorgeous!” and “oh, you look beautiful, Jules!” echo out from their little corner of the boutique, tapering off awkwardly at the glares of the other customers.

Juliet laughs as she takes it off, then blanches when she sees the price tag.

“Well… it is gorgeous, but maybe we can find something else.” She says regretfully as she places it back on the display.

“What? No!” Jean frowns, “Honey, you’ve waited so long for this, you deserve it!”

“Jean, you’re sweet, but I just don’t have enough to be spending like that right now,” Juliet explains, “Come on, I’m sure we can find another option.”

Even as she says it and turns away, her eyes drift longingly back to the hat waiting on the shelf, settling there for just a moment before Juliet shakes herself and begins wandering back through the store.

There’s a series of whispers behind her, which Juliet assumes is the girls figuring out which section to peruse next, and the future Mrs. Brady finds herself back in front of the fascinators, trying to muster up the same enthusiasm she had when she first walked in.

“Jules?” Vika’s voice comes from behind her, and she jumps.

“Didn’t mean to scare you,” Her friend says apologetically, “ But, well… I think we’re ready to go if you are.”

Juliet turns, seeing the girls clustered behind Vika with poorly hidden smiles and a small hatbox held in Jean’s arms.

“Oh girls, you didn’t…”

“We all chipped in.” Jo beams.

“You deserve it, chicken,” Olive says, “It’s your wedding.”

A swell of emotion rises in Juliet’s chest, and it’s all she can do to squeak out a soft “I love you girls” before pulling them into a group hug.

“So do the two of you have a plan for after the wedding?” Jo asks as they stroll down to yet another boutique.

“I’m sure they do,” Olive says, eyebrows waggling.

“Oh hush!” Jo scolds with a playful swat to Olive’s arm, “Not like that. Jules, you know what I mean.”

Juliet nods, the blush at Olive’s comment fading in favor of a brilliant smile threatening to overtake her.

“There’s the sweetest little house for sale a few streets away from us,” she gushes, “Johnny’s been saving up, and his mother and my parents have offered to pitch in as well.”

“That’s very kind of them,” Jean says, “I can’t imagine how excited you must be— I remember how much I was looking forward to starting a life with Bing.”

“I am…”

Despite the joy in her voice, Juliet’s smile has dimmed the slightest bit.

 “I am, it’s just…”

The girls pause, identical frowns on their faces as they drift over to an awning over a dark storefront and wait patiently for Juliet to find the words.

“Sometimes it doesn’t feel real?” She finally says, her voice distant and soft, fingers worrying at the ring snug on her finger, “Like… like I’m in this wonderful dream, and at some point I’m going to wake up and he’ll be back in that place, and I’m alone again—”

“Oh, honey.”

Jo and Jean are the first to wrap their arms around her, the ones who know exactly how she feels— even after all the hoping and praying that their boys would come home safe, they knew that once they were home it took time to remember they were home for good now, that they were finally allowed to stop worrying and focus on the future ahead.

The girls said as much as they held their friend, trying to impart as much comfort as they could.

“Oh goodness,” Jules lets out a watery laugh, carefully brushing away the tears threatening to spill over and doing her best not to smudge her makeup, “I’m sorry, girls, this was supposed to be a fun day…”

“No, Jules, you have nothing to apologize for,” Olive assures her, “We’re all adjusting to life now that the war’s over, this is part of it. You and John will work through what you have to and build a beautiful life together, I just know it.”

Juliet shoots a grateful smile at the girls surrounding her, gratitude for the friendships they’d formed in such a dark time warming her to her core.

With one final squeeze, she returns to the subject that had gotten them on this path as they continue onward.

“You all absolutely have to come over once we’re all moved in, I’m dying to play hostess for you girls…”

They arrive at dinner promptly at six, the boys already waiting outside for them.

“Did you boys have a good time?” Juliet asks, already beaming as she brushes a chaste kiss to her fiancé’s lips.

“We did,” he smiles into the kiss, “How was your shopping trip? Can I have a peek?”

He makes a show of trying to peek into the hatbox in Juliet’s hands as she playfully swats him away.

“Absolutely not, John Brady, this is for mine and the girls’ eyes only until the wedding.”

“As you wish,” he says, the teasing sparkle in his eyes visibly softening at the mention of their wedding, “I know you’ll look beautiful no matter what, sweetheart.”

She rewards his tender words with another kiss as girls store their purchases safely in their respective vehicles, and the group heads in for dinner.

As promised, the girls chatter away about their shopping day, the boys doing their best to look interested, and vice versa when the topic turns to the boys’ golf game. The one quieter spot at the table is thanks to Benny and Vika— despite the orchestrations of Val and Jules to have them sit together, the two of them are still too shy to do more than say hello to each other when they’re surrounded by the excited conversation of their friends. 

Jules catches Val hiss something in Italian to Benny, to which he hisses something in return and redirects his attention to Rosie’s story about the fifth hole.

“How are they doing?” John whispers in her ear, his eyes flicking over to their mostly silent friends.

She shakes her head.

“Looks like still nothing yet,” she whispers back, “but Vika made it sound like they had a very nice time on the way back from the engagement dinner… oh I do wish they’d just talk to each other already.”

“Benny’ll come around,” he assures her, the comforting weight of his hand coming to rest on her knee— nothing improper of course, just letting her know he’s there.

Dinner flies by, aided by laughter and easy conversation, and before she knows it, her Johnny’s dropping her off back at home.

“You’re sure I can’t have just one tiny peek?” He whines once more as he shifts the car into park and she retrieves the hatbox from the backseat.

“No, Johnny,” Juliet replies, doing her best to bite back her smile in an attempt to look scolding and failing utterly, “I promise you’ll see it soon.”

“Soon,” he hums, reaching over to give her hand a squeeze and then tugging her in for a tender kiss.

It’s her turn to beam as he pulls away, warmth filling her as she realizes how soon soon really is.

Still, all she says is “I love you, drive safe, give my love to your mother,” before heading inside her childhood home, a piece of her future tucked inside the box in her arms.

It’s a balmy Saturday afternoon when Juliet takes the car to visit the Brady home. Wedding planning on top of both John and her planning for the upcoming school year has meant their time together is painfully limited, no matter how they try to find time to work together, and frankly? Juliet misses him.

So, an impromptu visit it is.

Armed with a tupperware of her mother’s chocolate chip cookies, she strides up the walk and knocks three times on the blue door, beaming as it opens to reveal Mrs. Alice Brady.

But instead of her usual cheerful smile, John’s mother seems more anxious than she’s seen her since John came home, and concern starts to whirl in the pit of Juliet’s stomach.

“Hello, Mrs. Brady, I— oh. Is everything alright?” 

“Hello, sweetheart,” Mrs. Brady puts on a far weaker version of her usual smile, “I’m sorry, John’s… he isn’t doing too well at the moment, honey—”

“What happened?” Juliet interrupts, her mind jumping to the worst possible scenarios.

Mrs. Brady appears torn, her mouth soundlessly opening and closing until she finally speaks again.

“He was helping me organize his father’s study… I— I dropped a book clearing off one of the bookshelves, and—” she takes a breath, forcing herself to continue, “He seems fine physically for the most part, but…” there’s a hint of fear in her eyes as she continues hesitantly, and the pit in Jules’s stomach grows, “he was shaking, he looked terrified, and I couldn’t… I couldn’t get him to recognize me.”

Jules’s hand flies to her mouth, doing her best to comprehend the situation.

“He seemed to be having some kind of attack, but I can’t help but think…” Alice Brady’s eyes meet Juliet’s, almost pleading now, “Maybe seeing you might help?”

”I… are you sure?”

“Absolutely, Juliet.” Mrs. Brady nods, “He may have missed me, but it wasn’t me he was fighting to come home to so he could propose. I have a feeling you’ll be able to help him through this in a way I can’t.”

With one last sad flicker of a smile, John’s mother leads Juliet through the house to the study that used to belong to Mr. Brady.

Her heart drops as she sees John crouched in a defensive position, blue eyes wild and unseeing, his breaths shallow as his eyes dart around the room looking for some unknown threat.

“Johnny,” she breathes, willing her voice not to break as she approaches him slowly. “Sweetheart?”

He stiffens at the sound but still doesn’t seem to recognize her and it’s breaking her heart to see him like this.

“Johnny,” she breathes again, using slow steady movements to crouch in front of him, “It’s me, honey, it’s Juliet. Your Jules.”

Maybe touching him would help—

It decidedly does not, as he flinches away from her, a sharp, gruff “no!” escaping him when she places a hand on his arm as if she’d brandished a gun in front of him.

Okay, different tactic.

“Can you look at me, Johnny?” She tries, pulling back and thinking for a moment before slowly brushing her fingertips to his.

It’s a soft enough touch that it doesn’t startle him, but it still hasn’t pulled him out of… whatever this attack is.

“Please—” she swallows, trying to keep her voice steady as she slowly, inch by inch, threads their fingers together, “Please, Johnny, it’s me, it’s Jules, please look at me—”

He’s still shaking, but his shallow breathing is slowly returning to normal as he blinks, eyes focusing once more on what’s in front of him.

“Johnny?” She says softly, squeezing his hand gently, trying to ground him.

“Jules?” He breathes distractedly, as if labeling the person in front of him rather than speaking to her.

And then the realization hits, and there’s a sharp inhale as he jerks away.

“Oh, God— oh, God, no, you shouldn’t have— when did you—”

“Sweetheart, are you alright?” She asks frantically, trying to get him to meet her eyes.

He’s shaking his head frantically, “What are you doing here, you weren’t supposed to— you can’t see me like this—”

It’s that last part that hits her. That makes her realize this isn’t the first time this has happened.

“This… Johnny, this has happened before?”

“It’s nothing,” he practically spits, refusing to meet her eyes, “just… remembering things from that place, I’m— I’m working on it, I swear.”

That place, she knows, is the stalag. Neither of them have been able to say the word yet, but a trailed off sentence or indeed, that place, shoved in just the right spot and they know what the other means.

“My love,” Juliet says hesitantly, having some idea of what his reaction to this suggestion will be. Still, she persists.

“If you feel like you need to talk about it— I don’t know what happened, but—”

Johnny’s definitely avoiding her eyes now as he says in a low, forceful tone— his voice is distant still, but not as if it’s lost in memory in some far off place, no; this is the detached voice of someone shoving their emotions deep, deep down— “We were stuck there for… for far too long. It wasn’t good. Now I’m home. That’s it.”

Juliet nods, recognizing when to step back even as she murmurs, “I know, sweetheart. But if you ever do want to talk about it… I’m here. I don’t want you to worry about scaring me or anything,” she adds, knowing that that’s at least part of why he avoids this topic with her, “All that matters is that we work through this together. Whenever you’re ready.”

He gives her a wordless nod, and the two of them are left to sit in silence, hands intertwined, until Mrs. Brady comes bustling in with a glass of water.

“Oh, thank goodness,” she breathes a sigh of relief once she sees her son, promptly fussing over him “Are you alright, sweetheart? Here, drink this— let’s get you settled in the chair here—”

John is moved to a soft, squishy dark green armchair nearby, doing his best to calm his mother’s nerves.

“I’m fine, Ma, I promise—”

“I’m so sorry, sweetheart, me and my butterfingers did this—”

“Ma, it’s not your fault, really—”

“Mrs. Brady,” Juliet interrupts, gently placing a hand over Mrs. Brady’s nervously fluttering ones, “he’s okay. It’s alright.” 

John's mother lets out a long exhale, taking a moment before giving Juliet’s hands a grateful squeeze. “Yes. Thank you, darling.”

“Always,” Juliet smiles, her demeanor softening as her gaze drifts from Alice to John.

Always. She’s about to start her always with him, and if she’s honest? It’s a little nerve wracking, thinking about that after what just happened. Not in a bad way, of course, just… it’s going to be an adjustment, navigating what her Johnny brought back from the war with him.

He made it back, she reminds herself, that’s all that matters. 

They’ll work through what they have to, like Olive said, and then… she has forever to be with him. Home and safe and together.

“You alright, sweetheart?” John murmurs, brows furrowing at her silence.

She blinks, then gives him a smile that she hopes conveys even an ounce of the love she feels for him right now.

“I’m fine, Johnny,” she assures him, “I just remembered I brought cookies. And you look like you could use one.”

“The chocolate chip ones your mother makes?” John brightens, eyes lighting up like a child in a candy store.

“They’re in the kitchen, I’ll get them,” Mrs. Brady chimes in, leaving them to try to smother their giggles as they catch a mumble of “as if he didn’t eat the last of my snickerdoodles just yesterday, this boy…”

The moment his mother is gone, John wordlessly draws her into his lap, his arms wrapping around her and squeezing ever so slightly

“You sure you’re alright, darling?” Juliet asks, snuggling into him as he pulls her close..

The smile that greets her as she looks up at him isn’t quite the same one that she knew before he was shipped off. It isn’t stretched quite so wide, doesn’t reach his eyes in the same way. 

But she smiles back just the same as he assures her, “I’m perfect, Jules.”

“Now, are you sure you’re alright?”

She takes a moment to consider it and decides that right here, in her fiancé’s arms, mere weeks from marrying him…

“I’m perfect, too, Johnny.”

[non-un-topo]

Sometimes I procrastinate writing a fic by “storyboarding” it 😅