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vanchlo · 4 years

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Gatsby (Green Eyes / 3)

Read the first part, here, and the second part, here! :-)

Blurb Synopsis: With a few months of teaching under your belt, at times you find yourself struggling. Luckily, your boyfriend and teaching colleague, Harry, is there to help you by offering advice or a comforting kiss. Although you’ve only been dating for a few months, you find that there's something special about this man.

Genre: Teacher Harry, fluff, and romance.

Warnings: None

Word Count: 10.4k words, whoops

Pairing: Harry x Reader

Music Inspo: Happy Together by The Turtles (click to listen)

Your mind is muddled with thoughts. Remember to send this email today. Make sure to put this in so-and-so’s mailbox. Don’t forget to send that birthday card in the mail. Can’t misplace that sheet you have to make copies of tomorrow for an assignment. Enter those grades. Grade those tests, and those papers. They weren’t wrong, you think, when they said the work of a teacher never ends. As you sit at your desk, the world war two novel you’ve been trying to read lately stares back at you from the sidelines, adding another stick to your pile. A rather massive pile, at that. You knead your temple as the blinking cursor awaits your words on the lit screen. Words that you don’t have yet, and aren’t sure when you will. You’ve found it more and more difficult to send the hard emails home to parents, and even after three and a half months under your belt of teaching, it hasn’t gotten any easier.

“What’d I say ‘bout bitin’ yer nails?”

Breaking your stare off with your computer, your eyes jump to your door where you find Harry standing there.

Placing your chin in your propped hand, you sigh, “I’m sorry.”

“Here, ya look like ya need sumthin’ else t’ chew on,” he murmurs, taking a step into your classroom. Something leaves his hand to fly into the air, skidding to a stop in front of you on your desk. At the sight of the shiny gold wrapper marked by the words, Twix, you return to his eyes with a smile. “Now, wha’s got ya so nervous, bird?”

“I’m trying to write an email home, and not a happy one.”

“Ah, I hate havin’ t’ write t’ose meself, they’re neva easy. Can I help?” he inquires, taking slow steps into your classroom. When your laptop sounds with a chime!, the alert for a new email, your eyes leave his tall figure.

His question goes unanswered on accident with the appearance of the email loading before your eyes. The words start to trickle into your mind, and with their absorption, the heaviness felt in your heart grows.

“Hullo? Anybody home in there?” Harry laughs, his feet stopping in front of your desk. You don’t answer, and you barely see him lean to the side to look at you. “Hey, wha’s tha matta?” he questions, his tone suddenly changing. Gulping, no words come to you as the ones on your screen shoot icy fear into your veins. Your name falls from his mouth as he walks over to you, stopping behind you.

“I have to be observed,” you groan, your face falling into your hands. “Later this week,” you finish with a whimper, your shoulders sagging.

“Oh it’ll be okay, love. We all have it done once a year, ‘s only t’ benefit ya. ‘s fer feedback. Ya don’t gotta worry. Principal’s observation ‘s at tha end o’ tha year,” he tells you, his soothing voice turning irritating at the last part. You respond with a whine, but you find that you can’t remain upset with him when his arms come around you. “Ya’ll do great, bird. Don’t fret. I know things have been stressful lately fer ya, so try not t’ let it botha you.”

“But it does. I already feel like I’m not doing a good enough job, and then somebody has to observe me, ugh. I’m going to be so nervous that I’ll probably screw up even more,” you exhale, hiding away from your fears, but soon you feel your chair spin around. Tearing your hands away from your face, you open them to find Harry squatting in front of you.

The mere sight of the dimples in his cheeks and the glint in his eye eases the tension felt throughout your body. A second later, you’re unsure of that when your sight graces the ebony dress shirt rolled up his taut arms, and the mustard slacks hugging his thighs. Yeah, there are a whole lot of reasons to make you feel tense around this man, and on the other hand he makes you feel at ease. Talk about confusing, when one thing has both effects on you. Ugh.

“Yer too hard on yerself, birdy. Ya gotta stop it, I don’t like seein’ me girl feel so down,” he hums, his thumb painted in cracking hot pink nail polish tapping your nose. Even just the thought of how he’ll let you paint his nails the next time he comes over to your house makes you feel better. By now, he doesn’t even bat an eye when you ask him, and by the look of his battered nails, anticipation grows inside of you at the thought. “Now, why don’t ya try t’ forget ‘bout tha observation, and lemme help ya write tha email t’ tha parent? Then we can leave and ya can come ova t’ mine, and I can cook ya a nice dinna.”

His lips split into a smile in front of you, sparking one on your own. “Has anybody ever told you that you’re the best boyfriend in the world?”

“Hmmm, I dunno, maybe. I can’t recall, but I wouldn’t complain t’ hear dat a few more times,” Harry smiles, leaning forward to surround your lips with his. Yours curl into a smile as his fingers dance across your cheek and into your hair.

“Harry, the email,” you begin after breaking the kiss.

“Shh, lemme have a kiss first. ‘s been too long,” he almost laughs, pressing his lips back to yours.

“I saw you in sixth hour in the copier room and you got one then,” you interrupt, knowing that you’re getting on his nerves.

“Too long,” is all he says impatiently, replacing his lips on top of yours.

Relaxing, you move yours together with his and soon find your hands running along his cheeks prickly with facial hair. They run down the expanse of his warm neck, his tamed beard soon fading away. Pads of your fingers collide with the chain of his necklace hidden under his shirt, signaling you’re almost there. You let a grin slip, impeding the kiss, when you can feel his taut chest under his button up. Finally.

“Like what yer findin’?” he asks, laughing against your mouth.

“Mmmhmm,” you answer slyly, peeking open your eyes to find his on yours, mere inches away. “Maybe we should write dat email now. Don’t wantcha gettin’ too carried away now,” Harry hums pulling away, much to your disappointment. “No, yer not gonna get me with tha pout again, so dontcha try it now.” He wags a finger at you as his words play on his face. Feeling risky, you reach forward and bite at the tip of it, smelling the cinnamon lotion he has a bottle of on his desk.

“Ya betta watch it, bird!” Harry chuckles, the smile taking grasp of him now, as well as the laugh that sings to your ears.

“Or else what?” you reply, wiggling your eyebrows at him.

“Open yer email befo’ ya convince me with that adorable face o’ yers.”

You ignore him and continue to stare at him, happiness and longing showing in your eyes. You’re certain that he sees it too, you’re just not sure what he’s going to decide to do with it. His bottom lip comes between his teeth as his green eyes stare into yours, him standing only a step away from you. Although it’s the slightest movement, his hands starts to trail from the back of your chair.

“Birdy,” he begins with a warning, shaking his head at you, that song leaving his strawberry lips again. Suddenly, you wish he was wearing a tie today so you could grab a hold of it and pull him in by it, but alas he’s without one today. “Don’ test me.”

His words are hypocritical, meaning one thing as his face tells you another story entirely. Somehow, they have the opposite effect on you, egging you to go further with the teasing. You enjoy pushing his buttons, another thing that he knows far too well by now. Your fingers sitting limp on your legs itch to touch him, and roam his body. Those curls, his bearded cheeks, that muscular chest, or those thick arms. Maybe even all of him.

“We can have a good snog at me house tha sooner we get dis done,” Harry cautions, only worsening the pout forming on your lips. He reacts to it promptly, with that lip-biting returning, and his fist coming to his mouth. As if he has to refrain from saying, or doing, something.

“Why can’t I just have one more now? It won’t hurt,” you plead, letting your chin fall a tad, allowing you to look up at him through your lashes.

“‘m in real trouble with ya, aren’t I, birdy? Go’mme wrapped ‘round yer li’l finga like there’s no t’morrow, dontcha?” Harry teases, slowly leaning in, his arms bending at his wrists where they lay planted to your chair’s armrests.

“Yeah, just the way you like it,” you note aloud, the anticipation buzzing in your gut as he draws near.

“Yer right ‘bout dat, darlin’. Couldn’t say no t’ ya if I tried, thinkin’ that might ge’mme in trouble one o’ these days,” Harry finishes with a snicker before the taste of oranges meets your lips, and his beard is tickling your skin. Just the way you like it.

“Ravioli or pasta?” you hear float from the kitchen.

It’s a wonder you hear him as your thoughts are consumed by his bookshelves. Although you’ve been to his place several times now, you’re still enamored by trying to familiarize yourself with the items he chose to live with him.

The acoustic Taylor sitting in the corner on a stand. The Monet prints dotting his walls, along with those of The Stones, The Beatles, Fleetwood Mac, and Pink Floyd. The pink ukulele hung on his wall that he made you laugh with while playing a rendition of Somewhere Over The Rainbow the first time you came over. You swear that his blankets are the coziest and warmest. He also makes the best fires in the fireplace, even making s’mores for dessert the first time you came over, making quite the impression. The last time, you had devoured his record collection, flipping through it and playing the few that interested you at the time. You even like the silly napkins with sayings on them that he has in the kitchen. Now, you’ve returned to his book collection that seems to grow by a few each time you’re here.

“Why do you have Shel Silverstein here, but not at school?” you call out to him, feeling the change in texture of the book spines, the tip of your finger ghosting over them.

“‘Coz tha’s a copy from when I was li’l. Now, ya didn’t answer me question. Which d’ya want me t’ make, bird?” he replies gently, his deep voice carrying down the hall from the kitchen.

Once again, his words drift by unnoticed as you carefully remove a copy of a novel that catches your eye, The House on Mango Street. You’ve found it before on his shelves at school, and the cover has always enraptured you, but you’ve never found the time to pick it up. Turning it over, your eyes flit over the description on the back of the thin book.

“Hey, ‘m talkin’ t’ ya, birdy,” a voice murmurs, their words dancing across your neck with a tickle. “Tryin’ t’ figure out what t’ make us fer dinna.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. I was just looking at this book. I’ve always meant to see what it’s about,” you comment, turning your head back ever so slightly, but you don’t need to do that to know he’s there. His arms have surrounded your waist and his beard tickles against your temple, lips soon dotting kisses along that space.

“‘s okay. Ah, so this ‘s where yer always runnin’ off t’ when ya come ova. Got meself a book worm fer a girlfriend, I like it. Findin’ anythin’ good? Ya know ya can borrow whateva ya want, love. I know ya’ll take good care o’ it,” Harry coos in between feathery pecks he plants down the side of your face. “‘s a good one too, bird. I teach it every year. Tha students enjoy it too. Ya might come t’ teach it too, I think, since we’re both teachin’ American Lit. this semester,” Harry comments, soon his nose making an appearance tickling your cheek. The words on the back of the book were beginning to blur before your eyes, but they’re forgotten altogether when his fingers brush against your belly, clasping together there.

“Thank you. I suppose I should read it already then.”

“Yeah, ‘m surprised ya haven’t already. Borrow it and take yer time with it, ya’ll enjoy it. ‘s a bit sad tho’ from what I rememba. Now, ravioli or pasta? Was thinkin’ a salad on tha side, marinated chicken, and sum berries,” he finishes, the safety his arms provide you with soon fleeting. Looking over your shoulder, he walks away and back to the kitchen, noting that he needs to get the pasta water boiling.

As your eyes trail to his bum round in his gray jogging shorts, a cheeky answer begs at your lips instead. He pipes up again with an inquisitive ‘well’ and your response falls from your lips, “Ravioli, please.”

He hums a confirmation from his new perch down the hall, the sounds of cupboards opening and things being jostled around soon following. The rest of the book’s summary passes your eyes before you set it down on the arm of the brown sofa, forgotten as soon as he had walked in. Passing Harry’s favorite reading chair in the corner accompanied by a tall lamp, you tiptoe through the narrow hallway marked by framed pictures on the walls. You hear his soft singing as you round the corner, happening upon his towering figure to your left, standing at the stove. Taking a page from his book, you slide across the wooden floor in your socks, quickly capturing him with your arms.

“Boo!” you whisper into his ear, feeling him jump in your arms.

“Don’t scare me like that, coulda burned me hand,” he warns, but when you chance a look at the pot of water below him, you find him to be a fibber.

“You don’t even have the gas on yet, silly,” you murmur in argument, dragging your nose along his freckled neck, paler from the winter months.

“So? ‘m tryin’ t’ cook here,” he argues, although terribly, because a giggle escapes his candy-like lips. Ones you very much would like to kiss right now, and perhaps taste, and nibble. Nodding into his shoulder, your hands unravel to explore the toned expanse of his stomach under his shirt. “Bird,” he says firmly, the cracking sound of the salt grinder following his words.

“I’m just helping you cook,” you explain feebly, brushing the pad of your thumb against his wispy happy trail. If you focus hard enough, you think you can remember from the times at the beach where his tattoos are, because they don’t feel any different to the rest of his skin. The fern leaves, the butterfly, and then the swallows below his collarbone.

“Yer pushin’ me buttons again. Ya know I don’ like it,” Harry grumbles, trapped within your grasp when he turns to grab the package of refrigerated ravioli from the counter.

“I’m sorry, can’t I just hug my boyfriend?” you whine, feeling your voice catch at that last word, even after two months.

“Don’t play that game with me, go read yer book or sumthin’. Catch up on sum gradin’, you’ll thank yerself later fer doin’ so, and me.”

“You’re no fun,” you whimper, hands stilling amongst his toned abdomen and soon returning to your body. Cheekily, you give in to your temptations and pinch his bum hastily, running off with a giggle.

“Birdy!” Harry calls after you, trying to hide the laugh in his voice, but you’re doing enough laughing for the both of you. You don’t hear the sound of his booming footsteps following you, and so you plop onto his sofa with a relieving sigh. “Remind me not t’ give ya more than two glasses o’ wine, ya get all weird afta two.”

“I do not!” you exclaim, pressing the power button on the remote for his tv.

“Ya do too! Grabbin’ me bum and gettin’ all handsy unda me shirt,” he contends with a scoff that dissolves into a titter. You respond with a ‘hmmph’ loud enough for him to hear as your head hits the velvet pillow at one end of the sofa, body splaying out to cover the rest.

“I’ll say it again, you’re no fun!”

“Oh, give it a rest!” is all Harry says disbelievingly, meanwhile you pout as you try to immerse yourself in an episode of The Simpsons.

It’s one of those Halloween specials, you’re not sure which one as there were several, even though Halloween was very nearly two months ago. Turning up the volume, you try to drown out the sound of pots banging together, and packages crinkling. You even attempt to mask the sound of his voice, the wine buzz securing you in your own little bubble, and a lonely one at that.

“Babeeee,” you finally hear, along with the soft padding of his slippers nearing you. “Don’ be a crab, y’know I don’ like bein’ botha’d when ‘m cookin’ sumthin’ hot. Don’ want t’ get eitha o’ us burnt. I’d do tha same if I had kids and they were ‘round,” he mumbles, his footsteps coming to a pause, and so does your heart at the sound of his words.

“Me li’l birdy,” Harry coos in a sing-song voice, the whine of the ancient wood floors marking his arrival. His calloused fingertips along your forehead and through your hair are difficult to ignore, as are his sweet lips smelling of Roscato against your skin. “Don’ be upset with me please, ya know I can’t handle it. Ya wanna come help me cook? You can chop up tha salad if ya’d like, well as long as yer hands are okay afta those glasses o’ wine.”

“Nah-ah,” you deny, rubbing your face with your hand, growing sleepy from the alcohol. “You don’t want my help, and I’m all dizzy.”

“I do want yer help, that’s why I asked. Hmm, dizzy, are you?” he queries, drawing your attention upwards to where he kneels beside the sofa, head hanging over yours. “Does this make ya dizzy too?” he grins upside down for you, pressing a quick kiss to your mouth. A smile hints at yours after the kiss ends, him raising an eyebrow.

You shake your head ‘no’ and he clucks his tongue, dipping in for another kiss, this one longer than the last. You’d choose to grow dizzy from his intoxicating lips over anything else, again and again. The bite of the alcohol follows the sweetness of the white wine he had poured you both glasses of, his still being nursed in the kitchen. The chill to his pillowy lips is shocking against your warm lips, but it’s forgotten when your fingers drift to his hair. You’ve only gotten a taste of his scrumptious top lip before he pulls away, having kissed you in an odd way, upside down.

“Ya still upset with me?” he breathes against your lips, rubbing his nose against yours ever so slightly, a smirk edging at his lips.

“I won’t be after one more kiss, and a cuddle,” you insist, testing your limits, but by now you’re fairly certain what you can get away with. Sometimes it surprises you how much, from stealing his favorite pen from his desk, grabbing his butt in the breakroom, knicking a sweater from his closet the last time you were over, or spamming him with texts of songs he wouldn’t ever listen to but he still does, for you.

“Alrighty then, c’mere, birdy,” he smiles before he melts against you in a kiss, once again.

Soon, he’s scooping his arms under your legs and settling you on his lap, sinking into the sofa. Your head finds a home below his collarbone, legs draped across his lap and your bum hanging off the side of it.

“I forgot ya get all tired on me afta alcohol. I gotta rememba t’ only dole it out when tha sun ‘s still up,” he giggles, the sound reverberating around in his broad chest under his Paul McCartney & Wings shirt. His fingers surround one of your hands, holding it to his chest as his other cups your waist where he holds you against him.

“Yeah,” you mumble softly, trying to focus on the tv show, but it’s a lost cause.

With his refreshing citrus smell enveloping you, the notes of the tangy orange he eats by sections every day clings to his skin somehow. Dreamily, you admire his neat beard for the hundredth time, smiling adoringly at the little patches he hates that don’t grow in all of the way. For some reason, you love them even more, wondering what his cheeks look like underneath all of the dark brunette hair.

The show is forgotten at the recesses of your mind, and instead, your attention revolves around Harry, much to your surprise. The rhythmic rising and falling of his chest. The scattering of ink covering both arms, top to bottom. The dark curly hair donning his chest if you nudge the collar of his shirt down far enough. Even the steady beating of his heart grabs your focus, leading you to the slight pause and wake of it at the corner of his neck. Perhaps your most favorite of all is a hard tie between watching the execution of his facial features, or playing with his hands. One he minds quite more than the other, but you think he’s starting to get used to it.

Your fingers that look puny in contrast to his run over the minuscule hairs peppered across his knuckles, yet another trait of his you adore. It’s rare there’s one you’ve found of his that you don’t enjoy immensely. They fall against his, feeling the lukewarm metal decorating his fingers, and he doesn’t even pause. Scooting your eyes away from his hands quickly, you try to forget the inviting veins bulging from his skin you so often like to get lost tracing. They flit now to the almost indiscernible dimples caving into his hairy cheeks, eyes gleaming as he titters at something on the tv. It all ends much too soon and you’re caught in the act, his gaze falling to yours.

“Whatcha lookin’ at me fer?” he wonders aloud, the space between his brow creasing. You resist rubbing it free, finding you don’t have the time to when his lips press a kiss to your nose. “Water’s boilin’, I should go start tha chicken. Ya can help if ya want, but ya don’t hafta, love. Don’ want ya cuttin’ those pretty li’l fingas o’ yers.”

A nod suffices for your imaginary words, and so does the curling of your lips that part, “I like you,” you mumble, eyes glued to him, much like a puppy dog.

“I like ya too, birdy. Quite arguably tha best thing that’s happened t’ me in a while, you are,” he rasps, voice dripping of honey at the arrival of his words. The look painting his face tells you that he knows it too, and you can taste the honey when he pecks you. “Like ya so much I can’t believe it sumtimes.”

You both knew within the first week of school that having your prep hour during the same time in fifth hour, although coincidental, was perhaps not a good idea. It was uncertain whether the demons of the world or the angels of it had arranged this, seeing as you soon distracted each other from getting much prep done for that day’s lessons, grading, what have it. The both of you got on each other’s nerves regarding it at times, him more so than you, but you’re rest assured you both were grateful for it.

Like today, you can’t stop jiggling your knee as you listen to Chopin while grading papers on the interpretable meanings of the scarlet A from The Scarlet Letter. Harry had gotten quickly upset with you yesterday when you had hogged too much of his prep hour with kissing and talking, noting that he had already been interrupted by another colleague. Today, you’re trying to give him his space to get his work done, but you find it exhausting staying away from him, much like you always do, and have to already. The temptation is even worse when he’s less than fifty steps away, and with those lips that should be downright illegal. His snap at you still stung, if only a little, and you can’t find your focus seeing that you’ve hardly seen him around today.

Sometimes you feel pathetic and he’ll joke that you are too, melting into a puddle like The Wicked Witch of the West from not having seen him enough. You know that you are, but the realization doesn’t make you feel any better. Neither do you when a second later, speak of the devil, you hear his voice outside your ajar door. It mingles with another, and this one mentions your name, you’re rather sure. Harry shushes the other person with a laugh, and when the voices have paused, you return your gaze to the marked-up paper you’re grading. Turning up the music on your desktop, you sigh as you start reading the sentence over again, for the third time.

Relief buds at the tips of your limbs as you gather your things from your desk around quarter to four, positive Harry’s after-school Poetry Club should be over by now. It’s stolen away as your fingers dangle on the handle of the door, his door closed with his nifty store-like sign turned to CLOSED. Sighing, your face creases into a messy line at the sight of it, your fingers soon composing a text to him that goes unanswered.

Looking both ways down the hall, when the coast is clear, your heels click across the hall to place you at his door. Again, it’s unlocked to allow the custodial staff to come and clean soon. Bingo! Blanketed in darkness, few streams of light make their way in past the new snow blanketing the campus grounds. You don’t need much light anyways, and after setting your things down on a desk, you settle in his chair. The squeaks are almost all the way out of it, you notice, as you pull on the chain to the vintage green lamp at the corner of his desk. A new addition. Albeit a few scattered pens and lists, it looks much the same since the last time you were in his classroom. You quickly find a pad of Post-Its, green this time, and a pen that’s a fun color. Licking your lips with an excited smile, the sadness of missing Harry is abated by getting the chance to sneak a note onto his desk, which you’ve found is far harder to do these days. You leave with a smirk donning your lips, and a few Bit-O-Honeys to tide you over until the next time.

Harry,

Do you have any plans this Saturday? I might know a certain girl who is planning on making homemade pizza, and who thought you might enjoy it. If you’d like to, I can let her know and pass your name along. I’ve heard she’s a rather good chef, just don’t get too many glasses of wine into her, or else she turns into a real fruit loop.

P.S. I wish there were words for how I feel about you, but being the English nerds we are, I think that gives you a little advantage to understand once I find those words. Have a great day, my love.

Your Birdy

xoxoxo

Huffing, you stab at the button again, but you still receive the same error message from the copying machine. Forgetting it, you log out before turning around, which wasn’t a great idea either, you find. A quiet squeal leaves your lips when you find Harry standing in front of you, grinning at his success from scaring you.

“A li’l jumpy this mornin’, are we?” he smirks, sliding his covered arms into the pockets of his gray slacks.

“Yeah, you could say that, and the copier hates me this week,” you return, walking past him and over to the shelf of supplies in containers.

“Oh, ya can use me code if that helps. Maybe it senses ya hate it,” he giggles, now behind you. Your nod suffices for a response as you drag your fingers through the sea of pens, searching for one color.

“Thanks, I appreciate it. Ugh, there’s never any red pens when I need one,” you sigh, annoyed.

“Ya know ya can take one from me stash anytime ya need,” he insists, humming a tune as he taps his foot. You mumble another small ‘thanks’ before moving onto another container.

“Hey, why ya bein’ all shy?” he inquires, his gentle fingers soon encircling your wrist, turning you to face him. Again, you wonder how he can look more handsome every day, even in a dorky gray pull over vest with a cream button up underneath.

“You said we can’t do PDA in school.”

“‘s tha copier room and nobody else ‘s here, bird. ‘s fine, y’know that by now,” he argues, pulling you into his arms easily, manipulating you like soft clay. Trying and failing to hide a frown, his brow knits together in confusion. “Why ya bein’ all weird, hmm? Gonna tell me?”

“You don’t let me come and bother you during our preps anymore. You got all mad at me,” you confess blearily, letting your head come to rest on his shoulder. Hastily, you remove it and leave his arms, sure somebody will walk in the door at the least convenient second.

A laugh sings from his lips as he follows you, winding an arm around your waist. His lips are soft against your cheek, the stubble framing it becoming normal to you by now, although a scratchy nuisance. Now, he’s made his way to stand in front of you, blocking you from the packs of Crayola markers you were eyeing up for a project.

“‘m sorry I got mad, okay? Jus’ had loads o’ stuff t’ get done, knew I shouldn’t have snapped at ya, tho.’ I regret it now . . . . Will ya forgive me?” he begs, sticking out his bottom lip, making him even more irresistible and delectable. Shiny curls fall over his forehead from his mousy hair that’s shorter on the sides after his recent cut.

After checking the door, you surprise his lips with an all-forgiving smooch, welcomed by the bitter taste of black coffee on his lips. Like always, it draws to an end far too soon, and this time by the tinny ringing of the first bell.

“Betta get goin’, bird. Don’ wanna be late,” he teases, brushing his nose against yours. A short yelp escapes your lips when his hand squeezes your ass before he saunters off after another kiss.

“Harry,” you mutter, shaking your head, squeezing his hand briefly before you enter the halls together.

Although you’ve become accustomed to it, it still feels strange to slide on another mask once you step into the halls. Sometimes even the school. You feel them and you know they’re there, the stares from the students. The rumors buzzed around the beginning of the year about you and Harry, but with his help, they never got to you. Neither of you have ever confirmed anything to anybody, and luckily you haven’t had to so far, even amidst the continuing rumors.

Nonetheless, you still share with the other the stories of your students teasing the both of you about dating the other. You only fed the fire when you dressed up together for Halloween, or when your classes often combined together in the computer lab or library, or on the rare occasions, they have a large Jeopardy game or group project together. More often than you like to admit, you get carried away and entertain the freedom that would come with being able to say ‘yes’ to your students when they ask if you’re together. That would only call for one occasion, though. One that is quite far down the future road. As your eyes wander along Harry, a couple months in and you can’t deny that this isn’t just another boyfriend. No siree.

“What d’ya got on tha agenda t’day, love? Ya startin’ anythin’ befo’ break?” he asks you, pulling you from your reverie, probably for the best.

“No, we’re wrapping up the unit this week before testing next Monday on the last day. The Scarlet Letter, Frankenstein, Grammar Do’s and Don’ts, and the Transcendentalist Writers,” you explain, folding your hands together and letting them fall to the waist of your long wine-colored dress. Dark tights hug your legs, but the spotty heating inside of the school makes you miss the black cardigan sitting at your desk.

“Mmm, same here. ‘s a good day t’ do it, can’t really introduce anythin’ befo’ Christmas Break. They’ll all forget it by tha time they return in two weeks. We jus’ have a chapta left in most classes: Hemingway, To Kill A Mockingbird, Huck. Finn, and Robert Frost,” he comments, hands hidden away in his slacks. Often you’re grateful for it, the removal of the temptation for you. Then again, it tempts your eyes that like to dance across the tightness of his slacks, but you quickly avert them.

“That’s good, only three more school days counting today, and one more until my observation,” you huff, finding it arduous to keep the nerves surrounding the event at bay.

“You’ll do fine, love, I keep tellin’ ya that. Ya gotta believe me one o’ these times,” Harry coos, coming to a stop when you round the corner, your classrooms only a few steps away. To your surprise, his long fingers spread warmth across your skin with a pat to your arm, a rare one at that. “Have a good day, don’ let tha kids get t’ ya yet. Only a few days left. ‘ll talk t’ ya later.”

“Thanks, I hope you have a good day too,” you echo, containing the smile you send him halfheartedly, always careful about how you act towards each other around students. He winks at you quickly before turning away with that delightful smile playing around his lips, making you wonder how long again until you can kiss them.

His luscious curls make your fingers itch to touch them, but as you linger in your doorway watching him, you know that you’ll have to wait. After biding your time for a few seconds for the students to leave him after receiving help, with a mental shrug you decide you’ll wait. Soon, you find yourself in the office. Colleagues meander around the room, the secretary speaks on the phone, and a parent or two or waits for them. After a few smiles and greetings, you arrive at your mailbox. First, you pluck the bag of Bit-O-Honeys from your pocket, sticking them in his box with a note already taped to them. After fishing out the few papers sitting in there, your hand brushes against something on the bottom, but you don’t see anything when you look again. With a quirked brow, you stand on your tippy toes, spotting a lime green Post-It note stuck to the bottom piece of wood. A smile quickly consumes your face as you pluck it from there, sticking it to the first paper on top of your pile, not wanting to raise any kind of suspicion. You and Harry do your best to be extra careful, not wanting to give anybody a reason to pry, and by now you’re both positive nobody has any true reason to doubt your story.

Your heels dig into the sides of your feet after your long day, making you quicken your pace back to your classroom. The frown creasing your features is soon replaced with that grin from before when you turn into your classroom, finally taking a peek at the note.

Birdy-

You’re not very good at this whole Christmas list thing, are you? I’m still wondering what you’d like. Mind helping a silly old man out before the holiday rolls around? I hope your day is going swell. Don’t hesitate to come and say hi during prep, you know you’re always welcome. You’re the best kind of distraction, you’re just a little too good at it sometimes ;) You’re looking too gorgeous in that dress today, and so I’ll need you to stop by so I can give you a proper snog in private, pronto.

Harry xxxx

P.S. - Homemade pizza sounds lovely, I can’t wait. You spoil me (:

P.P.S - You have no idea how much you mean to me, bird xo

“Verdict on tha possibility o’ that snog?” somebody murmurs, their voice followed by the soft whoosh of your door closing. To no surprise, Harry leans against the door unable to hold back the happiness showing on his face.

“I think it’s a yes,” you answer slowly, placing the stack of things on your desk, but not moving an inch. You want to toy with him and make him work for it, but as always, you can’t resist him.

“How was yer day?” he mumbles once your arms come around his middle, brushing against the knit sweater vest. Sometimes he dresses like older colleagues and other days like his young age, but nonetheless you can’t help but think he’s the best dressed of any male teachers here at the school. He’s just too goddamn handsome that he can pull off anything.

“Good, we finished all of our readings in my classes. I get to be observed doing review tomorrow, so I hope the observer likes my Jeopardy games,” you comment, slipping your hands under the fabric, feeling the warmth projected from his body.

“‘m sure they will, love, ‘s a good idea ya came up with. I know it took loads o’ work doin’ four o’ ‘em fer tha four different classes ya have throughout tha day. What time ‘s yer observation, ya neva said?”

“It’s during my fourth hour, before lunch,” you answer, him humming a short reply. “You really think I look that nice in this dress? I thought I looked frumpy and too tall,” you question, pursing your lips as you take a look at your long plain dress.

“Yes, think ya look amazin’, bird. Couldn’t keep my eyes off o’ ya all day wheneva I saw ya. Yer gonna make me slip up one o’ these times, and make me blow our cover,” Harry snickers, stepping forward to sink his fingers into your hair, a thumb falling to address your cheek. A knowing smirk tempts your lips, and it only worsens when his tongue comes out to run over his. “Think ya know that already, tho’ - y’know what ya do t’ me, dontcha?”

You silently shake your head, but the smile makes an appearance, and your lie is free to the air. His breathy laugh mingles with it before he takes them away, scooping your top lip between his. His kisses fill you with a warm giddiness, one that leads your hands to leave his strong back, and wander down him. Juice from the orange he must have just eaten trickles onto your lips, meanwhile your fingers dip into his pants, just brushing the top of his clothed bum.

Harry breaks the kiss suddenly, but you’re already giggling. So far, all you receive is an eyebrow raise from him, but his toasty hands don’t leave your cheeks. His gleaming rose lips part, “What’d I say ‘bout those hands o’ yers? Lookie here, they’re gettin’ you in trouble ‘gain,” he tuts, your left cheek soon cold as he wags a finger at you.

“You never said I couldn’t, and your bum just looks so nice today- well, every day,” you counter, feeling cheeky. His eyes dart from yours as blush rises to his cheeks, pulling up the corners of his mouth along with it.

“Bird,” he giggles, eyes soon returning to yours. “I dunno what ‘m gonna do with you,” he coos gently, cupping your cheek once more with his long fingers, returning his lips to yours for a kiss. His smile is felt upon yours and you find out why when his tongue prods at your lips, begging for entrance. As your hand slides down to caress his bum, your lips part to let him in.

Day after day, you wonder just when it was that you let him into your heart, seeing how he’s made a home in there. You just hope he’ll never want to leave. More and more often lately, you keep thinking that you’d like him to stay there, perhaps for forever.

With chattering teeth and a frozen nose, you only start to warm up once you unlock the door to your room, grateful to get to spend the upcoming weekend inside your cozy home. Thoughts of the cute knit hats Harry wears and how he finds you adorable with your rosy cheeks and button nose pull your eyes to his door. Sighing, you unwrap your scarf, discovering he hasn’t came in yet this morning. Yet another thing to add to his list of acting odd lately at times. Even though you spoke to him through a few texts this morning, you long to hear his voice comfort you about your dreaded observation later today. Unbeknownst to you, he has this magical quality to him that never fails to calm you down, or to make things better. Yet another thing you love about him, you think with a smile, unloading your messenger bag of the materials you bring back and forth from school.

Once that’s all unpacked and you remember to turn on the lights, as well as the blinking Christmas lights strewn around your room, you get an idea. Pushing his door open, you pull on the gold metal chain of his lamp, your hands drifting to the green Post-Its. The pen slides from your fingers when somebody surprises you with a loud ‘boo!’

“Harry, stop,” you giggle, briefly glancing to the doorway to find him in his puffy black coat.

“Would ya look at that, I caught ya in tha act. It won’t be much o’ a surprise now,” he titters, softly closing the door behind himself, the hallways beginning to abate their previous silence.

Shrugging, you pick the pen back up and start to scribble down a note while you still have a few precious seconds left. Smirking, you release your lip you bite on to speak, “I got here before you today, that’s a point for me. I think we’re three-two now for this week,” you tease him, listening to the slushy scuffle of his leather boots along the floor.

“Ya, I hadda busy mornin’, had sumthin’ important t’ do. Can ya guess what it was?” he murmurs, appearing behind you suddenly, his cheek rubbing against yours softly. A long ‘sure’ falls from your lips, but it comes up short when you think about the sensation of his cheek against your face. It’s smooth and warm, and not hairy.

“Wait a minute,” you announce, pulling away from him and turning around in his chair to look at him. Seconds after your jaw dropped to your chest, your hand flies to your mouth at the sight of him freshly shaven. “Harry, your face!” For the first time, you finally get to see his dimples on full display, collapsing into his round smiling cheeks. A long giggle escapes them as he runs a hand over them.

“What d’ya think o’ me all clean shaven? Haven’t seen me without a beard, have ya, bird?” he inquires, raising an eyebrow as a cocky smirk creases his pink cheeks. Within seconds, you’re on your feet and feeling his satiny cheeks under your palms.

“They’re so smooth, I like them. You look so nice, well I liked you before with a beard too. You’re so handsome either way,” you croon, leaning in to kiss him, tasting the spearmint toothpaste he uses. Your lips wander to his cupid’s bow, the slope below his bottom lip, and across the expanses of his grinning cheeks.

“Stop,” he giggles, his hands finding a home on your waist, but he’s hard to believe as he leans into your lips. “Don’t think I look weird or less handsome without a beard, d’ya now?”

“No, you never could. Mmmm, I like kissing all over your cheeks,” you hum in between kisses, the musky smell of his shaving cream tickling at your nose.

“Thanks, bird, ‘m glad t’ hear that. Now, lemme read dis note ya left, ‘m curious now.”

Much to your disappointment, his face soon leaves the clutches of your kisses, him trailing to his desk. Although whining at his absence, you let him, and instead you admire his adorable cheeks. It takes everything inside of you to hold yourself back from pinching them and kissing them. Hints of denial and shock come over you again, unsure of what you’re seeing at times. Never in the last seven-ish months since you truly met Harry, have you seen him without his beard. It’s kind of startling, but you know that he has you wrapped around his finger as well, because it unmistakingly makes you love him even more. Sometimes you wonder how that’s possible, even if you’ve only been official for a few months.

“Why the change?” you wonder aloud, eyes glued to him as his scan over the note you didn’t get to finish. Lifting his glowing eyes to you, those greens stare back at you, and again you’re knocked off your feet by him.

“Why not,” he answers with a shrug of his shoulders, holding up the note. “Ya didn’t finish, y’know. Ya started t’ declare yer love fer me and all that jazz, and it ended in tha middle o’ a sentence. Not very proper fer an English teacher, y’know,” he pouts, dragging his feet over to you after his sarcastic words.

“Well, you didn’t let me finish,” you reply, surrounding his middle once he’s in reach.

“D’ya care t’?” he whispers against your mouth, his lips ghosting over yours. This man really does know what he’s doing.

“No thanks, I’m not a ‘put me on the spot’ type of gal.”

“Ah, you aren’t, are ya? Tha’s a new one,” he grins, laying kisses to your cold cheeks, spreading warmth in his trail.

“Maybe you could tell me something, though.”

“Hmm?” he hums, the feeling of his smooth skin rubbing against yours entirely new to you, but you think you could get used to it.

“Could you tell me that I’m worrying about my observation for nothing?”

His kisses come to an unnecessary end, but in the end you’re grateful to see his green eyes again, and all of the love they hold.

“Ya are worryin’ ‘bout it fer nuthin’, bird. Promise ya yer gonna do great, ‘m so proud o’ you and tha great teacher ya’ve become,” he coos above you, tapping his finger to your nose. The words settle inside of you and begin to sink in. “And ‘m not jus’ sayin’ that, hope ya know how much I mean it.”

You tried, and failed, to keep Harry’s words at the front of your mind throughout your day. When the worries would bubble up, you’d try to make them go away with his reassuring voice saying them. At times, it was strenuous, and quickly the idea of eating lunch after your observation seemed ridiculous. That word seemed to align with your day soon, seeing as the powerpoint for Jeopardy wouldn’t work at first, but you blamed the projector. Then as the minutes ticked by and brought you closer and closer to eleven o’clock, shakes started to radiate throughout your body. Your hands grew clammy and you wish it was over with before it even started.

Your students for British Literature soon shuffled in, dropping backpacks on the floor with groans, itching for Christmas Break to come as well. You can’t help but agree with them, reminding them of this once they’re all seated and the last bell has rung. Inside your chest, your heart feels like it’s trying to break free from its cage as you anticipate a random colleague walking through your door.

“Hello, everybody. We finished reading Frankenstein yesterday, and to prepare for our test on Monday, we’re going to do some review. I know you all have come to enjoy my Jeopardy games, so I made one for Frank and-,” your introduction to your class is cut off by a knock on your classroom door, making your heart jump inside your chest. “Excuse me, let me just get that first.” With a deep breath, you hurry to get the door, and that breath goes flying out the window when you see who’s on the other side. His name falls from your lips at the sight of him, a clipboard hugged to his chest.

“Hi, ‘m here t’ observe you fer tha duration o’ yer lesson,” Harry announces, a professionalism coming over his voice, yet a cheekiness is heard at the edge of it.

“You’re observing me?” you ask breathlessly, earning a proud nod from him. “O-okay.”

“Yer gonna do great, don’ worry ‘bout me. Jus’ ignore me sittin’ in tha back,” he whispers, his warm smile holding more words than the both of you know he can say right now. After a squeeze to your arm, he slips past you into the classroom, flared maroon pants billowing behind him. “Hullo, e’rybody. ‘m Mr. Styles from across tha hall, I also teach English here. Don’ mind me, ‘m jus’ observin’ yer lovely teacher fer a colleague review t’day. Carry on,” Harry says, addressing your class. Swallowing, the butterflies take a peek from their safety inside your chest, soon taking flight to rid you of your worries.

“As I was saying, I made a Jeopardy game for Frank that we’ll play to review for the test on Monday,” you continue, folding your hands together to sit below your waist. You smile when the class erupts in applause, and even more so when your eyes flit to Harry whose found an empty desk at the back of the room. His head of curls lifts from being bent over the clipboard he writes on, sending you an encouraging wink. “So let’s take attendance to see how many there are of all of you, and I’ll split you up into teams. Then we can get started,” you finish, feeling his eyes on you. Although the pressure is still there, you feel at home in his presence and you don’t even mess up once during your lesson.

Even if you had, you’re sure he could’ve fixed it with the winks, thumbs ups, and heart wrenching smiles he sends you from across the room.

“So how did you manage observing me when you had a class during fourth, too? And how’d I do by the way?” you begin, wandering into Harry’s open classroom, the hallways almost empty after the end of the school day. Stopping in your tracks, confusion washes over you when the seat at his desk is empty. It would seem likely he had only stepped out, but it only gets weirder when his long coat isn’t found draped over his chair. “Okay then,” you mumble, returning to your classroom with questions blooming inside of you.

Thoughts are recalled in your mind about how odd Harry’s acted on a few occasions lately, namely his unusual disappearances after school. It’s hard to ignore as you work on the last few questions for the test for sophomore American Lit. You’re trying to think of questions from Walt Whitman’s Song of Myself, switching tracks after just focusing on Ralph Waldo Emerson’s Self-Reliance. Although not news to you, you steal a glance across the hall at his classroom that still lays undisturbed, longing for his help with a good Whitman question. Soon, you find your phone in your hands, typing up a text to him asking him where he is, because you need his help. Before exiting your messages, the gray thought bubble appears with an ellipsis, indicating his typing. You wait for a response, but after close to a minute, you forget your phone on your desk nearby.

Giving up, your attention wanders to your staff email. You occupy your time answering a few parent emails, then some staff emails, and reading the important ones from the principal regarding Christmas Break. Your eyes grow far more tired at the sight of one from him about upcoming final exams in January, a time that seems far off from now. As a teacher now, you know that’s not true, and you always have to be ahead of the game. It’s yet another thing you want to rack Harry’s brain about, unsure of how to even create a final, and what to include on it. All you can think of is how much you despised final exams in high school and university, finding little worth in them. You know that you don’t want to be hard on your students, because a cumulative exam is difficult, and a regular exam already is as well. While your desktop plays Disney and Pixar piano instrumentals, your thoughts drift to the few teachers you had who made their final exam less intimidating. Whether it was a test on just the most recent unit you learned, the last book you read as a class, or something silly like throwing wadded up paper balls into the recycling from ten feet away.

Quickly, they’re disturbed by the twinkling of your cell phone, buzzing along your desk. A budding warmth trickles into your limbs when you see on it the goofy picture of Harry from a day at the beach last summer. New freckles covering his tanned skin, and all pink sunglasses donning his eyes.

“Hey, where’d you escape to?” you answer casually, dragging your mouse over to pause your music, coming across a song from the movie Up.

“Oh erm, had t’ run a quick errand. ‘m on me way back tho’, so what’re ya doin’?” Harry replies, clearing his throat which he never does, only when he’s nervous. You try to listen into his voice closer, but you don’t hear anything else besides that, so you try to push it away.

“Finishing up my Transcidentalism Writers test. I was wondering what would be a good question, in your opinion, from Whitman’s Song of Myself?” you pose to him, your other hand falling from your computer mouse to prop your chin up.

“Hmmm, tha’s a good question,” he titters, another sound echoing his words, but you can’t make out what it is in the background. “Ya could do a question ‘bout tha theme o’ tha poem, examples o’ figurative language, or ya could have a short response question where they summarize tha poem in their own thoughts, I s’pose. Ya could even- Shhh,” he finishes. He only makes you grow more and more curious as to what’s going on, and why you hear a whine in response.

“Who are you talking to?” you laugh, narrowing your eyes at the wall you stare at lazily while talking to him.

“Oh nobody, nobody. Do those erm questions help? Ya like ‘em, bird?” he responds hastily, brushing the strange occurrence away.

“Okay, whatever you say, and yeah they help. Thank you.”

“Welcome. ‘m almost t’ me classroom, so ‘ll see ya soon, kay?”

“Okay,” you tell him before he hangs up.

Yawning, you turn back to your computer and quickly write down those ideas in a Notepad document before you forget them. You’re in the middle of typing up the idea for a short response question when there’s a knock at your classroom door. Turning your head, you don’t see anybody at first, so you revert your attention back to your typing.

“Yeah, who’s there? Harry, is that you?” you reply, your fingers dancing along the keyboard swiftly.

“No, ‘s me,” Harry’s voice replies, but it’s distorted to sound different from his. It’s more high-pitched, very near to that of a child. Giggling, you look back over to your doorway to find a surprise. “Hi, ‘m a puppy. ‘m a Golden Retriever mix. I jus’ got adopted by me new daddy, Harry.”

“Oh my goodness!” you exclaim, hands flying to your mouth at the most adorable sight indeed. Held in Harry’s two hands, a tan Golden puppy is suspended in the air in your doorway. His tiny furry body squirms in your boyfriend’s hands, a short yip leaving his little mouth. “Harry!” you cry, rooted to your spot. Another exclamation leaves your lips when a yawn leaves the little puppy’s mouth, and then again when his long wagging tail enters your view.

“‘m only eight weeks and daddy jus’ go’mme, so I don’ have a name yet, but ‘s nice t’ meet you. Me daddy ‘s thinkin’ o’ namin’ me Gatsby afta his favourite book. Whoops, I wasn’t s’posed t’ tell ya that, daddy says ya were s’posed t’ guess that on yer own. Anyways, my daddy and I wanted t’ ask you if ya’ll be my new mummy? He was also wonderin’ if ya wanted t’ come an’ live with us, since daddy told me yer lease ‘s up soon. I dunno what dat ‘s, but what d’ya say? I know we’d have loads o’ fun togetha, and ‘m jus’ so darn cute!” Harry continues in his child-like voice, speaking for the new puppy. Tears soon blur your eyes, but you blink them away quickly so as to not lose sight of the irresistible puppy.

“Harry!” you cry, getting to your feet and dashing in your heels to the doorway, finding him bringing the puppy to his chest.

“Hi, birdy. I see ya’ve met me new puppy, or . . our new puppy,” he smirks before you, hitting you with another wave of emotions at his darling words. “Sorry, I didn’t tell ya ‘bout him sooner. This ‘s what’s been takin’ up all me time dis week, and it all happened so fast. Wanted t’ surprise ya, and I think ‘s safe t’ say I have,” he chuckles, removing a hand from around the puppy’s pink belly to wipe the tears from under your eyes.

“It’s okay. Oh my goodness, look at him,” you almost whine in that voice you use around babies, bringing your hands to his fluffy fur. He turns his head towards you and his tiny black nose wiggles as he sniffs at the air around you. “Hi, little guy. Can I be your new mummy, is that okay with you?”

“‘Course it ‘s, was kinda bettin’ on it. Knew ya’d be a good mummy . . . Wish I could bring him t’ school on Monday, but my sista said she’d take him fer tha day,” Harry coos, lifting your head with his voice. One of those big crinkly-eye smiles claims his face, disappearing from view when he presses a kiss to your lips. Your lips move with his, fingers getting lost in his hair, but it’s over quickly when you start to hear barking below you. “Heeeeey, ‘s okay, li’l guy. I can kiss mummy, if I want t’. What d’ya think, Gatbsy, hmmm? Mummy said she’d make us pizzas t’morrow. Already turnin’ out t’ be a good mummy, isn’t she now?”

Laughs coat the both of your lips as he lifts the puppy into the air for the both of you to look at. They echo throughout the room when Gatsby wiggles in his arms, moving his gangly legs wildly as if trying to swim through the air.

“Oh, Harry,” you sigh, encircling his middle with your arms. The puppy returns to his side, and his left arm wanders to around your shoulders. His lips are cold against your forehead when they press a smooch there. You can’t help but to laugh again when the puppy inches over to you, sniffing all over you, long arms dangling over Harry’s. He reaches your face and begins to lick kisses along your cheeks, soon crawling into your arms with Harry’s help.

“I think he likes his new mummy, I can’t blame him.”

“Oh I love him already,” you confess, losing your fingers in his long fur around his face, ears flopping all over the place. “And his daddy,” you blurt out, widening your wet eyes once the words escape your lips. Glancing over to Harry, somehow that smile has grown even larger, adorned by a fresh wash of pink along his cheeks.

“You love me?” he murmurs slowly, hand soft against your shoulder, pressing you to his chest. You pause, unsure of how to read his reaction, but the sudden doubt falls away. You’re nodding before the words come, and you already see the effect they have on him.

“Yeah, I know it’s only been a few months, but I do . . I love you, Harry,” you divulge, clutching the puppy to your chest who still spills kisses along your face and neck, licking up the tears that run down your cheeks.

“I think he’s gonna hafta contain himself and gimme a turn kissing his mum . . ‘coz I love ya too, birdy, so much,” Harry hums, the smile leaking into his voice. You can even taste it on your lips when his touch yours, massaging yours gently, the smooth feeling of his skin still a surprise to you.

“And, Harry?” you whisper, his eyes falling to yours, mumbling a question in response. “I’d love to move in with the two of you . . my boys,” you finally answer, watching the smile hike further up his cheeks. His delightful giggle surrounds you and soon a sweet yipping followed by puppy kisses to the both of your happy faces.

Yeah, you could get used to this, all of it.

127 notes · View notes

beerecordings · 5 years

Text

Want

Part 18 of My Brother’s Keeper (Part 1 l Previous l Next)

My taglist is a separate post so let me know if you want to be added or removed! This is v long chapter because I love.... so many of these scenes... I hope you will enjoy it. Also happy Henrik appreciation week he deserves better I love him <3333 and also you for reading <3333333

Edit: yo @florenceisfalling made SUCH A LOVELY JAMIE AND CHASE PIECE with a tiny bit of inspo from this chapter and I love it so much!!! you can see it here

tws for self-hatred, panic attacks, and weight mentions/food

also major abuse themes sorry i should have included that right away this whole fic has major abuse so please be careful

He thinks that maybe all that he hoped for has come to be, and yet...

“Well, what do you need now, Jameson?”

“What do I need?”

“What do you want to do, I mean? We can get some food in you, you can lie down, maybe we need some more ointment for that throat of yours – where did Chase put that, he might have something for your ear infection too – well, whatever you feel like. What sounds good?”

“What – you want me to choose?”

“Yes, we have time for anything. We have a lot of time now. What would you like?”

Jameson stares up at Henrik, still sitting in the warmth left on the mattress as they slept.

“You sure you want me to choose?”

Henrik stops bustling around and turns back to him. He tries to smile but he can’t make his mouth move, just tries to look warm. “From now on,” he says. “You get to choose what you do and who you are. How does that sound?”

Sounds like breaking the rules. He bites down hard on his lip, closing his eyes, trying to banish the thought of all that Anti would do to him if he knew he was anything other than a prisoner here.

If he knew that he was beginning to be glad that Anti let him go.

“I want,” he says. “To go back to Anti.”

Henrik closes his eyes, breathes in deep. “Well,” he murmurs. “That is the one thing you cannot do.”

Jameson stares down at his scarred hands.

“Come on, Jamie.” Henrik steps closer, hands outstretched. “What do you want to do?”

What do you want to do? What do you want? What do you want to be?

“I want,” says Jameson.

He has to pause, has to pause to choke, overwhelmed just for an instant, as he realizes he has never once in his life signed the word.

“I want,” he repeats. “I want a shower.”

“A shower,” says Henrik, and smiles. “Well, I think that much can be handled.”

He's staring at his hair.

“What did you think it looked like?” Chase laughs, presenting him with a clean t-shirt.

Jameson ducks his head down, nervous with a stranger beside him, but his eyes flicker up again, and he's staring at his hair.

Staring at his face, clean.

“When was the last time you got to wash it?” asks Chase, frowning now. He reaches out to touch Jameson's hair and then thinks better of it, drawing away politely. Jameson tries his best to smile at him. If he's gentle and harmless, Chase won't hurt him, right?

“Long time,” he manages, his hands stammering as they tremble.

There are three different showers in the house that Marvin made. The one in the bathroom across from the spare room is, in two words, absolutely spiffing. Jameson's not really supposed to use old words – Anti said they made him sound stupid and didn't make sense to sign anyway – but for the remorseless pressure of the steaming hot water, where he stayed for two hours, rubbing shampoo into his hair and scraping his skin clean with soap the scent of oranges, he makes a mental exception.

Besides... Anti's not here.

He tries to smile at his reflection in the mirror. His hair has dried into a warm, earthy brown color. Its stiffness is gone and the streaks of dust and filth that used to make him feel so disgusting have vanished into a warm coconut smell. It even curls, just a little – tumbling gently over his forehead in a fine coil of brown and teal.

He's clean. He's clean and so is the house. Everything's clean. Even his nails are picked into white crescent moons. Finally, finally.

“You look good,” says Chase, and Jameson flinches to be mocked, but then he turns his gaze and sees only sincerity in Chase's face. “Here, want your shirt?”

“My shirt?”

“Yeah, sorry, I haven't had time to go buy you anything new yet. Just went to work and came back today, didn't even visit Jack. Schneep's feeling a little jumpy still, but when he chills out, I'll take you out of the house and we'll go buy you a whole wardrobe. Yeah?”

“Yeah – really, clothes all for me? – wait, can I – can I visit Mr. Jack sometime?”

“I like that sign for him.” Chase laughs and copies him, making the sign for infection over his eye. “You're kind of sassy, aren't you, Jay? I don't see why not.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, dude! He's, uh. Not great company, but still... I like to think he'd be glad you came to see him. I like to think he's glad when I come to see him, you know?”

Jameson doesn't know. Coma patients do not rejoice for a visit in his understanding. But the thought of finding Mr. Jack, of seeing him, of knowing where he is and how to get to him – that sounds amazing.

He chooses that. Henrik says he can do what he wants. He wants to find Jack. He's been wanting to know him his whole life, so a few days? That's nothing. He can wait.

He grins at his reflection again, easier now, and tugs Chase's shirt – no, no, it's his shirt now, Chase said so – over his head.

“How about some food?” offers Chase. “You want something to eat? Skinny little guy, I gotta tell you. Schneep says you probably need to put some weight on, which is great for me, cause I really like to fucking cook.”

Chase talks a lot, and never with any malice. Jameson kind of likes listening to him.

“Sounds good,” he agrees, a little less nervously.

And when Chase grins and reaches out, Jameson accepts his hand in his own, and lets him tug him towards the kitchen.

He's hungry so he gets something to eat.

That's just how things work here. It's bizarre.

Bizarre and wonderful.

That first meal they share together is pasta, if only just a little, to go easy on his stomach. Chase presents it to him with garlic and chicken and sweet alfredo sauce and basil and tomatoes.

“Does that look good?”

Jameson can't even sign “yes.” He is gripping the fork too tightly. He puts a mouthful of pasta in his mouth and then he reaches up to hold his head in his hands, crying over a fork’s worth of penne.

Chase reaches out and takes his hand and tells him, “Hey, hey, calm down, it's okay! It's okay, bud. It's all okay.”

Jameson says “I'm sorry” and Chase says “don't be, it's just pasta” and Jameson says “not for that, for everything, for trying to kill you, for hurting you – ”

And all Chase says is, “Oh, well.

That's okay too.”

Over the course of the next few days, Chase makes sandwiches with pesto and feta and savory pork with spoonfuls of yellow rice and zucchini fried in bread crumbs, brings home ice cream with big chunks of chocolate, drizzles fruit in sweet sauce, cooks fish and American burgers with barbecue sauce, bakes fresh bread, gives him protein and fats and sugars according to the diet Henrik helped them decide on, and asks him, every day, if there's anything new he'd like to try, anything he didn't get to have before.

“Sorry, I just like spoiling you, cooking is like the only thing I'm good at and I always cook for my family, you know? Is that weird to say, that we're family? Really, I think we should have been brothers a long time ago, like, right away, but then – see, but you're here now, so we're brothers, right? Anyway, here, I'm making a grocery list. What do you want, JJ?”

No one's ever asked him what he wants. No one's ever called him JJ. No one's ever cooked for him. He thinks he might love Chase. Anyway, he nods when he calls him “brother.” He smiles when he calls him brother.

Yes, he thinks they should have been brothers a long time ago. Isn't that what Anti told him? That if Chase hadn't been Mr. Jack's for so long, he would have been a good puppet too, and they could have been brothers a long time ago?

Jameson would have liked that. He tries to be grateful for right now.

Things are good.

Things are unbelievably, impossibly good.

And he doesn't deserve any of it.

“Can I sleep with you?” he asks Henrik on that first night after he has called him his brother.

“Oh,” says Henrik. “Look, Jameson, I had some dependency issues when I came back from – well, I've had some dependency issues too, but I wonder if it wouldn't be healthier for you to sleep on your own.”

“Please,” Jameson begs. “Please, it's too cold in my room and Jackie is across the wall from me. I'm frightened. I want to sleep in here with you.”

Henrik's face is blue and white with bruising and exhaustion. His chest hurts badly. He has just re-stitched one of the cuts on his stomach, not that he told anyone it tore open.

Jameson isn't the only one who could use comfort.

“Okay,” Henrik admits, sighing and flopping down onto his pillows. “Yes, alright, you can sleep in here. Come lay down and let’s get some sleep.”

The bed is warm. There are no bugs or bloodstains. During the night, nothing bites him or attacks him or crawls, unexpectedly, into bed beside him, dragging static-electric hands along his flesh or kissing at the side of his throat, whispering promises of torture for later if he doesn't behave –

The nice thing about his panic attacks – Chase has been trying to teach him about having a positive mentality – is that they are silent and stiffer than a frozen tree, so he doesn't wake Henrik up four times a night like he would otherwise.

He thinks about Anti often, about all the things he should have done so that his big brother wouldn't have had to throw him out. His brain has also begun to play a cruel trick on him where suddenly the warm memories he had with Anti become sinister.

Do you remember the time he gave you your knives? You were so happy. (He also threw you down the stairs once for missing the target twice in a row, and your head split open and you bled and bled and bled.)

Do you remember the time you were so hungry you could not rise from your bed, and then he brought you – oh, they were so tasty – real donuts covered completely in sugar? You wept for joy. (The only reason you were starving in the first place was because he thought it was funny. He could have brought food for you anytime.)

Do you recall Christmas, when he brought you your blanket? You loved that thing. Slept with it every night and dragged it around after you everywhere you went. He called you his baby and you smiled. (That thing was filthy and disgusting and I hate being treated like a child, I just played along because it made him smile, and anyway Chase and Henrik have a dozen blankets a hundred times better than that one, my only fucking comfort in that god-awful – oh, oh, what am I thinking?)

He is scared that he will no longer want Anti if he stays here.

And that is the worst thought of all.

The thought that maybe – just maybe – Anti didn't actually – Anti wasn't actually –

No, no, no, no. He can't admit it. Can't even think it.

Because if Anti never really loved him, what was he doing all these months?

Anti loved him. He knows that. He's sure. It was all worth it. It must have all been worth it. He cannot accept that his suffering was meaningless. Impossible. Unthinkable. Terrible.

He loves Anti. And this place? As wonderful as it is, it is not where he belongs.

He's afraid of what it will turn him into if he stays.

Sometimes he hears Jackie moving around downstairs. This noise alone is enough to make him tremble harder than before, and bury his face against Henrik's chest, wondering if the doctor is powerful enough to protect him from the hero, when the time comes for Jackie to kill him.

He's allowed outside whenever he feels like it.

He and Anti had to hide, so, at the old house, there were only certain times he was allowed outside, and only for so long, and anyway it was winter. But this?

This is spring and he is free in it.

He doesn't know where they are. All he knows is that it's as beautiful as the glimpses of stars he used to catch through his window.

They live in the midst of a grand forest, creaking with age, where trees stretch up to the sky like God has invited them to the best garden party ever and they're trying not to be late. The branches are full of hollering birds and budding leaves and there are these fat little chipmunks scurrying along the forest floor like a kid spilled a whole box of fluffy brown marbles, and the air is clean and good and warm and Jameson – Jameson –

Jameson is in love.

He walks through it often and his brothers don't even ask him where he's going or when he'll be back. They just let him wander. His favorite spot is a river, among the trees, where he likes to come and just stand, rolling up the jeans Chase gifted him and watching the water sighing past his feet, cool and clear. The rocks press against the pads of his feet.

Once, he saw a white cat, there on the bank of the river.

He got so excited he nearly slipped, and, anxious and delighted, he signed a shaky “hello!”

The cat looked at him with big, clever blue eyes.

He reached out to touch it, but it ran away.

He still hopes to find it, one of these days. He thinks Chase feeds it in the morning, but that feels like cheating, so he waits until the sun is high in the sky, and walks every day, watching, wandering, free.

He plans to escape by way of the forest.

He'll be sad to see it go. Maybe someday he can bring Anti back here, and they'll walk through the trees together, and no longer have to hide.

“Okay, like that – yep, turn a little!”

Jameson curves the remote.

“Yeah, yep! There, now you're in the right direction. Okay, hit – yeah, that button there – and you're off! Okay, watch for the ledge!”

He sees the ledge getting closer and closer, but can't turn in time. He watches with a disgruntled twitch of his mustache as Bowser Jr. plummets to his death once again, only to be resurrected by a flying turtle.

Chase is laughing. “It's okay,” he says. “It's okay. Want to try again?”

JJ straightens up, the frown melting away. Chase never gets angry with him for fucking it up. “Yes,” he nods quickly, lifting up his little remote again. He'll keep trying til he gets it right.

“Okay, turn, then button – there you go. Can you get around the hill? Curve it – good job, bud! I'll show you how to drift in a second. Watch out for the – oh!”

Baby Bowser successfully swerves his motorcycle out of the way and continues through Moo Moo Meadows.

“Good job!” cheers Chase.

JJ puts his remote down, laughing. His clock reads eleven o' clock in the morning. “You have to go to work,” he reminds Chase warmly.

“Damn, you're right! Guess I have to say goodbye.”

JJ grins wickedly, scooting forward. Chase watches with raised eyebrows, slowly beginning to get up from the couch.

Jameson tackles him back down, grabbing a pillow to slam it over his head, and Chase yelps out a laugh and grabs him around the waist, heaving him up and off him. “Help, help,” he cries, shoving Jameson halfway off the couch, so his head hangs over the edge. “A dork with a hipster mustache is attacking me again!”

Three days ago Chase had tried to go to work and Jameson had grabbed his hand and refused to let go, grinning mischievously as Chase struggled to get free. It was the most emotion he had shown Chase thus far, and he was so delighted that he tussled with him for a full hour and then stayed home from work.

Fuck videos. He's got a little brother now. And Jameson smiles easier every day.

“I love you,” mumbles Chase, leaning down to press their heads together.

“Asshole,” signs JJ, cheekily.

And then he presses his forehead against Chase and smiles, closing his eyes and pressing the word “love” against his brother's chest.

Chase smiles til his face hurts.

“What are you morons up to now?” asks Henrik, appearing at the top of the stairs with three used mugs hanging off his hands, only now being mercifully returned to the washing machine after days of neglect.

“I was trying to teach Jamie to play Mario Kart.”

“Ah, I hate that fucking game.”

“He only says that cause he's bad at it,” Chase whispers to Jameson.

“Aren't you late for work?” asks Henrik, washing his mugs off in the sink. Jameson rises and steps towards him, soaking in the sunlight wandering in through the glass-windowed door to the patio.

“I set my own schedule!” says Chase. “And by that schedule, yes, I'm late.” He lets out a boisterous laugh, throwing his head back. “I’m distractable lately! Jamie, toss me my shoes? Good throw – got it! – oh, shit – ah, barely caught that one!”

“Stop throwing shoes!” Henrik snaps, turning to glare at his giggling brothers.

“Bye, guys!” calls Chase, clutching the door handle. He leans his head towards it for a second, closing his eyes, and then steps through.

Weird. That door's always locked when JJ tries it. Shrugging it off and tidying his mussed hair carefully, Jamie moves towards Henrik and sets his chin on his brother's shoulder, watching him rinse out the cups, still stained with coffee at the bottom.

“How are you doing today?” asks Henrik. He moves the mug in his hand and the water splashes up towards them, getting water in Jameson's face.

Jamie shoves his shoulder playfully and falls back, shaking his head at Henrik's laughter. He comes closer again and takes a coffee-free mug from his brother, turning to set it in the washing machine.

“Actually,” he admits. “There's something I wanted to ask you.”

“Don't keep me in suspense.” Henrik hands him a second mug and picks the third one up in his hand, turning to look at him as he signs.

Jameson puts the mug in the washer. “When are we going back to Anti?”

Henrik drops the mug.

Flinching hard at the awful shattering of the glass, Jameson backs away.

The whiteness of Henrik's face only makes him flinch harder, cowering, a long-conditioned fear waking up in his stomach, making his heart pound a harsh reprimand against the inside of his ribs. He is terrified, suddenly, of the old stories Anti told him about all the things he would do if the others were his puppets, how he would bring his prisoners to the doctor and make him name each one of their bones as they shattered, keeping them alive for weeks after Anti had made them beg to die, and Jameson sees Henrik before him as he was in that cold basement only two weeks ago, covered in blood and subject, completely, to Anti's will, and terror burns at the back of his throat like whiskey.

“Get the broom,” whispers Henrik.

“What?” signs Jameson, and then he panics, realizing he's questioned an order, he didn't mean to, it just happened, he reaches up a hasty first to circle a “sorry!” around his heart –

Henrik reaches out and grabs his hands. “Just go get the broom,” he rasps, closing his eyes.

Jameson dashes towards the laundry room. He brings the broom back right away, but in the seconds he was gone, Henrik has collapsed in on himself. His hands, stiff on the kitchen counter, are keeping him standing, but his face is so pale Jameson drops the broom and reaches forward to hold his shoulders, anticipating a fall.

Henrik grabs his shoulders in return, looking up at him with exhausted eyes as blue as the ocean where the light hits the water. “Why would you ask that?” he asks.

Tears fill and overflow and come running down his face.

“I thought,” he whispers, trembling, holding onto his little brother as tightly as he can without hurting. “I thought you were happy here. Or becoming, anyway. I thought you wanted to be our brother.”

“I do, I do!” Jameson resists the urge to tear at his hair, panic rising like a bonfire in his stomach. “Don't be upset with me, please! I just thought we would go back to Anti together! You and Chase and I could all be together still. We could all go back!”

“Go back to Anti together,” Henrik repeats.

He is no longer whispering. He shouts.

“Go back to my torturer? Go back to your torturer? And bring Chase Brody? Bring my fucking little brother? Bring my friend?”

“No, no, no.” Jameson shakes his head so fast it hurts. “Not back to a torturer, he wouldn't torture us if we came willingly!”

Henrik shoves him away, gasping on the despair in his throat, and Jameson falls back like he's been struck, covering his face with his hands and collapsing to the floor, huddling back against the patio door, crying so hard he can barely breathe.

“Oh, God, why?” pants Henrik. He wants to turn away, he's scared of what he'll do if he looks at him, but it's not fair to turn away from his signing. “Oh, God. You don't – you don't understand anything.”

“I understand plenty,” Jameson protests, trying frantically to wipe the tears off his place. “I understand that being in this place has already made you forget who we belong to.”

Henrik screams aloud, slamming his fist against the counter.

“How can you say that!” he howls. “After all he put you through! I thought you were happy here! I don't understand! How can you say that!”

“What the fuck is happening?” a voice interrupts them, and Jameson stiffens like a rabbit that just heard a gun go off.

Jackie stands in the entryway, eyes wide.

Eyes angry.

“Henrik, what's wrong?”

“Nothing,” fumbles Henrik, barely able to speak. He is stumbling away from Jameson, his eyes flickering desperately from wall to wall. “Nothing, it's not his fault, he doesn't know, it's not my fault, I didn't know, I was just trying to be his, I just didn't want to get hurt, I was just trying to survive and he told me I was his but I don't believe him I don't believe him I don't believe him – ”

Jackie moves forward to grab him as he falters, gripping his hands firmly and leading him back towards the couch as his brother unravels, drowning in his own terror.

He doesn't even look at Jameson.

Stiff and silent, shaking in the corner, alone.

His scarred right hand rests on the handle of the patio door.

Henrik will not come with him. He understands now. His brother has been through too much. The bad blood between him and Anti can't be settled. Jameson will go without him.

And Chase, too, he must leave behind. It was selfish, thinking he could bring him. Anti always talked about slaughtering him like a pig. Chase is too far gone, too loyal to Mr. Jack, his old friend, sleeping sound. Yes, Jameson must go without them.

It will break his heart, but he must go without them.

He’s trying to work up the nerve.

Anti didn't love you, says one part of his brain.

This part of his brain has told him this since he was perhaps two days old. He has ignored it every time. Repressed it. Swallowed it down. Told it to shut the fuck up and wondered if he could cut it out of the side of his head before Anti sensed his disloyalty.

But that night, beside a forgiving, bone-weary Henrik, with Chase across the hallway, both sound asleep, both watching over him –

For the first time in his life, the rest of him answers that part of his brain: I know.

But I must go back anyway.

I don't deserve this.

To be clean and fed and free and happy.

To be loved.

I don't deserve them.

He wants them. Wants all of it. Wants to be theirs and his own, but never again Anti's. He wants it so much it makes his heart hurt and his hands shake and his eyelids have to squeeze tight together to stop tears from falling.

He wants it, but he doesn't deserve it.

He begins to plan his escape.

#jameson jackson #chase brody #jse egos #writersofjack #tw self hatred #tw panic attack #tw ptsd #food tw #thought about titling this 'this chapter doesn't deserve a title'#and also 'god answered my prayers and i told him to fuck off'#but i decided against them lol #bee writes #hey thank you so much to all of you who give me comments they make me so happy #i think about things you've said as i write #it gives me comfort you know???#anyway ty ly :)#tw aggressive reaction

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