#imagine a kind rich man taking you for romantic walks and long drives and boat rides and somehow winning the No I Love You More game

[another-chaotic-bisexual-vampire]

Arthur taking Lucy on the cutest dates ever and then hitting her with this smooth ass line

[sabraeal]

Insult on Top of Injury

The Wide Florida Bay | Previous

Written for @vivianwisteria‘s birthday...which just so happened to be right when I was in the hospital, not able to work on anything. But at least this time it’s only a month late! She requested a Wide Florida Bay piece, specifically the moment Obi comes out to Zen...and how could I refuse >:3

This is a fucking disaster.

In his heart of hearts, Obi knew there was no way this conversation wouldn’t have hit like a brick, no matter when or how they had it. As much as Doc insisted that her and Zen were over, that they’d pretty much failed to launch in the first place--

Well, Obi had known that wasn’t the way Chief saw it. You don’t have a deep heart to heart on a yacht about liking the same girl without picking up a few things about how your romantic non-rival thinks things are going. God, he’d told him to propose to her.

Three-years-ago Obi was such a dumb fuck. Good thing no one listens to him.

Three-years-from-now Obi is going to be thinking the same fucking thing about him right now, he can just feel it. Well, as long as that asshole finishes his thesis, he can think whatever he likes.

He shakes his head, looking in the mirror. Now’s really not a good time to be yucking it up over how good Future Obi is going to have it, not when Present Obi is currently wondering if this bathroom is fancy enough for him to have a window to climb out of.

Not that he would. He’s left Doc out there, awkwardly making conversation with the happy couple and her shell-shocked ex-boyfriend, and though she has a gift for smoothing things over, this is--

It’s a lot. Especially when said ex-boyfriend didn’t realize that he’s been one for the last six months.

Fuck. Obi slams his palm onto the metal lip of the sink-- or rather, trough, since this isn’t just a fancy-ass fake Mexican place, but the kind that has rustic-yet-modern details like brushed metal trough sinks and exposed beams and something that might actually be adobe.

“This is fucking ridiculous,” he tells the mosaic bird beneath his feet, and sticks his head right under the faucet.

Ah, that’s right-- the best part about fancy places like this is when he turns on the tap, the water is actually fucking freezing. And if no one is around to hear him yelp like a little baby when it hits his neck, so much the better.

“Fuck,” he gasps, rearing back out of the stream. “Fuck.”

Obi meets the gaze of his own reflection, and god, does he not need the judgement he sees right now.

“I get it,” he tells Mirror Obi, watching the water drip through the bristle of his hair, leaving tracks down his forehead. “I fucked up. Bad.”

Not like he could have done much. He’d wanted to believe Doc too much, wanted to believe that the past two years had all been leading straight to this, to them; that it hadn’t been a meandering path that circled around and sometimes even through her floundering relationship.

Still, he probably could have texted. Hey Chief, just want you to know I’m fucking Doc now. Just as good as I thought it would be. XOXO.

Oh yeah, that would have gone so well. He can just tell.

Obi shakes himself, water spraying over the trough. He’s gotta pull it together. He can’t stay in this fancy fake Mexican bathroom all night. Doc would kill him.

No, not kill-- Doc would never be so violent. She’d just give him that sad pout and say things like, I’m not upset, I’m just disappointed, and make him wish they had a yard so he could go sleep in the doghouse where he belongs. Whoever said, there are fates worse than death has definitely met Shirayuki when she’s disappointed.

He scrubs a hand down his face. Time to face the tapas. Ain’t like things are gonna go any less sideways in here.

The door easily swings open under his hand; it’s almost a disappointment. It lacks the proper gravitas of a man going to his own disembowelment.

A disembowelment that is going to happen about two minutes earlier than he expected with far less of a crowd, if Kiki’s expression is any indication.

“Kiki!” There’s a reddish cast to the shadows around her, thanks to the great big EXIT sign she’s underneath, which lends an artful level of menace to the situation. God, he wishes she wasn’t between him and the door. “Just getting some fresh--?”

She levers herself off the wall, swaggering right into his personal space. It’s both super hot and pants-pissingly terrifying; something that would be right up his ally if he both wasn’t in the best relationship of his life and bone-shakingly certain he was about to die.

“Go talk to him.”

He blinks. “Come again?”

“Go talk to him.” It’s strange; he’s always thought of Kiki as a giant, as a woman who maybe couldn’t look dead into his eyes but at least came close, but standing like this she’s-- small. Human. “Please.”

“I don’t...” He sighs, shoulders rounding. “What am I even going to say to him?”

“Everything,” she tells him, forbidding. “Anything. Just keep using words until this is better. You’re good at that.”

He chokes on a laugh. Sounds more like Doc’s specialty than his; whenever he runs his mouth off he just gets into situations like this.

“Princess, I would love to oblige you,” he manages, “but I’m not sure that’s possible.”

“We’re only here because none of you can just--” she makes an aborted gesture and steps up into him, so close he can smell the spice on her breath. “Make it possible.”

He laughs. “How?”

She pokes him square in the chest. It hurts. “Use. Your. Words.”

His hair dries the instant he steps outside, because if there’s one thing Florida’s good at, it’s being hot as fuck. And humid as fuck.

Use your words. Obi sighs. Easy for Kiki to say; she barely uses any. He’s been spouting them all night, and they’re still here: in a fancy tapas restaurant trying to masquerade as a humble taqueria, with Chief taking a long walk on its short pier. Literally.

Obi trudges down the stairs to the shoreline, hands buried in his pockets. Here he is, all dressed up-- he wore a button-down for this; hell, he wore slacks too, and that’s what really killing him before the breeze kicks up-- and still everything has turned into a shitshow. He ate his tapas, made good conversation, broke the news gently, and--

It’s no good. He can try as much as he likes, but the fuck up here is still him.

He drags his glare off his shoes when he hits the planks, and it’s like he walked right into one of those GQ shoots: Zen’s all artfully disheveled, leaning on the rail with the sort of brooding, thousand-yard stare that cameras love. He’s half-tempted to slip out his phone and take a pic himself, except that memorializing the moment he royally fucked up a friendship seems like a bad idea, psychologically. Definitely a choice the therapist back at Wistal would have spent a good hour on.

“Hey,” he says, trying to be casual, as if there was anything casual about chasing after your bro after you inform him you’re sort of fucking the girl he got off the plane thinking he was still dating.

He shakes himself. No, not-- it’s not fucking. He’s dating Doc. Seriously. God, this is literally the most serious he’s ever been. This is real.

Though, there is definitely a lot of fucking. A lot more than he’d imagined there would be, if the planets aligned and Shirayuki looked at him like how he looks at her even a little.

Zen stiffens, shoulders springing up to his ears like the pickets on a fence, like he can keep Obi’s bullshit out if he puts enough of a barrier between them. Which...fair.

Obi sidles up next to him, bracing his hand on the rail, and breathes. The salt stings his lungs, his eyes, and god, hadn’t they done this before? It’s only been three years, but that night on the Wisteria yacht feels like ages ago, like another lifetime entirely.

He had shitty feelings then too. Just blurted out I like Doc like an idiot.

Use your words, that’s what Kiki said. Obi grimaces. Look how well all that turned out.

“What’s the deal with the dock?” he says, regret instantly washing over him. Why on earth did Kiki think he could do this? “Like one of those big overhang decks? I could get that. But a dock? Seems excessive.”

The silence is disheartening, but Obi can’t say he doesn’t expect it. Small talk isn’t really a thing you do when everyone’s realized there’s been an overlap in boyfriend eras.

“It’s really more of a wharf,” Zen says, like he’s dredging up each word. “Lots of little piers all together.”

“Oh, well,” he drawls, mouth twitching. This he can work with. “Sorry. What’s up with the wharf?”

Zen shrugs, shoulders practically creaking from the effort. “It’s a thing waterfronts do. People have houses down here, and they like to have a reason to show off their boat to all the neighbors.”

Obi can’t help it, he stares. “So they drive it to the nearest fine dining establishment?”

Zen casts a confused look back at the restaurant. “I mean, it isn’t that nice.”

God, rich kids.

“If you say so, Chief.”

Silence settles over them, as comfortable as a wet blanket-- ugh, or maybe that’s just the humidity; they really should be having this conversation where there’s air conditioning. Or never. But never isn’t an option, not unless he wants to lose this, and--

And whatever else happens, he can’t. Doc might have been the one to clean him up and tame him, but Zen was the one that pulled him out of the dumpster. He had every reason to keep on driving, to leave him sitting in a vat of fried pickle juice, but instead he stopped. Instead he offered a hand.

It wasn’t a kindness he deserved. He’d known that then, and he knew it even better now. But Zen saw something in him, something not even he had seen, and--

And he needs that.

“So, ah,” Obi coughs, staring out at the marina across the bay. “Back in the restaurant. That was, ah, a lot, right?”

Zen doesn’t answer him, doesn’t even look at him, but Obi’s watching him from the corner of his eye, and he sees his mouth pull thin. Yeah, this was probably not the most graceful way to bring this up. Probably should have stuck with small talk.

He clenches his jaw. Whatever, in for a penny, in for a pound, and quite frankly if they don’t clear the air, Kiki might kill him.

“Yep,” he says, glaring out over the water. “You’re right. Just a whole ton. Really fucking heav--”

“This was my worst nightmare,” Zen croaks, the words nearly lost on the breeze. “You know that?”

Considering he wakes up in a cold sweat two nights out of seven, convinced Doc’s come to her senses and left him only to find out she’s gotten up to pee-- yeah, he knows that. Inside and out.

Probably...probably not the best time to say so.

“I knew the whole thing was a risk,” Zen admits, with a rueful laugh. “I mean, you told me you liked her, and I sent you after her anyway.”

Obi stiffens. “You didn’t send me here. Shidan offered me a spot, and I chose to come.”

“Right, sure, but I encouraged you,” he says, elbows leaning heavy on the rail. “I told you that you could do it-- that you should do it. And I-- I knew then too. Even without you telling me.” He laughs, wry. “I made the stars align to get you here.”

His fingers clench around the wood. It’s true, he knows; his grades had been good, Garrack liked him, Shidan liked him, but abroad programs were a long shot, and he was not the sort of pony the admin department was apt to bet on. He’d always known there must have been a nudge, a whispered word over canapes, but--

But he really could have lived without knowing it. “Doc was with you.”

“Sure, but I’m fifteen hundred miles away, and you look like-- like that.” He waves a hand at him, cheeks flushed. “And you were interested.”

The rail creaks under his grip. “I never--”

“No, of course not,” Zen sighs. “But all you have to do is breathe and panties come off.”

Historically, it’s a fair assessment, but it’s like he’s forgotten that it’s Doc, the last person on earth who would be swayed by rippling abs and solid pecs. For two solid years she happily went without any sexy time whatsoever from her long-term boyfriend and thought that was a good thing, and it had nothing to do with how well he filled out his jeans. Unfortunately. Would have made a whole bunch of things a lot easier if it had.

“If you’d been interested in me, I would have--” Chief turns a painful red-- “I mean, if I was a girl. Not--”

If Zen had known, he would have done more than eyefuck you for an entire year.

It’s strange how that’s all it takes for things to come into focus. It’s not about Doc, it’s not even about him, it’s--

“I just thought if this was going to happen, it wouldn’t have taken so long,” Zen continues, hunching over the rail. “I thought you’d just...jump each other or something, and it’d be over.”

--It’s about him.

“I should have paid more attention,” he sighs, morose. “I just thought that I knew you--”

“Hey, while we’re talking about stuff,” Obi blurts out, wishing he could stop hearing Kiki’s voice, wishing he could stop thinking, just talk about everything until this is fixed, “you know, stuff we haven’t talked about...”

Zen turns to him, wide-eyed, and god, this is a really bad fucking idea.

“You should know,” he says, striving for a casualness that isn’t even in the same zip code as his anxiety, “I’m bi.”

The word sits between them like a lead weight, like cement shoes.

“W-what?” Zen manages, and god, he’s almost purple.

“Listen, Kiki said that--” he shakes his head-- “never mind. I just-- it seemed like you should know, and honestly, it’s not like you can really get more mad at me at this point, so--”

“I’m not-- I’m not mad.” He is a little breathless, which is interesting to say the least, and there’s not an exposed sliver of skin on him that isn’t pink. “I just-- why are you telling me? It’s not like I’m-- that I--”

“Kiki said we were flirting all of sophomore year,” he says before the kid can hurt himself. “So it felt pertinent to the conversation, I guess.”

“What? I wasn’t--” he sputters before his words dry up. “Wait. We were flirting?”

God, he really has a type, doesn’t he? “Yeah. You know--” he turns to him, letting his mouth take a sly slant-- “before Tanbarun, I could have gone for blonds or red heads.”

Zen stares. “What does Kiki have to do with--? Oh.” His jaw goes slack. “Oh. So you were...?”

“Flirting? Yeah.” He slides closer, brow arched. “Thought I was being obvious too.”

Chief’s mouth works for a moment, eyes darting to take in this new distance, and he blurts out, “I thought you were joking!”

Yuzuri’s right; he needs to work on his game if the result is resoundingly, I thought you weren’t interested.

He grins, dropping his voice. “Ryuu says I like to joke, but I never lie.”

It’s fun to see Chief like this, stuttering and unsure, face so red he’s worried about what it means for brain function. “But you-- you said-- on the yacht--”

Obi doesn’t point out that the yacht was a good six months after Tanbarun, that by then he’d been long gone on Doc. Whatever potential had been brewing between them had cooled, Obi’s heart settling into the long haul of pining for a girl he’d thought would never see him as more than a friend.

Mostly because it’s funnier this way.

He leans in, close enough that his breath stirs the baby-fine wisps at his hairline. “I said I liked you.”

He’d meant it, too, but not the way he would have months earlier, wondering if Chief’s furtive post-shower glances were as speculative as his were. On that yacht, his whole body had been quivering, an arrow ready to be loosed. He just needed Zen to point him south.

“I also said you had great eyes,” Obi reminds him, smirking. “And a great ass.”

Zen’s mouth pulls flat, and just like that the spell is broken. “You said you liked Shirayuki, too. And you definitely meant that differently.”

Yeah, he’d meant to say he loved her, but it seemed kinda gauche to say in front of her boyfriend.

“Maybe,” he teases with a shrug, “but you’re both my type. Stubborn, cute--” he slides his hand along the rail until they’re almost touching, looming over him-- “short.”

“All right.” Chief puts a hand to his chest and shoves. “Joke’s over.”

Obi stumbles away, pressing his palm to his heart with a theatrical gasp. “Why, your lordship, would I ever lie to you?”

Zen’s mouth pulls thin. “No. I know that you’re-- being honest about that. But you’re definitely trying to fuck with me.”

“Can you blame me?” he asks with a grin. “I don’t envy your complexion at all, chief. You give everything away.”

“Ha-ha.” Zen gives him a withering look. “First short jokes, now this. You definitely seem contrite.”

“Hey, I am. I never--” he shakes his head-- “we weren’t trying to hurt you. We just--”

“No, I get it.” He hangs his head with a humorless laugh. “I wasn’t part of the equation. I stopped being one a long time ago and then just...never noticed.”

Obi grimaces. It sounds so much worse when he says it, all out loud and stuff.

It doesn’t make it any less true.

Zen coughs, awkward. “Hey, uh, listen. As long as we’re being honest...”

Every muscle in his body tenses, but Obi takes a breath-- takes two breaths, because this is going to be heavy, talking about Atri, talking about what it’s like to feel like you’re carrying around a secret no one will understand-- and leans oh-so-casually against the rail. “Yeah?”

Nailed it.

Zen squares himself off, like he’s expect a fight-- no, like he’s expecting a punch, and he’s ready to take it--

“I’ve been seeing Kihal.”

Obi stares. “Uh, what?”

“C-casually!” he clarifies, springing back from the rail and shuffling down the pier like he hasn’t dropped an absolute bomb. “It’s not-- not anything serious or anything. Just, you know. Coffee. And dinner.” With a guilty expression he mutters, “And breakfast.”

Obi stands there blinking like an idiot. “Come again?”

“Listen, I know it’s...” He grimaces, realizing there’s no more rail to hold this far out, and holds up his hands instead. “I know I said that nothing had changed for me, but I guess--” he sighs, hanging his head-- “on some level I knew. Shirayuki was pulling away.

“That doesn’t make it right,” he continues, “but even though we hadn’t said anything, I knew it was over. No--” he shakes his head-- “I wasn’t even thinking about it. Shirayuki wasn’t even really a consideration.”

He can’t even think from how loud his mind is screaming. “So you came down here to...what? Break up with Doc?”

Zen grimaces. “I mean, it sounds so bad when you--” Obi glares-- “yeah. Yes. I guess. Something like that.”

“So what you’re saying,” Obi deadpans, “is that I suffered through that whole dinner, your huge ass guilt trip monologue, and this conversation...and you’re seeing someone else?”

“Well, gently,” he argues lamely. “Not like you guys, when you’re, you know, practically married--”

His arm moves on its own.

His palm juts out, taking Zen right in the chest, and he stumbles for a single step in his boat shoes before he falls ass-first right into the bay. A jolt of concern wracks him in the second it takes Chief to emerge, bobbing and gasping, linen shirt soaked all the way through to transparency, and is gone just as quick.

“What,” he gasps, hands flailing for the dock, “was that for?”

Obi grins. His arm might have moved on its own, but he definitely approves. “Really?”

Zen deflates, arms crossing over the planks to hold him. “Okay, this is fair.”

He crouches down, meeting his wide-eyed gaze. “You think?”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah.” Zen holds out his hand. “Just help me up.”

“My pleasure, master,” he teases, grasping his hand, and--

And it’s only once he’s tilting, boards no longer under his feet, that he realizes: that’s the oldest trick in the book.

From the pier, the shore had looked a lot closer. It takes a significant amount of actual swimming until he’s able to brush his toes against the bottom-- though he’ll admit, half of it is because there’s no cool, convenient way to swim with clothes on. Doggie paddle is inefficient, but actual strokes look like you’re trying too hard, so they make due with some weird combination of both with some freestyle cussing.

“So,” Zen coughs, once his own feet can touch, a good few feet after Obi can. “Did you like Mitsuhide too? I mean, since you wanted to kiss everyone?”

In Obi’s opinion, the fact that his top three sexual fantasies in Wistal involved either Zen, Kiki, or Doc showed some real discerning standards, like some real Gray Goose level taste, but he understands-- the point’s lost on Zen. He’s in his mid-twenties and can count the number of people he’s wanted to catch in a dark corner on one hand. They’re different people, it’s cool.

“Nah,” he sighs, shaking out his hair. Zen hisses as some of the water sprays him. “I mean, if I didn’t know him, I’d fuck him in a second, but--” he hesitates-- “No, wait, scratch that. I’d let him fuck me, but--”

“OKAY,” Zen yelps, pushing past him. “Conversation over! Too much information!”

Obi grins at his back. “You did ask.”

“Yeah,” Zen huffs, trudging faster, “and now I definitely regret it.”

“Hey,” he croaks, feet finally finding purchase-- as long as he cranes his neck up. It hurts like a bitch, but it’s giving him a great view of the shoreline. “Does that look like--?”

“Kiki’s waiting for us?” Chief finishes faintly. “Yeah, it does.”

He’d grimace if it wasn’t going to get more water down his throat. “Does she look...pissed?”

“I can’t tell from here.” Zen gives him a flat look. “Are you a betting man?”

It’s not much of a gamble with these odds. “How about we just swim up...super slow?”

“Yeah,” he agrees, quickly. “Sounds great. Let’s just take our time.”

The water laps at their thighs-- well, his thighs, Chief’s waist-- when Obi finally clears his throat and asks, “So Kihal.”

Zen tenses beside him. “Yeah?”

“You really--” man, this sounded better in his head-- “like her?”

“Yeah.” Zen sends him a wary glance. “I think...yeah. There’s something there.”

“Good.” Considering how much there it sounds like Chief’s experienced, there better be. “She’s good people. I wouldn’t want anyone to be playing around with her.”

To his everlasting surprise, Zen laughs. Has a good old fashioned guffaw right there as they marinate in fish shit and whatever runoff this restaurant is paying the inspectors to miss. “What?”

“Nothing, it’s just--” he shakes his head, hair almost translucent between the sun and the water-- “she did not like you back in the day.”

“According to Doc, she thought I was hot back in the day,” Obi says, basking in Chief’s unstifled ugh. “And then was extremely betrayed when I ended up being an asshole.”

“That does sound exactly like her,” Zen admits with a begrudging fondness. Obi dares a glance in his direction, and-- yep, lovesick smile.

“I’ve since made up for it,” he assures him, hand pressed humbly to his chest. “But she also likes to text me every few weeks to remind me she could kick my ass.”

“Also sounds exactly like her.” Zen ducks his chin, awkward. “It’s good though.”

“I’d say so. I could live out my Zorro dreams if I let Elena de la Vega--”

“Please do not finish that thought,” Chief pleads, eyes rolled heavenward. “I just meant it would suck if one of my best friends didn’t get along with my girlfriend.”

Obi has to take a moment. A whole ass moment while he tries to remember how breathing and not crying work.

Chief claps him on the back, expression etched with worry. “You okay?”

“Yeah, yeah.” He coughs, and ugh, some ugly cry phlegm comes out. “Just-- there’s pollen or something. My chest got all tight.”

“Right.” Zen squeezes his shoulder with a grin. “I know this is all-- weird.”

“Terrible,” Obi corrects.

“Right, it’s godawful.” He sighs. “But I won’t lose you over being dumb. Either of you.”

“Cool, yeah” He nods, and ugh, makes the worse sniffling noise. “Also-- girlfriend? I thought you said this wasn’t anything serious.”

He’s eaten lobsters less red than Chief, he’s pretty sure. “Shut up.”

“Somehow,” rings a cold voice from the shore as they pick their way over the sharp shells near the shore, “this is even stupider than I thought it would be.”

Obi winces. Ah yes, going slow would have been a great plan, if Kiki was going get to tired of waiting. Now she’s only had time to age her anger, like the wines in the Seiran basement.

Zen gulps, audibly. “It’s not my--”

She holds up a hand, whipping out her phone and flicking through screens so fast that a deep pit of dread forms in his gut. Oh, she’s not just pissed, she’s officious.

They are fucked.

“W-what are you doing?” Zen asks, faint. If he was a lobster before, he’s its ghost now, pale as a sheet.

“Ordering you an Uber.” She says it the same way men in the spy business might say waterboarding.

“W-wha--”

“I’m glad to see you’ve both worked out being idiots,” she tells them, mouth curving, just for a moment, into something like a smile. “But there is absolutely no way you’re getting into Mitsuhide’s car like that.”

Kiki regards the two of them, dripping into the bay in their nice clothes, from down the length of her nose. “The restaurant will lend you some towels for the ride. We’ll meet you back at the hotel.”

She strides away, disappearing up the stairs, toward the street.

“Well,” Zen sighs, dragging himself out. “That could have gone worse.”

“No.” Obi shivers, giving him a boost. “She’s just leaving the rest for Doc.”

Zen freezes, halfway up the retaining wall. “Oh. We’re fucked then.”

“Yeah,” he grunts, “now you’re starting to see the picture.”

[trillian-anders]

amor de mi vida - 1939

pairing: bucky barnes x latinx!reader

warnings: slow burn, racism, prejudice, fluff, language barrier

word count: 5805

description: Bucky Barnes is a sweet young Brooklyn boy, just on the cusp of manhood, a hopeless romantic that falls in love with almost every girl he sees. when he sets his eyes on a young girl fresh off the boat from Cuba he finds out how hard love can really be.

for @cake-writes​ 1940s challenge.

Bucky loved Brooklyn, he loved everything about the borough. The Dodgers, the noise, the diner down the street from his house that made the best cherry pie he’d ever had, he even loved the way it smelled. The salty breeze from the that rolled in every morning and evening, the Statue of Liberty lighting up the bay. He was a Brooklyn boy through and through, even if his birth certificate said he was born in Shelbyville, Indiana. His parents moved here before he could even remember, Brooklyn was all he knew. 

He was on the cusp of manhood. The final years of his schooling before he was ready to take on whatever life threw his way. He didn’t have any expectations. To him it was so simple. Take up more hours in his Dad’s shop, find a beautiful dame, get married, pop out a few kids, have everything his parents ever had and everything they ever wanted for him. He felt so young, full of hope and ready. Ready for anything.

Munching on crackerjack he sat, feet swinging on the edge of pier five, his best friend sketching idly next to him. He tried to ignore the younger boy’s rattling breaths. He was fine, those breaths were normal for him, that’s all that mattered. Steve had recently had a pretty bad scare, when his Ma came down with TB and passed there had been a big concern that the sickly boy had caught it from her. There was quarantine and Bucky thought he was going to lose the best friend he’d ever had. 

Thankfully that wasn’t the case. 

The pair sat in a comfortable silence, the kind that comes with years of companionship. Just the company soothing them from their day. A test in math, the girl that just broke Bucky’s heart, another girl that wouldn’t pay Steve any mind. Bucky’s eyes drifted to his friend’s sketchpad, the Manhattan skyline taking shape slowly but steadily. 

It was warm, the beginning of summer. The switch from wearing sweater vests to short sleeve button downs, wool socks traded in for more breathable cotton. Bucky leaned back on his hands, feet swaying slightly over the edge of the dock watching the ship moving slowly in the water towards Ellis Island. 

“I wonder what it must be like,” Bucky said, “To leave your entire life behind and go somewhere completely new.” Steve’s pencil stopped on the page, looking over at his friend. 

“Must be scary,” Steve started, “Not knowing anyone I mean.” Bucky hummed in agreement. 

“Ma said she’s gonna make meatloaf tonight,” Bucky stood from the dock, helping his friend to his feet, “You’re comin’ to dinner right?” Steve nodded, stuffing his sketchbook into his bag. “Good, cause you really didn’t have a choice there pal.” Bucky’s arm swung over Steve’s shoulder, dragging the smaller boy behind him as they hopped into the junker that was Bucky’s pride and joy. 

The 11 year old Ruxton he’d found rusting away in a scrap yard last year, totaled in an accident and discarded. He’d only recently gotten it back up and running, but it was still a terrifying ride. He dared not take it farther than a few city blocks, but it was still nice to drive. They pretended like they were rich folk above it all, driving the recently painted sleek black car down the streets, wind in their hair only because the windows wouldn’t roll up. 

The next day Bucky fell in love again, and he couldn’t even remember who broke his heart yesterday. Dorothy Seeley. A beautiful blonde dame, bright green eyes, legs for days. She was in his english class. He could see a future with her, something Bucky always wanted. He could imagine loving her forever, her pretty pink mouth pressed against his in his car because he had one, and that made him special. Better than the other boys. 

He was sweet on her, doting, for days. A trip to Coney Island that left him broke, the drive-in, burgers and fries at the diner by his house. Steve in tow. Always. 

He was leant up against the side of his car, Dot pressed against his chest as they exchanged a soft kiss. “I’ll see you tomorrow?” He asked. She grinned, lips parting like petals around shiny white teeth. 

“You’re keen on me Barnes.” Holding his hand and stepping back, her skirt twirled around her legs. 

“Is that a bad thing?” He grinned, his own pearly whites showing. He could feel Steve rolling his eyes from inside the car. 

“Tomorrow then,” He pulled Dot in close to land one more cheeky kiss before she was skipping up the steps into her family’s brownstone, and out of sight. Bucky’s grinning face turned around to look at his friend, slipping into the driver’s seat. 

“I’m gonna marry that girl.” He said.

Steve rolled his eyes, “You say that about every girl.” 

“I mean it this time,” Bucky assured him, pulling the car away from the curb. 

Steve laughed, “You say that too.” 

Bucky’s family wasn’t rich, but they weren’t poor either. His Ma would always say, “We have just what we need.” And it was true. 

Bucky was the eldest of five, the only boy with four younger sisters, each spaced two years apart. The youngest being his favorite, but he’d never tell the other three. 

Rebecca Barnes was his partner in crime, the sweet girl looked most like him, at only nine years old she was a spitfire. Full of attitude and sass, almost always covered in dirt, and easily conned both him and his father into giving her penny candy on almost a daily basis. 

Susan Barnes was eleven and extremely smart, she’d often help her older siblings with their homework, studying. She almost always had a book in her hand and could recite Shakespeare off the top of her head. 

Ruth Barnes was thirteen and hated everyone and everything. It was just that age. She was experimenting with makeup, almost always on the telephone, and generally didn’t speak to anyone in the house unless she absolutely had to. Talking to her lately was just about as hard as pulling teeth. 

Lastly was Virgina Barnes, she was fifteen and much to her father and brother’s chagrin was a little boy crazy. Bucky was sure she was dating someone she wouldn’t bring around to the house, he’d often spy on her in the halls of their high school trying to catch a glimpse of who the punk was that had necked with his sister, but so far she’s been sneaky and kept out of sight. 

His parents were still very much in love. The two were always touching, kissing, slow dancing to music that wasn’t there. It was everything Bucky ever wanted. His mom, Winnie Barnes, came from money. Old money and his grandpa every rare time they saw him would be sure to make it known that he didn’t like their father. 

George Barnes had grown up pretty poor, very wrong side of the tracks. He’d fought in the War to End All Wars in the 107th, met Winnie Barnes when she was a nurse. Real classic story. One Bucky loved hearing. 

His Pops owned his own shop now, one of the only mechanics in Brooklyn which kept him pretty busy, but provided well for his family if their four bedroom brownstone was anything to say for it. Bucky parked the car outside the garage, men laughing, radio playing, he could see his Pops sitting in the back office, pencil behind his ear, looking over the books. 

“You gonna be good from here pal?” Bucky asked Steve. The smaller boy nodded, 

“Probably gonna walk around for a bit before going home.” Bucky wished Steve would take up his offer and come stay with them for a while, but the kid was too proud for that. He was currently living alone in a small apartment, selling funnies to the local paper. 

“If you need anything I’ll be here until seven probably, then I’ll be home.” Steve nodded, backing away.

“I’ll see ya tomorrow.” With a wave he was off, disappearing down the street. 

Bucky worked hard. As he was expected to. He was his father’s only son and George Barnes put a lot of pressure on his son to be a good example, not only for his sisters, but for the other guys that worked for him. He worked, and he worked hard. His hands had become calloused over the years, having worked in the shop since he was old enough to hold a wrench, he knew almost everything there was to know about fixing cars. 

His father believed that a good red blooded American man should know how to do three things. Auto work, Wood work, and wife’s work. He should be able to fix a car, fix the house, and keep his wife as happy as possible. It was ingrained into him since he could barely see over the hood, his father’s words ringing in his ears. 

“Keep your wife happy, the roof strong, and dinner on the table.” He said, “As long as you do those three things you’ll have a good life.” A life like his. Despite the hollowness of his eyes sometimes and the extra beers before bed. 

“It was the war”, his mother told him once, “Sometimes it just catches up to him.” Bucky wouldn’t understand that, not for a while. 

“Jaime.” His pops called him into the back office, a wrapped parcel on his desk. “Run this down to the post for me woulda? They sent us the wrong part, sendin’ it back for an exchange.” James nodded, 

“You need anythin’ else while I’m out?” His father’s eyes, blue like his, peeked up over the lenses of his readers, 

“Grab me a soda pop woulda?” A couple of cents placed into his hand and he was out the door, walking down the sunny streets to the post office three blocks away. There was a corner store next to it where he’d pop in and get his Dad a cola with enough change to grab himself one as well and he’d be on his way back. That was until his eyes landed on the girl peering into the store window in front of the said corner store, brows pulled tight in confusion. 

Her skin was beautifully caramel, dark hair and lips painted red. She was in a soft linen dress, buttoned front, low heels, roses stitched onto the sides. She was a sight. One that made his heart stop in his chest and his mouth drop open wide enough to collect flies. Her dark brown eyes and perfectly curled hair made his hands tremble. He rubbed his sweaty palms on his uniform pants, looking at himself in a car’s side mirror and fixing his hair before approaching. 

“Whatcha lookin’ for doll?” The young woman jumped, turning to face him, perfectly plucked brows raised in alarm. “Sorry,” He laughed nervously, scratching the back of his head. “I didn’t mean to frighten you.” He saw the girl take a step back, he was blowing it. “It’s just not everyday that you see such a beautiful dame such as yourself.” You worried your bottom lip. “Sorry,” He took a step back from you. “That was corny I just…”

“Lo siento,” [I’m sorry] You said, “No puedo hablar ingles.” [I can’t speak english] His face dropped slightly and he took a step back. He didn’t know what to do here, he looked at the window and back at you. 

“James.” He said, pointing to himself, then pointing a finger at you, 

“Y/N.” You replied, figuring out what he meant. He pointed to the store. 

“Store?” You looked at him confused. “Uhm…” He put his hands on his hips and looked inside, holding a hand out to you and pointed at the sign of the shop, “Store?” You looked at him skeptically, taking his hand and letting him bring you inside. He’d walked to the ice box in the back, pulling out two cola’s as he watched you pick up a loaf of bread, looking at him nervously. He tried to smile at you reassuringly but you didn’t seem to feel comfortable still. He took the change out of his pocket, counting out the coins. He had just enough for his two cola’s, not room for much else as he walked you to the counter. If he’d had enough he woulda bought the bread too. 

The shop keep seemed to glare at you, which confused Bucky. He looked between the guy at the counter and back to you behind him, placing his two colas on the counter, having the guy ring him up. “Have a good day,” the man told him, Bucky watched as the girl placed the bread loaf on the counter. The man glared at her, not moving. “No sale.” He said. 

“What do you mean?” Bucky asked, you looked between the two nervously. “Here.” Bucky took the coins from her open palm, and tried to hand them to the shop keep. He glared back at Bucky. 

“We don’t take their money here.” He said sternly, pointing to the sign behind him. Bucky had been in this shop almost five times a week and never noticed that sign before. ‘WHITES ONLY’ in big bold lettering. Bucky looked back at you and while he figured you couldn’t understand english you at least could feel that you weren’t wanted here. Suddenly your nervousness made sense. 

“It’s my money then.” Bucky said, slapping the coins on the counter. “Let her buy the damn bread.” The shop keep stood from the stool he was resting on, leaning over the counter.

“Get out.” By the time Bucky realized he was talking to you and not him you’d quickly walked out of the store and back onto the street. He’d quickly grabbed the loaf of bread, coins still discarded on the counter and followed you out. 

“Wait! Y/N!” He called, catching up to you. “Here.” You looked at him, brows pulled skeptically together before taking the bread from his hands. “I’m sorry about that guy, he’s usually so nice I-” Bucky bit his lip, he was unsure what else to say. Nothing he said made any sense to you anyway. He couldn’t say anything regardless as you gave him a funny look and slowly walked away from him, turning your eyes away as you crossed the street. 

He stared after you longingly and confused. He’d heard people speak spanish in passing. Guys that worked in the factories near the docks. He wasn’t ignorant to that. He just never really gave much thought to them. They were in a different world than him, it didn’t matter as much. But you’d struck him. The way the shopkeep had treated you struck him. He’d never seen a pretty girl treated that way. Usually guys would bend over backwards for a girl like you, but to be fair, Bucky never had a reason to think about skin color. 

It’s not that he didn’t see it, he just never cared. He’d heard whispers of people being irritated at the growing hispanic population in Sunset Park, but never really gave it much thought. It never crossed his mind. He had other things to worry about at the time, a girl to love, a friend to protect. 

The sweating colas in his hands reminded him that he had somewhere to be, and you’d long since disappeared around a corner. Gone from his sight. He was quiet that night at dinner, suspiciously so.

He didn’t see you again for three months, the end of summer drawing near, the days just beginning to get shorter. He’d been walking around Sunset Park occasionally, looking for you, under the guise of a stroll. Steve thought it was strange, his newfound obsession. 

“I’m gonna marry her Stevie.” He’d said. He knows he’s said it before, 

“I mean it this time.” He said that before too. “But you didn’t see her Stevie.” He grinned as the pair walked around the neighborhood for the first time, “She was more beautiful than Aphrodite.” Steve rolled his eyes. He wasn’t sure how many times he’s walked this neighborhood looking for you, but he told himself he’d do it every night if it meant he’d find you again. 

School had ended, he was working full time at his Dad’s shop now, little time for extracurriculars, the dance halls missed him, his favorite waitress asked Steve about him all the time, and he hadn’t seen a movie since the last time he went with Dot almost 3 months ago. All of his energy had gone into working and on his days off with Steve, looking for you. He thumbed through the spanish phrasebook he’d spent a pretty penny on, pages dogeared with things he might try to say to you when he saw you next. 

If it ever happened. 

He was beginning to lose hope, truth be told. Maybe you’d moved away. Maybe you were in the neighborhood visiting someone and didn’t even live nearby. It wasn’t until he’d taken a street down in the factory district on his day off that he saw you again. 

You were just as beautiful as he’d remembered, hair pinned under a cap, lips painted red, you were wearing another linen dress, flowers stitched around the skirt and on the lapels. You were leaving a dress factory. That’s where you must’ve worked. He watched you twirl in your dress, laughing at something another woman had said to you. The gaggle of them speaking such quick Spanish that the few phrases he studied didn’t even make sense to him anymore. 

He swore his heart stopped in his chest when your eyes met his, a firm blush spreading across your cheeks. Bucky, the hopeless romantic that he is, would tell everyone that time stood still. There you were, he would say, his future wife. Pin Curled and sweet, dark lashes and rose petal lips waiting for your first kiss. Like you’d been made for him. He would say that in that moment the stars aligned and brought you to him. 

He was a sucker like that. 

Steve had stopped a few steps ahead of him, noticing that his friend wasn’t following, the group of girls you had been walking out with also stopped, looking between the two of you and giggling at the sight. One girl pushed you forward and you turned to glare at her saying something to her that Bucky couldn’t hear. He took one step forward and then another, thumbing through the pages of the book and swallowing heavily, hands sweating. He’d never been this nervous talking to a dame before, never. He raised the book to his eyesight, glancing at you before looking back down at the page, 

“Lo siento,” [I’m sorry] He said in just about the worst pronunciation you’d ever heard, the girls behind you giggled and you shushed them with a perfectly red lacquered hand, he smiled nervously continuing, “Eres tan hermosa,” [You are so beautiful] He flipped a couple more pages not being able to find what he wanted to say next when you gently grasped his wrist, smiling at him. 

“James.” His heart almost dropped out of his ass as you said his name for the first time, “Hello.” Very heavily accented and you bit your lip with insecurity. 

“Hi.” He breathed. He looked back down at his book, finding what he wanted to say next, “Te estaba buscando.” [I was looking for you.] His pronunciation was horrible and he knew it. But the thought was still there. 

“Uhm…” You looked at him nervously, the girls were sure to gossip about this later. This white man who was holding a Spanish phrase book telling you about how you were beautiful and he was looking for you. 

“Y/N!” Came a yell, Bucky watched an older woman approach, she looked so similar it had to be your mother, “Que haces con este hombre blanco?” [What are you doing with this white man?] The older woman gripped your arm, looking at the girls behind you, “Veta a casa.” [Go home.] She spat to the other girls, glaring back at Bucky as you looked at him apologetically. He caught a few words. He knew casa meant home, he also knew blanco meant white. But he was unsure about the rest. 

Steve stood awkwardly off to his side, a silent witness to this strange situation. “That’s her I’m guessing?” The little shit grinned next to him. Bucky turned to his friend, matching his grin. 

“Yeah.” His heart was still racing, “And now I know where she works.” He looked up at the tall factory building next to them. 

He looked around the flower shop, the various blooms staring back at him. He wasn’t sure what to get, what you would like. Roses were maybe too presumptuous and a little too expensive “Can I help you?” The older woman asked him. She was wearing an apron over her plaid dress, hands brown with dirt. Bucky smiled softly, 

“I’m a little lost here,” He admitted. The older woman smiled, 

“What’s she like?” He stuffed his hands in his pockets looking over the blooms. 

“Perfect?” He offered, laughing, “But beautiful, sweet…” His eyes scanned the arrangements around him, “I don’t have a whole lot to spare, but…” The older woman nodded, understanding. 

“You could always do a single stem,” The older woman plucked a beautiful red flower from an arrangement, “If she’s as sweet as you believe, she’d be more than happy with it.” A peony. Vibrant red. Like your lipstick.  

He waited outside the factory for you. Hair slicked down, he wore a tie, his work uniform stuffed in the backseat of his car. He hoped you wouldn’t notice that he smelled a little like motor oil under his cologne. He barely made it before the door opened and his palms immediately sweat in a Pavlovian response. The anticipation of seeing you. 

Your dress was yellow this time. Stunning against you skin, yellow and white plaid. He wondered if every color was made just for you. Your eyes immediately met his this time, a shy smile spreading across your face. He timidly stepped a foot closer, 

“Hello, James.” In your beautiful broken English. 

“Hola.” Your nose crinkled when you smiled. “Oh, here.” The vibrant red peony being handed over to you, you twirled the stem between your fingers as he pulled the well worn book from his pocket. “Uhm.. Te ves hermosa hoy.” [You look beautiful today] He looked at you for your response, a red dusting on your cheeks as you held the flower up to your nose. 

“Es guapo.” [He’s handsome.] One of the girls teased you to which your eyes widened and you turned to glare at her, shooing her away. 

“Has estado practicando?” [Have you been practicing?] You bit your lip knowing he probably wouldn’t understand that. “How,” You started, “are you?” He grinned, he could respond to this one. Flipping back,

“Muy bien, como estas?” [Very well, how are you?] It took him a bit too long to say four words, but the smile on your face was worth it. 

“Bien,” [Good.] You replied. 

“Away!” You mother was back, standing in front of you this time, looking into Bucky’s face. His cheeks flushed. “Go away!” Your mother’s english was worse than yours, the words coming out thick and accented he almost didn’t understand. “Mantente alejado de ella.”[Stay away from her] She was scary, your mother. He looked to you for help, fingers nervously moving against the spine of the book in his hand. 

“El es una madre inofensiva.” [Mama, he’s harmless.] You explained, but your mother’s face turned red, turning fully to you she said, 

“Él te arruinárá.” [He will ruin you.] Her voice was tense and Bucky couldn’t begin to understand what she said as he watched her drag you away again. But it was fine, he was back tomorrow to try again. 

And he tried again, and again. It became a constant. He was spending $1.30 every week on flowers, considering he was only making $25 a week working for his Dad it was a good chunk of his money. He’d show up with a red peony for you every day. The girls, he knew, were making fun of him but the five minutes in between when you’d get off of work and when your mother would get off of work were the best part of his entire day. He was showing up even on his days off, rain or shine. 

Today he felt victorious, your mother hadn’t yelled at him. She simply looked at him and raised an eyebrow to you saying, “El no se rinde.” [He doesn’t give up.] With a smile and laugh. She pulled you away a little more gently that time, taking a look back at him and shaking her head. 

“You know it’s going to be hard,” Steve said to him once. 

“What do you mean?” Bucky bit into the burger Frankie, the waitress, had just put in front of him. His favorite burger at his favorite diner, he’d have to bring you here. Maybe the two of you could split a milkshake. He wondered if you’d ever had a chocolate malt. Steve looked at him incredulously,

“I can’t tell if you’re dumb or blind.” He’d slipped a picture from his sketchpad over, a picture he’d sketched of you for Bucky. His heart fluttered at the sight, tracing your jaw. 

“She’s it for me pal, nothing complicated about it.” The temperature had just begun to drop, a hot August ending. Fall was sweeping through the city, Steve was just starting art school, Bucky was pulling overtime at the shop saving up cash to move out and start his life. Hopefully with you. 

“Buck.” Steve sighed, “You know I have no problem with it, but…your parents, literally almost everyone else… it’s illegal.” Bucky paused, a few fries in his mouth. 

“It’s not technically illegal in New York.” He knows, he looked it up. “Just not…”

“Not approved of.” Steve finished for him. He sighed heavily, sitting back in his seat. “It’s gonna be difficult, pal.” Bucky shook his head, 

“Nuthin’ could be difficult when I have her,” A sip of soda, “Nuthin.”

The next day when Bucky showed up with his flower your Mother was already waiting for him when he pulled his car up. He finally got the windows working. She knocked heavily on his window before he’d even pulled the keys out. 

“Come.” She said, grabbing his arm and pulling him over to a man, a scary one by Bucky’s count, who was standing where he’d usually wait for you. “Preguntarle.” [Ask him.]

The man was hispanic, but not old enough to be your father. Your brother maybe? “She wants to know what you keep doing here.” The guy’s English was perfect, his voice gruff and accented, but perfect. 

“I’m…” Bucky started nervously, “I want to date her daughter.” The guy scoffed, making Bucky feel like an idiot standing there with his one flower. 

“Él quiere llevarla a una cita.” [He wants to take her out on a date] The older woman scoffed as well. He smiled sheepishly. She looked at Bucky, studying him for a moment, “Dile que Y/N no es un juguete.” [Tell him Y/N is not a toy.]

“She’s not a toy,” The man said, he looked at the older woman before continuing on his own, “Look, Y/N is beautiful, don’t get me wrong, but it’s never going to happen. Your kind is not allowed with our kind.” Bucky felt anger rising in his chest. The man lay a hand on his shoulder heavily, “I’m saying this honestly, if you care about Y/N in any way you’ll back off. You’ll ruin her reputation with our people if you keep showing up here. The women are already gossiping about you showing up here everyday.” 

“This is about her being Spanish?” Bucky asked. 

“She’s Cuban.” The guy explained, “You are privileged enough to pretend not to care about race, but this is only an obsession, you’ll ruin her reputation and leave her when you find someone of your own kind to be with.” The man’s grip on Bucky’s shoulder tightened, a warning. “Get back in your car and don’t come back. If you do, our conversation may not be so pleasant next time.” 

Bucky looked to the older woman with pleading eyes, pulling the Spanish phrases book from his pocket, but before he could find anything the man across from him snatched it from his fingertips. “I said go.” 

Bucky wanted to pummel him. He wanted to punch the guy right in the jaw, but he didn’t. He’d find another way to see you. He’d figure something out. The flower in his hand dropped to his passenger seat as he sat heavily behind the wheel, staring out at the doors to the factory. You walked out just in time to see him drive away. 

Nueva York. That’s what your Mother called it. A new start in America where anything could happen. Your belly had never been that full before. There were no jobs in Havana. Less and less by the day. Your nimble fingers had always been useful as a seamstress, but the less money people have, the less money they had to spend paying someone else to fix their hemlines for them. Your Mother and you moved here in the beginning of the summer, hopeful for a new life.

And you found one. 

The neighborhood of Sunset Park had a growing Hispanic community the two of you had quickly nestled yourselves in. A small one bedroom apartment became your home. The two of you not needing much space. You’d quickly found factory work through a neighbor. Not exactly a seamstress, but you did spend 12 hours a day hunched over a sewing machine. Pennies saved and eventually you’d have enough money to live comfortably. You might even have enough to get a new bolt of fabric to make you and your Mother some dresses. Maybe. 

The only thing you had to look forward to every day were the few minutes watching a handsome man trip over his words, speaking broken Spanish to you and flipping, very endearingly through a book trying to have a conversation. 

It’d gotten a little easier lately, a boy in your apartment building helping you and your Mother learn English and with James practicing his Spanish you’d been getting a little farther past ‘how are you’s in the past week or so. The growing collection of dried flowers in your closet was becoming alarming, the row of dead peonies hanging by their stems, but you didn’t have the heart to throw them away. 

That’s maybe why it hurt so much when you’d exited work today, waiting to see the blue eyed boy that made your heart flutter in your chest, and saw him driving away. Your Mother and Mateo staring at the back of it. “Qué hiciste?” [What did you do?] Neither of them answered you, sharing a look. 

Your eyes met the back of the fading car once more, longing in your chest, eyes prickling with tears. “Vamos,” [Come on] Your Mother called, beginning down the street. You sent a steely glare to Mateo, turning to follow her away, his large footsteps following. 

When you first came to America almost five months ago both you and your Mother were enamored with Mateo. She’d teased that you’d found a husband the first day you’d moved in, but the more time you spent with him the less you liked him. He worked a taxi service, one his family started. They had a good amount of money, promising, is what your Mother had said. He could provide for you. But he was pompous. He thought because he had a little bit of money he was running the whole block. His ego soured your opinion of him. If it wasn’t for the fact he was helping you learn English you would have closed your door to him a long time ago. 

Your Mother didn’t want this life for you. Truthfully she’d brought you to America so you’d marry, find a nice Cuban boy and settle down. Let him provide for you. Take care of her grandchildren God willing. It wasn’t as though you didn’t want that life. You wanted to marry, you wanted love. You loved children and always wanted to be a mother but the most important thing to you was love. 

When James approached you that first time you were confused, yes. You hadn’t understood a word he said. But he was handsome and he made you feel butterflies in your stomach. You felt as though his blue eyes could drown you, like a siren’s call, you’d lost yourself in them. But you’d found yourself embarrassed at the counter when the man was angrily talking to him. James was animatedly arguing back, in words you didn’t understand. Taking the eight cents you’d had for bread and slamming them on the counter. 

You’d been surprised when he’d actually left successfully with the bread, you had been peering for the sign the shopkeeper had pointed to before he’d actually drug you in the store, and your stomach dropped when you’d found it while inside. You should have known you weren’t welcome in that part of town. A little too far outside of your little barrio. 

You’d like to think it was fate, God ordained. You’d thought about it again when you saw him outside the factory for the first time. He was nervous, but so were you. You thought it was cute, him flipping through the phrasebook trying to figure out what to say. It warms your heart and every day since you couldn’t wait to see him. He’d even ignored your Mother and kept coming. The collection of red peonies growing by the day. 

It broke your heart to see his car driving away from you. And you knew exactly who was to blame. 

“No tenes derecho.” [You have no right] You stomped up the stairs next to Mateo. “Deberías mantener tu nariz fuera de oso.” [You should keep your nose out of it]

“Te quiero, Y/N.” [I love you Y/N] His arm gently grabbed your hand, “Please don’t do this.” Your jaw clenched, heart still aching from the sight of James driving away from you. 

“I... hate... you.” His hand let go of yours, dropping his to his side as you returned walking up the stairs and entered your apartment, slamming the door behind you. 

Germany had just invaded Poland.

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