#neil talks to himself again

[nordenhelm]

Still working on secret santa art, had to pitch-hit someone but kinda excited for this drawing ✨Probably last illustration of the year.

And sorry for inactivity, I don't like to be on socials during holidays

[weirdly-specific-but-ok]

for whom good omens is being written

Hey maggots and the rest of the fandom, it's the Good Omens Mascot here. Today I read a post about this tweet:

The accompanying video genuinely made me cry. And I've been thinking about this for a long while, as far back as February, when I saw a lot of conflicting opinions on what people wanted from the third season. It really is true that no matter what you do, some people will be dissatisfied. But what matters is that Neil is writing this for Terry.

And I was reminded of some paragraphs from the Good Omens TV Companion, which I'd read in Amazon's sample excerpt of the book. I know this is a long post, but I really truly do think you all need to read these, I've done my best to select only the most important parts. Here you go:

'His Alzheimer's started progressing harder and faster than either of us had expected,' says Neil, referring to a period in which Terry recognized that despite everything he could no longer write. 'We had been friends for over thirty years, and during that time he had never asked me for anything. Then, out of the blue, I received an email from him with a special request. It read: “Listen, I know how busy you are. I know you don't have time to do this, but I want you to write the script for Good Omens. You are the only human being on this planet who has the passion, love and understanding for the old girl that I do. You have to do this for me so that I can see it." And I thought, “OK, if you put it like that then I'll do it."

'I had adapted my own work in the past, writing scripts for Death: The High Cost of Living and Sandman, but not a lot else was seen. I'd also written two episodes of Doctor Who, and so I felt like I knew what I was doing. Usually, having written something once I'd rather start something new, but having a very sick co-author saying I had to do this?' Neil spreads his hands as if the answer is clear to see. 'I had to step up to the plate.' A pause, then: 'All this took place in autumn 2014, around the time that the BBC radio adaptation of Good Omens was happening,' he continues, referring to the production scripted and co-directed by Dirk Maggs and starring Peter Serafinowicz and Mark Heap. ‘Terry had talked me into writing the TV adaptation, and I thought OK, I have a few years. Only I didn't have a few years,' he says. 'Terry was unconscious by December and dead by March.'

He pauses again. 'His passing took all of us by surprise,' Neil remembers. 'About a week later, I started writing, and it was very sad. The moments Terry felt closest to me were the moments I would get stuck during the writing process. In the old days, when we wrote the novel, I would send him what I'd done or phone him up. And he would say, "Aahh, the problem, Grasshopper, is in the way you phrase the question," and I would reply, "Just tell me what to do!" which somehow always started a conversation. 'In writing the script, there were times I'd really want to talk to Terry, and also places where I'd figure something out and do something really clever, and I would want to share it with him. So, instead, I would text Terry's former personal assistant, Rob Wilkins, now his representative on Earth. It was the nearest thing I had.'

(...) As Neil himself recognizes, this is an adaptation built upon the confidence that comes from three decades of writing for page and screen. But for all the wisdom of experience, he found that above all one factor guided him throughout the process. 'Terry isn't here, which leaves me as the guardian of the soul of the story,' he explains. 'It's funny because sometimes I found myself defending Terry's bits harder or more passionately than I would defend my own bits. Take Agnes Nutter,' he says, referring to what has become a key scene in the adaptation in which the seventeenth-century author of the book of prophecies foretelling the coming of the Antichrist is burned at the stake. ‘It was a huge, complicated and incredibly expensive shoot, with bonfires built and primed to explode as well as huge crowds in costume. It had to feel just like an English village in the 1640s, and of course everyone asked if there was a cheap way of doing it. 'One suggestion was that we could tell the story using old-fashioned woodcuts and have the narrator take us through what happened, but I just thought, “No”. Because I had brought aspects of the story like Crowley and the baby swap along to the mix, and Terry created Agnes Nutter. So, if I had cut out Agnes then I wouldn't be doing right by the person who gave me this job. Terry would've rolled over in his grave.'

And, finally, this paragraph:

"Once again, Neil cites the absence of his co-writer as his drive to ensure that Good Omens translated to the screen and remained true to the original vision. 'Terry's last request to me was to make this something he would be proud of. And so that has been my job.'"

I think that's so heartwrenchingly beautiful, and so I wanted you all to read this, too, just in case you (like me) don't have the Good Omens TV Companion. It adds another layer of depth and emotion to this already complex and amazing story that we all know and love.

Share this post, if you can, please, so that more people can read these excerpts :")

Tagging @neil-gaiman, @fuckyeahgoodomens and @orpiknight, even if you've definitely read these before :)

[the-sparrows-providence]

imagine after the Riko Roast the Foxes just start saying “you know, I get it,” at any minor inconvenience or annoyance. It becomes their new team-wide inside joke. Nicky burns his toast and just looks at the toaster, “you know, I get it.” Dan and Allison talking with each other about an annoying prof, “you know, I get it.” Matt locks himself out of the room, “you know, I get it.”

Neil being annoyed/embarrassed by it only encourages them to do it more and they start dropping it all the time. Andrew says it to Aaron every chance he gets. Practice basically stops when Kevin finally says it for the first time after everyone keeps fumbling the new drill. Dan even catches Wymack saying it while on the phone with Andritch. The new freshmen have no idea where it came from but eventually they start using it too.

And when Neil finally gets fed up with someone else and uses it again a year and a half later at another banquet or event, the team dissolves into an uproar like they just won championships.

[threewaywithdelusion]

Can we talk about the attack on the Foxes and exactly how many triggers that's going to set off?

How much do you want to bet that Lane swung for Neil's ribs first because he'd mouthed off in the interview and revealed that Jean had had broken ribs? How long until Jean puts it together and blames himself for the fact that he and Neil now share matching rib fractures from the Ravens? (Neil doesn't care. He'd do it all again).

Andrew has a broken collarbone so bad it needed surgery, and he's going to have to wear a sling for several weeks. He's immobilized and unarmed (literally if he can't wear a knife on his injured arm. A knife in the armband of his working arm would do nothing because he can't draw it with one hand). And Andrew has an immense fear of being too weak to defend himself, especially with a broken bone to make him a target.

Kevin. He's finally grown a spine and this is the first time we see him literally fight the Ravens. He throws hands in defense of his Foxes, and Neil in particular, when Kevin from a year before would never have. But he saw Andrew, his protector, his shield, the man he promised he would make Court, with a hand dangling limp and useless at his side thanks to a broken bone. How many hours did it take before they got Andrew into an x-ray and saw that it was fixable? How long did Kevin stare at Andrew's limp hand, memories of Riko and his own broken bones going through his mind?

Allison was off the court, but that's the part that's going to kill her. Only she, Renee, Nicky, and the freshmen were off the court, but the freshman don't count. Allison had to watch through plexiglass walls as her team was hurt, unable to do anything to help, and she probably thought how many times is this going to happen? How many times am I going to be sidelined while my friends are hurt? how many times will I be useless in protecting them from the Ravens? (It's been one year since Seth died. Since Allison let him go out and lost him and she's never stopped wondering if things would have gone differently if she had been there that night.)

Nicky is also stuck outside the plexiglass, watching as Andrew is the first to go down. He remembers Andrew fighting for him outside Eden's, remembers how Andrew never regretted defending Nicky even when it got him put on those hated meds. And he can't help but feel like a useless guardian because he wasn't there when Andrew was attacked at Thanksgiving (he was the reason Andrew was in that house) and he isn't there now. All he can do is watch.

The Foxes have a long road to recovery and they've definitely survived worse. But with so many old scars torn open, this year might be just as rough as the last

[dcvina-claires]

the year is 2006. you’re an avid fan of collegiate exy. kevin day recently transferred from the best team in the league to the worst after breaking his hand in a skiing accident. before the season starts, janie smalls attempts suicide. she’s a fox, so absolutely no one is surprised by this. however, this means that david wymack has to find a new striker. he picks up a neglected, unremarkable kid from millport. for some reason, this mysterious nobody thinks it’s okay to publicly humiliate riko moriyama, king of exy. apparently, neil josten and kevin day talk shit about riko all the time (this confuses you. kevin and riko are supposed to be best friends). not long after, seth gordon dies of an overdose. once again, it’s the foxes, so no one should be surprised, but something is… off. seth was clean, and it didn’t seem likely for him to throw it away. the foxes don’t get anyone to replace him. despite being short a player, they’re performing better than ever before. you don’t want to admit it, but neil josten can probably be credited with a lot of the foxes success. and something is off about that kid, too. he’s a 5’3 brunette with brown eyes, and then suddenly he’s not. he comes back from winter break with red hair and blue eyes, but more interesting than that is the number four tattooed onto his face, marked for the ravens, marked for the perfect court. the normal minyard twin murders someone in cold blood. neil josten is actually nathaniel wesninski. his father, the butcher of baltimore, tortures him and burns his tattoo off. the trojans throw away their shot at winning. kevin covers up his tattoo with a queen chess piece. he’s never been skiing, the theories behind what happened to his hand are endless. jean moreau transfers to the trojans. this isn’t helping with the abuse allegations. despite everything stacked against them, the foxes beat the ravens. the unhinged minyard twin shatters riko’s hand to stop him from murdering the mafia kid on live tv. for some reason, this is riko’s final straw and he kills himself. some people are blaming kevin, andrew, and neil, but you personally believe that it’s a tad bit dramatic to commit suicide after losing one game and breaking a hand. the rest of the ravens don’t seem to agree, as they’re all suddenly in the most fucked up game of “follow the leader” known to man. jean moreau is spotted being escorted from the foxes dorm room a bloody mess, but that’s only the beginning. one of the ravens stabs himself with a letter opener, another steps onto the subway tracks, and a third overdoses. it’s 2007, and you started saying that the ravens were in a cult as a joke, but you don’t know if it’s a joke anymore. you’re seriously starting to consider that your favorite sport was created solely as a front for the mafia

[yourleftpinkytoe-blog]

wtf what the fuck WHAT THE FUCK… I’m speechless… HOW IS THAT HUMANLY POSSIBLE

Hi I’m also looking for local work around the area.

[multi-fandom-imagine]

𝐈'𝐦 𝐆𝐨𝐧𝐧𝐚 𝐁𝐞 𝐀 𝐃𝐚𝐝 || 𝐁𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐲 𝐇𝐚𝐫𝐠𝐫𝐨𝐯𝐞 ||

A/n: girl dad Billy 👏, finally writing it out like I said I would.

It starts with silence.

Not the kind that lingers after a fight or fills the void between words—but a stunned, hollow sort of quiet that falls over Billy Hargrove the moment you whisper those three impossible words in your bedroom:

“Billy, I’m pregnant.”

He doesn’t shout. He doesn’t curse. He just… stares.

His knuckles are white where they grip the edge of your dresser, and you can see the panic rising behind his eyes, blue like ice thawing too fast. His breathing gets shallow, uneven, and you reach for him gently—only for him to pull back like your touch burns.

“No,” he mutters, voice cracked. “No, no, no, I can’t—fuck.”

“Billy—” You move toward him again, slow this time.

“I’m gonna end up just like him.” The words fall from his lips like they’re poisoned. “I’m gonna mess this kid up. Like Neil did to me. Like—like I wasn’t supposed to survive him, and now you want me to raise a fucking kid?”

Your heart breaks a little. Not for yourself—but for him. For the terrified boy still living inside the man who’s trying so hard not to fall apart.

You step closer, even when he backs up.

“You’re not him.”

He shakes his head, lips trembling. “You don’t know that.”

“I do. Because you already love more fiercely than he ever could. You’re scared—fine. Me too. But I know you, Billy. I know what kind of father you won’t be. And I know what kind of father you could be… if you let yourself believe it.”

He sits on your bed like the weight of the truth finally crushed him. You kneel in front of him, pressing his hand gently against your stomach. It’s still flat, but it’s real. So is this. So are you.

“I’m not doing this without you,” you whisper. “And you don’t have to do it alone.”

Day's later.Billy finds himself at your home with a fresh bruise on his cheek, bag slung over his shoulder as he stands rigid at the doorway, a bundle of nerves dressed in his usual denim and defiance. Your dad watches him with that quiet, unreadable stare—before sighing and motioning him inside.

“Come in, Billy. She’s in the kitchen. But you and I need to talk first.”

Billy looks like he might bolt—but he doesn’t. Instead, he nods.

Ten minutes later, your mom catches the two of them on the back porch—your dad with a cold beer in one hand, his other on Billy’s shoulder. Not a threat. Not a lecture. A promise:

“You’re part of this family now. We don’t leave each other behind.”

Billy doesn’t say anything, but when he looks over at you through the kitchen window, his eyes are wet.

Week's have passed and now he finds himself building the crib in your room....his room.

Cursing under his breath, a screwdriver tucked behind his ear, a tiny instruction manual half-crumpled beside him. He doesn’t notice you watching from the doorway until you smile.

“You’re putting the side rails on backward.”

He groans, mutters, “Goddamn stupid screws,” but doesn’t stop smiling either.

Later that night, you find him curled against your belly in bed, talking softly—nervously—to the baby. He doesn’t know you’re awake. He says things like, “I don’t know what I’m doing,” and, “You’ve got your mom’s heart—thank fuck for that.”

Your fingers slide into his hair, and he exhales, grounding himself against you.

“You’re gonna be a great dad, Billy.”

He doesn’t say anything for a moment. Then he presses a kiss just above your navel and breathes:

“Yeah. I think maybe I will be."

Month's have passed and now you were giving birth, the delivery room is in chaos.

Monitors beep in erratic rhythm, nurses move with practiced urgency, and your hand is crushing Billy’s fingers like a vice.

“You’re doing so good, sweetheart—so fucking good—”

His voice is raw. Trembling. His forehead pressed against yours as sweat slicks both your skin. You’re panting, sobbing, screaming through the pain, but his touch is there. Constant. Unflinching.

He doesn’t let go. Not once.

“Almost there, one more push!” the doctor says.

You scream again, and Billy’s free hand braces behind your back, holding you steady, whispering, “You’ve got this, I love you, I love you, I love you—”

And then—

A cry.

Not yours. Not his.

A high, raw, brand-new sound that shatters the world and puts it back together all at once.

The room shifts. Slows. The chaos fades into the background as the nurse lifts a small, squirming bundle and says the words that sucker-punch Billy square in the heart:

“Congratulations. You have a daughter.”

Billy freezes.

You’re crying, gasping through exhaustion and joy, but he just stares. His eyes are locked on the tiny thing being cleaned and swaddled, and he doesn’t speak. Doesn’t breathe.

“Billy,” you whisper.

He blinks, like you woke him from a dream. When the nurse comes to place her in his arms, he hesitates.

His hands hover.

“I—” His voice cracks, hoarse and small. “I don’t want to break her.”

The nurse smiles gently. “You won’t.”

He takes her. Slowly. Carefully.

And then he looks down.

This tiny thing, wrapped in soft pink, blinking up at him with unfocused eyes. Her face is red and squished and perfect. His thumb brushes her cheek, and she whimpers, nuzzling toward his chest like she already knows him.

That’s when it happens.

Billy Hargrove breaks.

He sinks into the chair beside your bed, arms curled protectively around her, and sobs.

Full-body, gut-wrenching sobs—tears that have been locked away for years. The grief of his childhood, the fear, the self-hatred—all of it pours out of him in silent, shaking waves.

“I don’t know how to do this,” he chokes, tears soaking her hat. “I don’t know how to be anything but angry and scared—”

You reach for him, stroking his hair, your voice a whisper:

“You’re already doing it. You stayed. You love her. That’s more than he ever gave you.”

He presses a trembling kiss to his daughter’s forehead.

“I’m not gonna be like him. I swear to god, baby, I’m not.”

“You’re nothing like him, Billy.”

She lets out a soft coo, her fingers curling around his pinky like she’s sealing the promise.

And for the first time in his life, Billy Hargrove feels peace.

Not because the fear is gone—but because he’s not facing it alone.

He has you.

And now he has her.

[moonsnqil]

aftg au where neil/nathaniel died in baltimore and andrew knows he's dead, he didnt stop fighting until he had autopsy reports and a closed casket in front of him. andrew knows he died that night but a week later, a week spent rotting and shoving everyone away, he sees neil. blue eyes clear as water, his hair still glows in the sun, when andrew reaches out he knows none of this is real. neil josten is dead, matt has an empty dorm and someone is already adding nathaniel wesninski to a true crime podcast. he knows none of this is real but it's easier to accept a hallucination than it is to accept that he failed, that another person has been snatched away from him. so andrew goes to practice and sometimes he misses balls because neil is on the court aiming left but aaron shot right. he goes to edens and can feel neil's weight behind him as he carries the drink tray back to their table. he watches nicky play games on the xbox and he hears all of neil's commentary. when he's alone, he talks to neil. andrew had always been great at being silent but never with neil. and he knows none of this is real but it's easier to confide in neil now that he's so intimately familiar with his absence. they trade truths and secrets and neil tells him about oklahoma and andrew knows they never talked about oklahoma and he's just remembering a conversation he heard on disney channel when he was eleven. he lights two cigarettes and sees neil smoke it but doesn't dwell on how quickly the flame dies out. he only mentions it once, to bee. when he says "i keep seeing neil" and bee says she understands, people leave traces of themselves all around us, he never brings it up again. it's not like she's wrong on that front either. neil's locker still has an unwashed jersey inside, the phone charger he never used is still shoved somewhere underneath the passenger seat of the maserati, all the clothes andrew bought him are still in a drawer. matt doesn't spend a lot of time in his room anymore. when andrew says "i hate you" and he truly means it, neil says "i know" and his cheeks dimple. andrew knows this isn't normal, nothing about this is okay, his mental stability is a far cry from being good but he thinks maybe having neil beside him, haunting him like this, is better than a reality where andrew is alone. so they follow each other around like ducklings and wymack looks at him like he's a ticking time bomb because in no world does neil josten die and andrew simply moves on. andrew's nightmares have shifted from being seven and begging to watching neil fight for life on a grimy basement floor but it's okay because when he wakes up he gets to hold neils hand and it's a little cold but the divots between his knuckles feel the same as before so he can blame it on the weather. andrew watches neil's banner go up next to seth's on the court and andrew almost wants to laugh because seth is dead but neil is right here, neil is talking about being court, but no that's not right either. neil is dead, andrew knows this. but then how could neil be dead when he's still buying andrew ice cream and pushing all his buttons? they sit a little too close to the edge of the roof nowadays and neil tells him that they could fall but they might not die because it's only four stories so really it's no guarantee. neil tells andrew he has to be careful because what about aaron, what about kevin, his deals and his promises. he keeps his promises, it's what he's good at. he's pretty sure kevin knows something is wrong but is trying to pretend like it's not. they're the same in that regard, really. andrew knows neil is dead, abby's files label him as deceased, but he thinks he likes being haunted. if it means neil is still there, still planning a future and running his mouth, andrew thinks he could convince himself baltimore never happened. maybe neil was never something tangible to begin with.

[joejhang]

once again thinking about how andreil is actually the perfect relationship because of how deeply they both understand each other and how they are the only ones to do so. thinking about the first time neil opens up to anyone and it's to andrew in tfc and the look in andrew's eyes is "perfect understanding". and the same look in his eyes right before he kisses neil for the first time when neil is at the end of his rope, and andrew understands because he's been there too. neil knowing when to push andrew and when to leave him be. neil understanding that andrew is primarily self-destructive and more of a harm to himself than to anyone else and asking him "how have you survived this long when you're so violently self-destructive?". neil being the only one who actually wants andrew off his drugs for his own good, not for exy or out of curiosity. neil never forcing or coercing andrew into doing anything he doesn't want to do, he gets what he wants simply by asking, and that's enough. andrew's interest in neil turning into understanding turning into care turning into love, against his will. their hours-long conversation on the bus in tkm where they literally just yap about their lives without any transactions or deals involved. them learning to talk to each other without the exchange of truths. their first ever proper conversation back in tfc when neil thinks he's talking to aaron, showing how they can actually talk and communicate and have a good conversation. neil always taking andrew at face value rather than making assumptions based on his past or his attitude. the trust they have in each other even before they ever get together. them genuinely enjoying each other's company, the way no one else does. nora sakavic you invented love actually.

[ambitiouspotions]

BABY DAZE | MICHAEL BERZATTO | ONESHOT

summary — regretting the shotgun wedding, caring for a five-month-old baby, and wondering why your husband likes painkillers more than you

word count — 4.4k

warnings — addiction, angst, talk of recovery and na meetings, arguing, slightly religious connotations, drug/alcohol usage, stress from motherhood, mom guilt, mature language

author's note — i told myself not to write mikey again so soon, but look at me…also i channel some of my family (sicilian american) when i write these

“fak, come on man, you can't put together a damn crib? you gotta get me out of this hole i’m in,” mikey looked at the stray pieces of wood on the floor, screws in a pile, and neil fak’s unorganized toolbox. the instruction booklet was opened and slightly crumpled from the number of times fak had referenced the pages.

fak’s face was slightly distorted as he looked at the pieces and then back to the instructions. “man, look, i don't know what you want me to do this shit is all kinds of fucked.” the handyman simply could not understand why baby furniture had so many pieces and so many varying sizes. if it was so safe, why was the company recommending it all to be put together with a single allen wrench? there was no way he was only using that stupid allen wrench, not for baby berzatto anyway.

mikey was running his hands over his face and to his bangs that were falling, gripping the ends of his hair tightly. he had promised you the nursery furniture would be completed by the time you arrived home after work. he already had the majority of the room completed without you knowing, moving and organizing the junk he had piled into the spare bedroom as if it were a storage unit. the baby shower had only caused the room to be more cluttered, and on top of the clients, you were trying to fit in for their appointments before going on maternity leave, which meant you never had enough time in the day to organize it yourself. the stress of disorganization and ill preparation led to you biting your nails and peeling the skin away from your fingertips routinely. mikey noticed this and now had the perfect excuse to get the nursery finished and elevate your mood at the same time.

“what’d you do this time anyway?” fak questioned as he propped one board of the crib against the wall and rummaged through his varying sizes of drill bits.

mikey didn't want to admit to fak that he was unwilling to defend you in front of his mother, donna, at a family lunch when she had mumbled something along the lines of ‘your child is still a bastard.’ it was unneeded, unkind, and simply unprovoked after you had put on your nicest attitude to agree to have lunch with her and mikey in the first place.

you both already made the mistake. there was no coming back from that fuck up, so why keep dwelling on it? that was the understanding by the rest of the family anyway, but donna wouldn't ever drop it.

“fak, you fucker, i’d love to know,” mikey held the opposite end as fak skimmed the directions again to install the railing. he didn't need to be told he was in the wrong again, best to just skip that shitty conversation altogether.

“they say the first seven months of marriage are always the hardest,” fak tried to console mikey as he began using the drill. mikey was doubtful the moment fak tried to say anything about marriage, especially coming from a single man. mikey, himself, wouldn't have any pleasant advice to give anyone either because his marriage, more like hasty elopement, was only six months old with a wife who was eight months pregnant. any idiot could do the math on why this marriage was legitimized.

“seven years, the first seven years,” mikey corrected him with a groan of annoyance. “i appreciate you doing this though; my back’s been killin’ me.”

another factor of stress added to the plate, almost two years ago, would mark the anniversary of mikey slipping in the flooding bathroom of the beef so violently that he now had permanent hardware in his spine. along with the surgery came the pain and the way to manage pain—opioids. that was a sick joke. one second, he’s slipping on the tile and slamming into the porcelain commode, and the next, he was relying on drugs to get him through a stressful day.

he didn't know if his back still hurt or if he was accustomed to saying it to convince himself that it was enough of a reason to get high. that was the sad part, mikey was popping pills and you barely had any time to notice because you were always asleep before he took a little something to take the edge off. he didn't need you to have another thing to worry about, so sneakily would replace the pills he took and leave the prescription bottle in the same place. you had no reason to question him because the allergy medication you received from the walk-in clinic almost a year ago sat on that same shelf, and you never bothered to clean it out. he was covering his tracks well; why would you ever notice anyway? especially if he was so good at hiding it?

“it's no big deal, happy wife, happy life,” fak rhymed, adjusting his leveling tool against the boards before drilling them together.

the moment the tattooed handyman was able to support the crib by himself, mikey began working on the other projects to make the room more cozy.

fak made himself scarce once it was close to your arrival time. he was going to let mikey take all of your good graces on the updated nursery.

“look at that panica,” mikey greeted, affectionately rubbing your oversized belly the moment you walked through the door. his fingers slipped under your bag and dragged it off your shoulder, setting it on the counter beside him.

you eyed him skeptically wondering where his gentleness was stemming from. he had given you dull responses, impersonal kisses, and compliments, just enough to keep you quiet before you shut the door to leave. his pre-sleep painkiller always caused a morning annoyance when he awoke, but you always chalked his bad attitude up to stress rather than thinking he was abusing any type of drug. it was mikey; he had a lot on the line, stress was his middle name, annoyance ran through his veins. he was a berzatto; of course, he had to have some form of mental illness genetically passed down to him.

“what? i can't love on my two babies?” he asked, pulling you closer to place a kiss on your temple.

“what did you do?” you asked, holding each side of his face, trying to find an inkling of his true intentions. it was teasing in a way, but knew he must've had a plan up his sleeve.

“i'm so glad you asked; close those pretty eyes for me,” he chuckled. the singular lift of the corner of his mouth was always enough to make you melt.

mikey led you blindly to the spare bedroom that had been transformed into a nursery, too bad your crumby landlord wouldn't allow the wall color to be changed or mikey would've had that swatch of fern canopy behr from the local home depot on all four walls.

“alright,” he said, clasping his hands together. when you opened your eyes, you couldn't withhold the emotions that had been pent up for so long. you were staring at the crib like it was a winning lottery ticket. the sheets were made, the embroidered baby blanket natalie and pete had gifted you was draped over the edge, the bear stuffed animals were in the corner of the crib as if they were having their own meeting, and the mattress was at the perfect height for a newborn.

the changing table was assembled, and even with one of the drawers being slightly crooked, it was perfect. it was everything you wanted for your baby. it was safe, cozy, organized, and most importantly, it was something you wanted.

mikey had gone beyond your expectations. he had promised the furniture would be put together, but he gave you more than that. he gave you hope. he gave you a reason to relax. he gave you solace in knowing that although you had an unplanned pregnancy, wedding ceremony at the courthouse, and chaotic reception at the beef you could lean on him for support.

“hey, don't cry,” mikey began rubbing your lower back as you reached over the crib to caress one of the teddy bears.

“i’m sorry…this is just really beautiful,” you sniffled, taking the bear into your arms and hugging it tightly.

“would it make you feel better if i said i got you those apple pie egg rolls?” he smirked when you turned around. your gaze had softened more, more tears falling down your eyes with the most genuine type of comfort.

“you got me egg rolls?” you couldn't help but question him in the sweetest disbelief. the tone in your voice was cracking as you leaned into his chest. mikey berzatto was out of the hole he placed himself in just a few days prior.

you were in survival mode and so was mikey. it was nearing the end of your eighth week out of ten from maternity leave at the salon and mikey had barely any time off from his responsibilities at the restaurant. he was trying to split his time as much as possible, but unfortunately, an understaffed restaurant meant he had to be gone more than he liked.

everyone said once the baby arrived, your life would never slow down, and they were right. gabriel michael berzatto was a healthy, gentle, and happy baby, the one people didn't mind stopping to look at in the stroller as you walked past. he was a miniature mikey if anything with his dark hair, crooked smile, and wide nose.

“is your back hurting that bad?” the question hit his ear like a ton of bricks. “i don't think you can drink on those,” you added, picking up the paper plates from dinner.

“what?” mikey asked, pushing his beer on the coffee table that had already suffered enough of mikey's abuse from not using a coaster.

“your back,” you repeated, looking at him from the kitchen. “i didn't even know you took those things still. i thought they were expired,” that's when mikey realized what he had done. he left the pill bottle on the bathroom counter. a mistake he never thought he would make had been done. by the time you went to sleep, he was in a comfortable state of high, and you were none the wiser. then halfway through prep at the beef, he’d take another little pill, and if he was having a particularly shitty day, then again when he went for a smoke break. he seemed to have a lot of shitty days at the beef because everything was falling apart and everything always seems to go wrong. and who knows maybe the days weren’t that bad, but sometimes it just seemed like too long to wait until you were about to go to bed.

“yeah, hurtin’ pretty bad,” he lied, sitting uncomfortably in his recliner now. “opened this thing without thinkin’,” he was looking at the amber-colored glass of the freshly opened beer.

“didn’t even know you needed them anymore,” you confessed, folding the throw blanket that had been discarded on the floor when you rose from the sofa after nursing gabriel to sleep.

“sometimes, you know that permanent hardware gets pretty damn stiff when the weather changes,” he explained, wiping his hands on his boxers.

“maybe you need to go back to the orthopedist,” you suggested casually, though you were skeptical of his body language. he was tense and unrelaxed, more than he was before you voiced your concern about his well-being.

“you’re right, just need’a find the time,” he agreed, scratching his grown-out beard that seemed to become more unkempt as the days quickly turned into weeks. it was one of the many tasks that got slid to the back burner because the priorities were set on becoming accustomed to demanding needs from the newest member of the family.

“got that big bottle of arthritis tylenol from the costco if you want to take that instead,” you offered, feeling uneasy about the fact that mikey was taking painkillers, painkillers you knew were two years old, though in actuality they were bought from a regular customer at the beginning of the week when mikey went to the restaurant to “check on the gas line.”

“yeah, thanks, baby,” he nodded, clearing his throat. he could tell you weren't convinced, but at the same time, neither of you had the energy to overthink or argue.

gabriel started to cry from the other room, mikey was the first one to move. he was quick with his attentiveness to his knowing he had an easy way to escape the conversation.

“i got this one,” he mumbled, rubbing his face as he slipped past you to enter the nursery. that was the end of that for a while, though it plagued your mind frequently. you started counting the pills in the bottle and it never seemed to lessen. it hadn't become misplaced again after asking him about it. you couldn't prove that he was using unless you were going solely based on your gut instinct.

you were as guilty as mikey. mikey was blatantly lying to you and you were enabling him because you were choosing not to confront him about it. you didn't want to admit to yourself that your husband was abusing painkillers because if you did that meant that your life would already be more stressful than it already was.

it was all making sense now. irritably, mood swings, aversion, questionable decisions, not because he had gotten you knocked up, not because he had to marry you, not because the bills were stacking up, not because he said his family was bothering him, but because he was popping pills.

it was hard some days because you were still figuring out the new aspects of parenting, but a natural and oddly comforting instinct took over you. although you and mikey were able to take care of gabriel and still manage your busy schedules you had an overwhelming amount of dread and guilt hanging over your head. were you doing anything right?

you hadn't known how much weight you were pulling until tonight. five months of night feedings, pumping, juggling schedules, daycare pickups, pediatrician checkups, washing bottles, pump parts, and an excessive amount of laundry which was clean, but piled skillfully on the living room sofa, but you did it because you convinced yourself that mikey was simply too busy to take on all the tasks you were tackling. you believed you had to be the sole provider for gabriel because mikey was the business owner. he was the one that had his valuable time placed on his restaurant, so you refused to mention that you might have needed help.

it was making you have doubts about your marriage. the marriage you consented to because you thought it would make both of your lives more stable and make you more reassured that mikey was going to stick around for you and the baby. the marriage that seemed to put your parents at ease knowing they could pray for the sins of lust and greed that caused an unplanned child. the marriage that at first seemed right, but now felt like a one-sided partnership because you were being stubborn and mikey was being ignorant.

everything seemed to be going wrong tonight (gabriel was fussy the moment you tried to put him down, you wasted eight ounces of fresh breast milk because you didn't seal the bag all the way when putting it in the freezer, and you were on your third shirt change of the night) and mikey was sitting in his recliner drinking a beer. the condensation was beading off the glass bottle and dripping onto his worn spiraled notebook where he kept his business dealings for the beef contained. you were struggling and he was drinking a damn beer.

“mikey,” you finally made him look up, smudges of ink from his pen were on the underside of his hand. “take the baby please,” you said, handing off the teary-eyed baby to your husband who couldn't seem less interested. you were covered in spit-up, from your shirt to your hair because gabriel accidentally grabbed a good chunk of it when he moved his dirty hand. mikey didn't seem present though he was sitting in front of you, loosely cradling his son.

“are you high?” you didn't know why you sounded surprised when you asked that question. you had been avoiding ever talking about that night three months prior. you practically snatched gabriel out of his arms which only made mikey defensive in trying to take him back. “oh my fucking god,” you muttered taking a step back from him.

“come on, i got ‘em,” mikey flicked the condensation that was still present on his hand from the beer, he rose from his resting place on the recliner. he was trying to avoid your line of questioning.

“no, what the hell is wrong with you?” you were placing entirely too much blame on mikey because you were overwhelmed and overworked, well, had been overwhelmed and overworked for months. your anxiety and frustration were spilling over the overfilled glass it had been stuffed into.

“hey, hey,” he warned, noticing your voice had raised sharply when he went to reach for gabriel. “chill out, mammina.” wrong choice of words.

“chill out? you want me to chill out? you're the one sitting on your ass getting high when i've been running around all evening with my head cut off.” you were trying to keep your tone light after your increase in volume had spooked gabriel.

“i didn't mean it like that, dammit, hand me gabe,” he sighed, though when he went to reach for the baby again you shielded gabriel from being taken out of your arms.

“you're bein' ridiculous,” mikey scoffed, following behind you. his inebriated state was affecting his ability to understand why he wouldn’t or maybe shouldn’t be holding his infant.

“and you're high,” you retorted, walking to the bathroom. “can’t even change my shirt because—” you unskillfully managed to open the cap and dump the oxycontin onto the counter. gabriel in your arms none the wiser to the situation. you counted them four times before even looking at him. you had to be sure that you weren’t going mad because the same amount was in the pill bottle as you had counted many times before.

“mammina—”

“where are you getting them?” you interjected, tossing the empty bottle at his chest.

“mammina, give me the baby and go change your shirt,” he insisted, as if you were so easily going to give up the little boy in your arms.

“michael, i am not fucking stupid and you know that. so where the fuck are you getting them?”

“why's it matter where i'm gettin’ ‘em from?”

he had a point; you didn't quite know why it mattered. you knew he'd find a way to continue taking them like he was already doing.

there was a long moment of silence, yet it was saying more than words could. pain, hurt, frustration, uncertainty, and fear were seasoning the bottom of the cast iron pot, and a thick helping of despair was poured over the top. the back of the metal spoon that was used to stir the clusterfuck let everything mingle, and then it had to bake in the oven at 425° until that shit was burnt and stinking up the entire apartment. oh, and then you had to eat that garbage. it was inedible, but you had to choke it down because that was what was happening. you helped enable that mess, and now you, as well as mikey, had to take responsibility for it.

“how long…how fuckin’ long have you been takin’ them?” your nose was buried in the crook of gabriel's neck. your voice was barely above a whisper.

“i dunno,” he wet his upper lip with his tongue, dragging his hand over his face. he couldn't admit that to you right now. that would break you. it would break you knowing you were oblivious for years. he could tell it was already eating you alive that you didn’t confront him properly just a few months ago. you had a general time frame when you thought he started abusing painkillers, but mikey was the only man that knew when his issue truly began.

“you gotta know…” you pleaded softly. your tears were finally falling. you didn't know how they were contained before. gabriel's tiny hand was pulling at the top of your shirt to whine for his nightly feeding. you looked so vulnerable leaning against the bathroom counter, pulling down one side of your shirt and unclasping your nursing bra, allowing your son to nurse. that was life now, having someone that meant more to you than anything else because even if your husband was abusing opioids you had a son that was helpless without you. the world could be ending, but your responsibility would never be focused on anything else except your child. what were you supposed to do in this situation? keep gabriel safe before things get too out of control. that was the answer.

you didn't resent mikey or hate him. he was helpless much like gabriel. though he had unintentionally gotten himself addicted to opioids because of the exploding toilet from the beef, it wasn't his fault. he was caught in a vicious cycle that needed professional help; help you couldn't provide for him.

you couldn't do it on your own either, as much as you hated to admit it to yourself. you couldn't leave him because he was the person that you could lean on when you needed him. he was the man that forced marcus to learn how to make apple pie egg rolls so he wouldn't have to keep buying them from the bakery across from the beef. he was the man that sat behind you as you labored because he knew you felt better when he had his chin on your shoulder; he talked you through the entire thing and you couldn't be upset about it because every word he said comforted you and encouraged you. you could let him lean on you when he needed you most as long as it met that gabriel was safe.

“listen to me,” your voice cracked. “i don't know what to do, but i'm going to figure it out.” you managed to loosen one of your arms from gabriel. you wiped under your eyes. a painful and staggered exhale left your lungs. “ i won't be able to do this forever if you don't try to get sober, and it's not because of me, it's because of gabriel. he doesn't deserve this.”

“i know,” mikey said, reaching his hand out to caress his son's wispy black hair. you knew he wasn't going to take him. mikey needed comfort and gabriel was an easy little one to be comforted by. he was small and innocent. he loved his parents unconditionally because he didn't know the horrors of the world. he was being cradled in the bathroom unaware of anything that had occurred. he was blissfully ignorant. he was protected because he wasn't mature enough to understand the complex emotion that was surging through the apartment.

“i know you're going to have bad days. i know that you're going to relapse, and i know that this can't be fixed in a week, but damn, you have to try or i'm going to leave with gabriel.”

mikey leaned his forehead on yours. a quiet and consoling agreement that he would try his best. he couldn't ruin this with you. he made enough stupid mistakes with you in high school. he was supposed to be apologizing for those times now when he truly cared for you. he didn't reconnect with you later in life to keep being stupid, okay—maybe forgetting the condom a couple of months before your marriage was stupid, but the point was he wants to make things right.

the rest of the night was painful. you stayed up watching mikey sleep off his latest dose on the recliner and studying gabriel's small figure on the baby monitor. tonight seemed like the night that needed some silence even if it wasn't followed with peace.

mikey had taken your consideration of being sober seriously. he knew you were never one to back down from your word, and that ultimatum made him scared. scared enough to try and get his bearings in order, leave the beef to richie before he was past the point of no return. he was going to attend the narcotics anonymous meetings you had found online because they could allow him to find more resources to aid him. he knew it wasn’t going to be easy, hell, he was living through the hardest part, wanting more—another dose—before he even got in the car with you to attend the meeting.

he didn't want to be the dad that wasn't around. he gets sober or you leave with gabriel that was the deal. he couldn't stop this alone but that was the most difficult part—admitting he needed help. he couldn't keep fighting with himself, ignoring his fatherly duties, and he couldn't keep hurting you. he knew he wasn't acting like himself and he saw it most when you gave him that sad smile where your eyes wouldn't crinkle at the edges and your cheeks would barely rise. he knew he had to make a change.

“we'll be waiting for you because we love you,” you whispered in his ear. mikey had his nose buried in the side of your cheek, withholding the tears he so badly wanted to release. mikey was holding the railing to the steps of the church so tightly. his other hand was resting on gabriel's back. he was scared to let go. he knew he had to confront what had been haunting him. it wasn't just a back injury anymore it transpired well past that. it was beyond physical pain. it was an addiction. a festering, evil addiction that constantly gnawed at his entire body.

“i love you too,” he cleared his throat harshly, knowing if he said anything else he would break down. he wanted to do better. he wanted to be better. he needed to do better for the sake of keeping everything he loved.

[thebearer]

in your eyes, the man that i could be |carmen berzatto x reader| part two

prompt: after carmen finds out you're staying at pete and sugar's house, he goes to try and talk to you. he's faced with his furious sister and harsh truths instead.

or part two of the devastation fic lol that is based off this ask from the other day <3

contains: angst! angst! this one is very much so more carmen focused bc let's be real... he's the problem in this one lol. still hurt with no comfort but more this one than last one?? mentions to past trauma, family trauma. sugar clears carmen in this one. slight mean carmen still, slight angry carmen still. language. dad!carmen x mom!reader. no resolution but the make up is in the next and final part! still heavy so read at your own discretion! word count- 4.8k+

Fak twisted his hands, nervously watching Carmen pace back and forth furiously. One hand running through his hair, tangled and matted from the continued motion; the other lifting and pulling the cigarette to and from his lips. Fak wasn’t sure how Carmen wasn’t sick yet. He’d never seen him smoke so much, seen anyone smoke so much. 

“Neil, I’m not fuckin’ playin’ anymore, ok? You’re startin’ to really, really fuckin’ piss me off.” Carmen’s jaw ground tight, voice starting to growl with that gravelly warning shake that had Fak flinching. “You better tell me where you put my fuckin’ car keys, alright? I-I’m not sitting here, ok? I’m not gonna sit around wi-with my fuckin’ thumb up my ass like a jagoff while my wife and kid are a-at fuckin’ Sugar and Pete’s!” 

“Carmy,” Fak tried to keep his voice calm and firm, like Sugar and Richie had coached him to, hyping him up before he entered the house. “I can’t give you your keys right now, becaus-” 

“-Oh, fuck you! Fuck you! Who the fuck do you think you are, huh?” Carmen roared, teeth bared and eyes narrowed. 

Fak didn’t think he’d ever say it, but he missed the sad Carmen from before. When he’d been sent to check on Carmen and Richie, to find out where the hell they were before Sydney had a meltdown in the kitchen, only to find a nearly hyperventilating Carmen and an unsure and frantic Richie trying to calm him. Fak had known Carmen a long time, his whole life, really, and never once had he seen him so… so sad. 

That sadness was long gone now. In its wake, an anger, worse than before, than he’d ever seen or could have imagined. Fak had just tried to comfort Carmen, offer up some encouragement that you and Teddy and Anchovy were all ok, taken care of- at Pete and Sugar’s. He didn’t realize how that would flip the switch, how it would infuriate Carmen. 

“I-I’m Fak.” Fak blinked, nervously. “You know me. I’m your friend, Carm, and I-I’m just trying to help you-” 

“-You’re trying to help me? You’re trying to fuckin’ help me by keepin’ me away from my wife?” Carmen’s voice boomed, shaking the walls of the house. 

Even in his loud rage, the house seemed too quiet, too still. There was no baby TV show on, no hum of the diffusers, or Anchovy’s small purrs and chirps. Carmen missed him, missed him jumping on the counters just to piss him off. He missed you defending him, missed how Anchovy would startle and run anytime Teddy would gurgle or whine. 

God, he missed Teddy. He spent the first night in the nursery, sitting in the rocking chair, staring blankly ahead, wishing he had the small screaming bundle to rock to sleep. 

Carmen couldn’t bring himself to go into the bedroom. Not again. Not after he found your ring laying there. He’d scared Richie so badly with his cries that Richie had enforced the ‘Mikey Prevention Plan’, his twisted humor of a way at keeping Carmen from being alone, from hurting himself in his misery. 

“Carm, I-I can’t.” Fak stuttered, looking at the door, begging Richie or anyone, really, to walk through the door. “You know I can’t.” 

“This is fucked up, Neil. You know that? You know how fucked up this is? Keepin’ me from-from Teddy? From my kid?” Carmen took a long drag of the cigarette, smoke blowing out of his nose with his panicked breathing. His hands still shook, everything was still shaky and rattling with uneasiness inside him. 

“Carm, I- Don’t say that.” Fak shook his head, he could feel himself caving. Carmen could too. 

“You’re keepin’ me from her, Fak. You know that? You know you-you’re keepin’ me from my daughter? My baby? Don’t you-you know how fucked up that is?” Carmen shook his head, lips pursing in disgust. “You’re lettin’ Richie boss you around like he always does, an-and you know, you know deep down that this is wrong. Keepin’ me from them is wrong.” 

Fak hesitated, a nervous sweat breaking out on the back of his neck. “Richie said-” 

“-Richie can get fucked. Ric-Richie doesn’t know shit! He doesn’t know shit, you know he doesn’t know shit, a-and you’re lettin’ him tell you what to do? Richie?” Carmen scoffed, throwing his hands out. “The fuck does Richie know, huh? H-He’s divorced, an-an-and barely sees his kid-” 

“-Hey!-” Fak’s eyes widened in shock. “Carmen, you don’t-” 

“-Is that what you want? You want me to end up alone?” Carmen’s eyes are wild, crazed, but he goes still. “Y-You want me to end up like-like Richie? Li-Li-Like that?” 

Fak swallows, both standing in the thick, tension filled silence. “Carmen, I-I can’t.” Fak shook his head slowly. “I don’t… I think you need to, I don’t know, I think you need to calm down before you go see them.” 

“Calm down, you’re tellin’ me to calm down.” Carmen snarled, bitterly scoffing at Fak. “Fuck you. Alright? Fuck you. I will never forgive you for this shit. You hear me? You-You doin’ this to me, keepin’ me from my family. I’ll never fuckin’ forgive you.” 

Fak flinched, Carmen’s words cutting brutally through him with a bitter sting. Carmen stormed off, the front door slamming with a force that sent vibrations through the house. Fak was surprised it didn’t split the wood in two. Walking towards the front window, he saw Carmen storming off, furiously lighting another cigarette, running a hand through his hair, again. Fak assumed he was out of Spirits, that he’d smoked through another pack, walking to the corner store to get more. After thirty minutes, he called Richie, frantic that he’d let Carmen loose. 

“What part of Mikey Prevention Plan don’t you fuckin’ understand?” Richie sneered over the phone, trying to keep his voice low so the new hires didn’t hear. As far as they were concerned, Carmen was on a vacation, only the OGs knew the truth. 

“I-I didn’t mean to! I swear!” Fak’s voice lilted high, a shrill of nerves that had Richie’s eyes pinching in annoyance. “I thought he was going to the corner store to get more cigarettes, an-and then he didn’t come back for a while-” 

“-What’s a while?” Richie muttered, catching Tina’s eye through the glass. She set her rag down quickly, walking towards him. 

“I dunno… Fifteen, thirty minutes?” Fak mumbled. “Maybe closer to an hour now. B-But then I went to look for him, and he wasn’t there, so I asked the guy working and he said he hadn’t seen him, and-and now I’m driving around trying to find him. I-I’m shouting his name out the window and everything!” 

“He’s not a dog, Neil, he won’t-” Richie huffed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I know where he’s at.” 

“You do?” Fak perked up. 

“Yeah, I mean, no, but I-I’m pretty sure I know where he’s at since you fuckin’ told him where they were stayin’.” Richie rolled his eyes bitterly. “Just- Come over here and get me, alright? Let me call Pete- God, you and this fuckin’ kid, got me callin’ Pete. You’re killin’ me Neil Jeff.” 

Richie hung up the phone with a huff, looking up at Tina. “What’s goin’ on? Jeff alright? What’s he doin’?” She pressed. 

“Yeah, Fak-Fak fuckin’ lost him.” Richie rubbed his forehead in exasperation. “But, I think I know where he’s at. Have a pretty good idea, anyways.” 

Tina eyed Richie carefully. “Richie, you know I love that kid, you know I do. But if he’s fuckin’ with Mama,” Tina shook her head, lips pursing in fury. It was no secret how taken she was to you, even before the affectionate nickname that came with the pregnancy. 

“He’s not,” Richie shook his head. “He’s stupid, hot headed, a fuckin’ baby- all that. But… C’mon, T, you and I both know he loves her. He wouldn’t do anything to them. Do somethin’ to himself before that.” 

Tina paused but nodded, face softening. “So, you know where he’s at then? You don’t… You don’t think he’s gonna…” She couldn’t bring herself to say it, looking at the picture of Mikey with Richie, Tina, Ebra, and Marcus only a few months before he passed. Carmen had placed it at the front, a reminder of the legacy that was there before him, of The Beef and his brother. 

“No, I hope not.” Richie muttered, looking at his phone’s screen with dread, Pete’s contact on the screen gleaming back at him nearly mockingly. “I think I know where he is.” He sighed, pressing the button. 

Pete could feel his phone buzzing in his pants, ignoring it as he held the front door in a white knuckled grip. He hadn’t expected to see Carmen there, on his Ring camera, knocking on the door softly, softer than he expected given his manic looking state. 

“H-Hey, Carm,” Pete closed the door as casually as he could, only leaving a sliver open. “What, uh, what’s up, man?” 

“Hey, Pete,” Carmen could barely meet his gaze, suddenly overly aware of how disheveled he must have looked. 

“Uh, what-what brings you by?” Pete stuttered, heart picking up when he heard the soft thump behind him, Anchovy lurking behind his legs curiously. He gripped the door, shuffling his legs together, trying to close it on his frame so Anchovy wouldn’t slip by. 

“C’mon,” Carmen sighed, a tired look in his eye, too exhausted to even be pleading. “You know why I’m here, alright. I-I know they’re here.” 

“W-Who is? Sugar? Yeah, she-she’s off today.” Pete stiffened at the claim, swallowing nervously, trying to play it cool. Anchovy meowed loudly behind him, cringing when he was  given away by the cat. 

“Pete, don’t-” Carmen pinched the bridge of his nose, breathing in slowly, trying to calm the tears that threatened to fall. He could hear Anchovy, hear the sounds of the house- the home. Soft child shows, the hum of the dryer, all the things that made the house feel alive. Carmen would give anything to have his home sound like that again, the silence was beginning to drive him crazy. 

“Where is she?” Carmen looks up, his gaze much harder than before, a frantic look beginning to take over his sadness. 

“I, uh, I-I don’t-” Pete stutters, fingers tapping on the wood of the door anxiously. 

“-Pete, I really don’t want you to fuck with me right now, alright?” Carmen takes a deep breath, trying to swallow back his emotions that were already beginning to climb in his throat again. “I need to- I-I need to see her, Pete.” Carmen couldn’t bring himself to say your name, sure even the first syllable would have him in tears, breaking down on the front porch. 

Another meow, louder than before, came before Pete could answer. The soft scratching of Anchovy’s paws on the door, a demanding meow that Carmen knew all too well. He’d learned to drown it out, or try to. It became nearly a soundtrack to your sex life when you’d first gotten the cat, locking him out of the room so you two could fuck, only for him to yowl and scratch and demand to be let in. Carmen could remember how you’d giggle, pouting at him exaggeratedly to let him in. His heart fell with an ache that was warm yet still made him feel sick. 

Pete looked down at the cat, then back at Carmen, a hesitant grimace on his face. “Carm… You-You know I would,” He started. Carmen’s heart soared with hope, eyes wide, a near adrenaline rush of excitement shooting through his system. “But…You know I can’t.” 

Carmen’s heart crashed, shattered with the hope he’d finally begun to find, to feel again. “What the fuc- Pete, that’s… Pete, c’mon. C’mon. Yo-You gotta let me in. Let me in.” Anger surged through Carmen’s chest. He closed his eyes tight and tried to swallow it down. All he’d been is angry. For weeks now, it had been a never ending cycle of anger and sickness and distraught, all amplified to new heights the second you left. 

Carmen could feel himself spiraling, ears starting to ring again, rushing and roaring flashbacks flooding into his mind. Your face when you left, Teddy’s cries, the critic’s pursed lips, Sydney’s disappointed face when he forgot something again, Tina’s eyes cutting. Carmen turned, shaking his hand lightly, trying to do a breathing exercise he saw on YouTube, years ago when he’d moved to New York. 

His breaths were deep, shaky, but deep enough that it cleared his head, dulled the ringing. His mind wandered back, Richie’s voice ringing in his head. “You wanna get her back? Quit actin’ like a goddam baby. Quit actin’ like this isn’t your own fuckin’ fault. Like you didn’t do this shit to yourself, Cousin. Take some fuckin’ accountability, grow the fuck up, and get your motherfuckin’ shit together, alright? And maybe-maybe you’ll get your family back.” Richie’s voice rang clear through his mind from a few nights ago, when Carmen was especially mean and awful. 

“Hey, uh, you alright?” Pete hesitated, leaning towards Carmen, his grip on the door loosening. 

Carmen took a deep breath, running a hand over his face before he turned back towards Pete, eyes shining with tears that threatened to fall. “Pete, please? Please?” Carmen begged, voice soft, cracking at the end. “Please, jus-just let me see her? L-Let me talk to her? Just- Let me tell her tha-that I’m sorry. Please… I need to tell her I-I’m sorry. Don’t-” 

“-Carmen?” Sugar gaped, her voice coming from behind Pete. She pulled the door open, shocked gaze dropping into furious, jaw setting in a near snarl. “What the fuck are you doing here?” She hissed. 

“Why do you think I’m here, Natalie? Huh?” Carmen snapped in anger, rolling his eyes in annoyance. 

“Oh, you’ve got a lot of fucking nerve showing up here.” Natalie snapped back, pulling the door open and stepping out on the porch. She stood in front of her younger brother, arms crossed in a standoff. 

“Pete, go inside.” Sugar sneered, her gaze not moving from Carmen’s. She felt like they were children again, having a staring contest to see who got the last piece of gum from Donna’s purse, only this time, it was for worse. 

“Nat, I-” 

“-I got it.” Natalie said firmly. Pete didn’t argue with her, simply nodding, shutting the door softly behind them. Her eyes held Carmen’s gaze, both of them intense, furious at the other for other reasons. 

“You should be ashamed of yourself-” 

“-I am-” 

“-Mortified.” Sugar sneered, giving him a disgusted shake of her head. Carmen shifted, biting his own tongue to keep it from lashing out at her. “Do you know what I came home to the other night? You want me to tell you?-” 

“-No, I know-” 

“-No, I’m going to tell you.” Natalie snapped. “I came home after a very long shift because our head chef decided to, oh, I don’t know- disappear and go on a psychotic rampage apparently.” Natalie scoffed sarcastically. 

“And I walk through the door, ready for bed. Maybe a glass of wine, maybe a bath, maybe to finally catch up on my shows with my husband; and you know what I found instead?” Sugar took a step towards Carmen, intimidating him with her harsh glare. “I find my husband taking care of your baby because your wife is sobbing-” 

“-Don’t-” 

“-No, no. I mean, sobbing. A total broken mess on my kitchen table, because she said you,” Sugar jabbed a finger at Carmen. “Decided to come home and scream at her. Not only scream, but say some of the most volatile, disgusting things I’ve ever fucking heard in my life to your wife, the mother of your very much so still a newborn baby.” 

Carmen felt the familiar wave of nausea wash over him, swallowing back spit that pooled in his mouth with a cry that threatened to fall from his chest. He couldn’t bring himself to speak, to look at her gaze anymore. It felt too judgemental, left him feeling too vulnerable and sick of himself under it. 

“So let me ask first; What the fuck is the matter with you?” Natalie sneered. 

“I don’t know.” Carmen’s voice was tight, jaw tighter, fighting a tremble that was threatening to break. “I-I don’t… I don’t fuckin’ know. I-I didn’t- I didn’t mean it-” A single tear fell, slipping out of the corner of his eyes, sliding down his cheek- the final crack in his demeanor. 

Carmen tried to fight it, deep breaths that burned his lungs and nose to control the tears, keep him from breaking here on his sister’s porch, but they wouldn’t stop. Carmen wasn’t sure how he had any tears left, after crying for days on end, how he hadn’t shriveled up his tear ducts. Yet here he was, broken sobs slipping out again. 

Sugar didn’t move. Arms still crossed over her chest, lips still fixed in a hard line, watching Carmen with intensity as he broke down, tears flowing in front of her. She didn’t comfort him, not that he expected her to. She didn’t try to give him words of encouragement, advice on how to right the wrongs like the others did. Instead, she kept a furious gaze on him, unmoved by the tears. 

“Please,” Carmen sniffed hard, running the back of his hand over his nose. “Please, Sugar, please. Ju-Just let me see Teddy. Let me se-ee her. Don’t-Don’t do this to me. Don’t ke-ep my kid away from me-” 

“-Me?” Sugar scoffed, pushing her hand into her chest. “Oh, no. No, no, no, no. Don’t you even start that shit, Carm. I’m not keeping your kid away from you, let’s make that clear.” 

Carmen’s breath hitched when she stepped towards him, toe to toe with him, teeth bared in a grit of anger. “I didn’t take your kid away. You know who did? Hm? You.” Natalie snapped, Carmen flinched at the cruelty of her words. “You did this, Carmen. You did every last bit of this. This is on you. No one else but you.” 

Carmen held in a cry that threatened to break out, face crumbling with tears. He rubbed his hand over his face, trying to soothe the burn and hide his distraught. “And you know something else? I know you don’t remember dad very well, but I do, ok? And lately, you’ve been acting just like him.” Sugar’s tone clipped, leaving a burning sting in Carmen’s chest at her words. 

“Yelling just because shit didn’t go your way? Do you know part of the reason mom’s so fucked up? Why everyone takes her side all the time and babies her? Uncle Jimmy and Uncle Lee? It’s because dad used to berate her, scream at her so badly- say some of the worst shit in the world because he was stressed out, that those guys would feel bad for her.” Sugar ranted. “And I promise you- promise you if I told Uncle Jimmy right now what you said, how I found your wife, he’d agree with me. Maybe even worse.” 

Carmen shifted, his heart squeezing in fear now. Jimmy loved you, always had. He held a special soft spot in his heart for you. Worse was probably right, and truthfully, Carmen would accept it- he deserved it. It wouldn’t be as bad as how he felt right now. 

Natalie held Carmen’s gaze, letting her words sink in. She lifted his hand when he started to talk. “I don’t-I really don’t want to hear it, ok?” Natalie shook her head. “And before you start trying to come up with some excuse-” 

“-I-I’m not-” 

“- I want you to know something. To hear it and really listen to it.” Natalie paused, waiting until his eyes met hers to continue. “I know you’ve been through a lot- We’ve been through a lot. But that doesn’t mean you get to just treat people like shit. That you can act like this and it’s ok.” 

“I know that.” Carmen’s jaw was tight, strangled words croaking out. 

“Then act like it.” Natalie snapped. “It’s not easy, none of this is easy, Carm. I mean… Do you know that every day- every single day, I wake up and something happens that’s shitty or rough, and I think about how easy it would be just to grab a bottle of wine or two. Drink myself unconscious like mom does. Just how easy that would be, how nice it would be just to drown myself out instead of face the issues.” 

“There’s days when MJ or Maggie or-or Pete just drive me fuckin’ nuts, and I want to pull my hair out, or scream, or Pete will do something that just pushes me right over the edge and I just want to rage.” Natalie continued, arms waving dramatically. “I want to throw in the towel, take the easy way out, rage, drink myself silly, scream at all of them until I feel better, but you know what? You know what I don’t do? I don’t do that.” 

Natalie crossed her arms, taking a breath to steady herself. “I don’t do that to them because I know how that feels.” Her voice cracked, just barely, enough to show the emotion that was hiding underneath. “I know how that felt. I know how that made me feel.” 

Carmen could feel his eyes brimming with tears again, too emotional to be embarrassed. Donna’s many red faced, slurred screaming tyrades came back to his mind. How he’d hide, try and stay quiet and invisible to avoid them. Even as he got older. 

“I know how that fucked me up. How it fucked them up. How it fucked you up, an-and Mikey up. I mean- how it…it fucked our whole life up!” Sugar laughed humorlessly, throwing her hands up in mock defeat. “I just… When I think about that, and about how it just ruined all of us. That’s the last thing, the very last thing, I’d ever want to do to my kids, to Pete, t-to anyone, really.” 

Carmen nodded, too overwhelmed with emotions to speak. His throat burned, scratchy and sore from screaming and crying. His chest was tight, constricting his lungs, stealing his breath. He was on the verge of an anxiety attack, maybe something worse, yet, he felt eerily calm in the moment. Still even under the shame and hurt her words brought. He sat on the porch, sure his knees would give out soon, head spinning and dizzy with this damning realization. 

 “You need to make up your mind. Make a decision, right here, right now.” Sugar continued behind him. Though he couldn’t see her, he knew her face was stoic to hide the hurt, hide the emotions. A classic Berzatto deflection trait. “You need to decide what you’re going to do to be better for your family. If you’re going to continue to be a selfish, piece of shit, or if you’re going to change; be better.” 

Carmen’s shoulders shuddered with his next breath, deep but not intentional; like he didn’t even know he did it. Too dazed and deep in thought, staring blankly ahead. “I can tell you,” Sugar stepped towards the door. “It’s not comfortable. It’s not easy. It is so hard some days. You have to fight for it every day, fight to break shit that was drilled into you, fight to recognize that some things you do, you don’t even mean to. It takes a lot of work, but… I’d rather fight every single day to be better, to be kinder and softer and more understanding for my family, than to not have them at all.” 

Carmen couldn’t stop thinking of you. How you were so naturally nurturing and sweet. You’d always been like that. You were loving and gentle freely. You’d always been so patient with him. It almost made him feel insecure, inferior, when he thought of it before, but now, he just wanted to return the favor. 

“You decide what you want to do, and then maybe- maybe you’ll get to see them again.” Sugar turned the door knob, pushing it open. “But today? Not a chance. Go get yourself together before you try and do this again.” Carmen flinched at the door slamming behind her, harder than he thought it would. Still, he didn’t move from his spot on the porch, head in his hands, deep in thought about his future, his past, everything. 

“There he is!” Fak’s voice was muffled through the car window, slowly pulling to a stop in Sugar and Pete’s driveway. 

Carmen looked up slowly, taking a slow, grounding exhale in, just as Richie and Fak climbed out of the car. “Cousin, thank fuckin’- You better be glad he’s here.” Richie glared at Fak. 

“I am!” Fak chirped defensively. 

Carmen stood slowly, turning one last time to look at the front door. He couldn’t see through the small privacy glass on the door, but he swore he could hear you- hear your voice. Soft and hushed, a little cautious mixing with Sugar’s reassuring one. It took everything in him not to turn and bust the door down, run inside and throw himself at your feet, begging for forgiveness. 

He knew that time would come. 

Instead, he walked to the car, sliding in the backseat, ignoring the confused looks Richie and Fak gave each other. “So, uh, did you-” 

“-Don’t ask that.” Richie cut off Fak with a bark of annoyance. “What’s the matter with you?” 

“Nothing! I just- I thought we all wanted to know-” 

“-Hey, Cousin,” Carmen muttered, staring blankly at the house. Richie hummed, turning to Carmen carefully. “What’s, uh… You-You said you had someone for me to talk to?” 

“Yeah,” Richie nodded slowly. “The therapist?” 

Carmen paused, swallowing slowly. “You…You think she’d see me now?” 

“Right now?” Richie lifted a brow. Carmen nodded slowly, still looking past him, eyes glued on the house. He swore he could see a figure move- your figure, peeking through the blinds before ducking back into the shadows. “Yeah, I’m sure she will. I can… I can call her. See what I can do.” 

“Thanks.” Carmen twisted his wedding band gently, the car jolting gently as Fak started to back out. 

Fak turned around, looking from the back window to Carmen with a hesitant grimace. “You ok?” He asked, his voice dropped to a low hush with Richie on the phone beside him. 

“No,” Carmen admitted, shoulders slumping in defeat. “No, I-I’m not, but… I wanna be.” Carmen looked at Fak, eyes glassy with emotion. “I gotta get my shit together. Gotta do better f-for my family.” 

Fak nodded slowly, pulling out onto the road, slowly shifting the gears back into place. The car began to roll, Carmen watching Sugar and Pete’s house disappear in the rearview. His heart tore, ripped right down the middle and split at the seams knowing he was leaving you, Teddy- his family behind. It took everything, every ounce of strength not to turn around, not to run back. It hurt, but he realized, this is what Sugar was talking about. 

So, Carmen went to the other side of town, to the small building where Richie’s therapist was. His counselor he’d started seeing a while back, when he was on his purpose journey. 

It was weird, weirder than Al-Anon. Carmen felt entirely too vulnerable sitting in that chair, having her stare at him and only him, nodding as he told his ‘story’- it felt weird to call it that. He didn’t want it to be his story, his defining qualities. No, Carmen wanted a new story, a better one with you and Teddy and his family. He’d told Dr. Mullins that. 

“I think that’s a great start, Carmen.” She nodded, giving him a soft smile. “So, tell me how you’d do that.” 

Carmen scoffed lightly, looking down at his hands. “I, uh, I don’t really know.” He admitted. “Kinda thought that’s what you were for.” 

“You’re right. I’m here to help you reach that goal, maintain it.” She nodded. “But in order to do that, I need to know a little more.” 

“Like what?” Carmen muttered. “I don’t really remember my dad and all the bad shi-stuff he’d do.” 

“You said you didn’t want that to define you, so let’s not talk about that.” She shook her head softly. “Let’s focus on what you want. What kind of life you’d want to live with your family.” 

Carmen’s knee bounced, taking a shaky breath. “I… I don’t want to lose control.” He admitted. “I don’t want t-to scream, and say shit I don’t mean, and-and to take it out on people who don’t deserve it.” He looked up at her. “I don’t want to do that again.” 

“Good.” Dr. Mullins nodded slowly. “Let’s start there.” 

[preciouslittle-bhaalbabe]

Can we talk about how cathartic it was to see Astarion finally kill Cazador then CRY? Yes, it's hard to watch. And I know people want to comfort him in the moment. He doesn't need comfort, he needs to process. But think about it. He probably went numb long ago and no longer had the capacity to cry. So to just start sobbing in that moment, with all of his friends and possibly his partner watching. It must have been a massive release for him. Just the way he cries too feels like someone who has forgotten how until he basically screams it out (incredible work Neil <3). Even when his feelings about it afterwards were complicated. Sometimes you need to just fucking cry. And he needed it so badly.

And then when he's done and he soothes himself to breathe calmly again? Poetry. It's over lovely. You're free. <3

[wilhelminyard]

david wymack is such a fierce protector. he loves so deeply and so unconditionally it makes me wanna cry.

like he had just met neil when he said "you need one of us to talk to your parents? are they the ones who hurt you? [...] if your parents are a problem for you, we'll move you to south carolina early."

and he offered him his couch. and then he told him "foxes are foxes for a reason and they know we wouldn't sign you if you didn't qualify. that doesn't mean they know the specifics. it's not my place to ask and I'm sure as hell not going to tell them. did you think I made the team the way it is because I thought it would be a good publicity stunt? it's about second chances, neil. second, third, fourth, whatever, as long as you get at least one more than what anyone else wanted to give you."

he barely knew jean when he told him "your so called master and that bitch of a nephew of his. kevin told us the truth when he transferred so we'd know what we were getting into. I know you think you have to go back to evermore and I know what's waiting for you there. I will burn this house down before I let him touch you again."

and let's not forget about "wymack didn’t care if he had nine foxes or twenty-five. he’d stand behind them until the bitter, bloody end." and "it was the look of a man made ancient by his players' tragedies; it was the look of a man who'd have their backs no matter what it cost him"

and how he usually drives the bus himself because "it was apparently better to be uncomfortable but safe than to trust a stranger with his fractured team."

david wymack dedicated his life to showing kids who were dealt a shit hand in life that they can still play their cards right. I heard somewhere once that sometimes miracles are just good people with kind hearts and I thought it was a little corny but oh does it apply to someone like david wymack. he gave each of the foxes their own miracles. I know he is a fictional character but he just has the biggest heart and honestly he makes me want to have faith in humanity.

[jordiipordii]

tgr ☀️ spoilers & me babbling:

so I don’t like to directly compare andreil and jerejean but I do want to take a sec to compare something from nora’s ec to tgr.

because nora is still the same writer and her brain still thinks somewhat similarly. so:

if you’ve read thru her original ec enough you might already know this but if you haven’t: in one section she mentions andrew talking to betsy about neil for close to a year and how andrew only stopped mentioning neil after they started kissing, touching, etc.

like something was establishing between them and betsy had her suspicions because one day andrew was ‘blah blah blah neil’ and then the next day andrew did a total 180 and wouldn’t talk about him with her at all. stay with me.

jean calls jeremy his partner six times in tgr. three of those six are in the span of 24hrs. he says it to cody once and jeremy himself twice.

this is during all the shit with the fall banquet. jean defending jeremy, his reaction to faser, his “they are not your partners” and their big heart to heart. all that good stuff. now get this:

jean doesn’t call jeremy his partner again— not for the last 180 pages. this boy who before that in both tsc and tgr was “you are my partner, you are my partner, you are my partner.”

he doesn’t say it ever again in the golden raven.

like think about everything else we get after the banquet: their first match together, all the shit with zane and the aftermath, the fire, jab. jean never calls jeremy his partner during any of it.

and that reminds me so much about what nora said in her ec about andrew suddenly completely shutting down about neil to betsy.

then at the end when we get from renee that jean has spent the last month talking to her mostly about jeremy? the last month and, since we’re at the end of september, that roughly doubling back to the weekend of the fall banquet? to me that’s not a coincidence.

jean stopped calling jeremy his partner after the banquet because that’s when he started moving away from just thinking jeremy is attractive and having like a crush/getting jealous to more concrete, stronger feelings.

that’s when he started learning to understand “partner” with a different meaning. like with rhemann and adi. and we got from his narrative “a partnership that had survived twenty-eight years in this heartless world.”

suddenly “partner” in raven logic doesn’t fit jeremy anymore. but jean can’t allow himself to let the new meaning apply to jeremy, either.

so he just doesn’t call jeremy that at all.

the same way andrew stopped talking about neil to bee because suddenly things had changed and were different.

[allforthegaymes]

Andrew sat in the fbi interrogation alongside Neil, stuck between trying to decide wether to keep his wary eyes on the agents sat across from them or to keep his eyes locked on Neil, as if he’ll disappear again if he loses sight of him at any point.

Instead he keeps a finger hooked around one of Neils belt loops and sets himself to memorizing every word out of Neils mouth, keeping a watch on the agents to make sure they dont make a sudden attempt to go back on their words.

Which means he gets the first hand sight of how other people would react to hearing about what Neil’s gone through. And while he’d accepted every word from Neils mouth without a facial reaction, watching how the agents react make him think maybe he shouldve.

(The whispered thanks from Neil afterwards about Andrew not looking at him differently changes his mind)

The only part that really makes him freeze is when Neil begins the talk of his mothers death. Andrews all too familiar with dead mothers in cars, but hearing about the gun wound, the vinyl seats sticking to a half burnt away body, the bone burial along the beach. Neil stutters only once during his recounts, where he slips and mentions the smell.

He compares it to the scent of cigarettes, used Andrew’s one marlboro reds as a reference and suddenly all those rooftop rendezvous together makes more sense.

Neils half smoked cigarettes, never stubbed out but left to continue burning on the concrete next to them while they sit and talk. The way he only does stub them out when talking about his parents, or when Andrew mentions something about his own mom, or when Andrew says anything about the earlier days with Aaron.

Neil stops talking for a moment after that. Lost in thought.

And as always, Andrew follows him half a step behind.

Neils adamant claims during their zombie apocalypse walks with Renee around the track that he would always burn their friends bodies to make sure they dont come back from the dead.

The way he always leaves the room when they watch the newest episode of that stupid viking show that Aaron and Kevin like to watch and theres a burning boat funeral.

The way he-

And then Neil starts talking to the fbi agents again and Andrew is forced to tune back in and tuck away those thoughts till later.

He tells them about what happened in Baltimore.

The torture from Lola. The dashboard lighter pressing seared wounds into his skin. Over the tattoo, scattered across his arms, the faint marks from where she tried to burn holes through his jeans to get to his thighs. Saved only half as well as they were by the fact he’d worn a pair of the carhartt work pants Andrew had bought for him and not a pair of the threadbare thrift store jeans he usually wore.

Andrew makes the mental note to stop using his own dashboard lighter to light the cigarettes he smokes in the car. And to swap cigarette brands. And to stop smoking in the car.

And then its about the trunk of the car, the way Lola had held onto him and the comments she made in the car, the basement, the offhanded mention about how Nathan was barefoot when he walked down the stairs.

The little details that only someone who’s truly grasping for any recollection in a traumatic moment would retain. The way even when Nathan was walking down to tear Neil limb from limb, Neil still couldnt bring himself to look at his fathers face. The face that Neil shares. The face Neil still avoids looking at when he walks past the mirror in the hall in Columbia.

And he thinks about the way Neil shied away from Wymack in the beginning, the way he now searches for Wymacks face whenever they get separated from their coach at away games.

The gun shots during the Hatford raid, the way even though Neil was bruised and battered he still found himself with a smile on his face when he saw Lola’s body get blasted apart by silenced guns.

The way he knew even if they got a proper funeral no one down there would get to have an open casket. The evidence in their bullet shattered bones that their bodies would never rest peacefully. That people in a thousand years would know from the unmarked graves and their remains that they deserved whatever ended them.

And then he claims it goes dark, he says it with the same way Neil lies about everything else, with his body forced relaxed to not twitch and give himself away, but he breathes a little heavier when he calmly tries to describe the way he came to and found himself being helped by the emergency services, feigning he doesnt know what theyre actually called, playing into the runaway kid sent on the road too young and not knowing completely how the world works still.

Andrew wishes he didnt know Neil well enough to know its only half real. Wishes he didnt know Mary probably only taught Neil how to recognize and run from EMT’s, and never actually explained what EMT was meant to stand for.

Andrew knows first hand how hard it is to gain sympathy from government officials, but Neil’s got them eating out of his hand with the way he words his story, their final nail in the coffin to take down the Wesninski trails in Baltimore and beyond.

Neil knows they need him and he knows how to play them to believe whatever story he deems they’re worthwhile to hear.

[girlboypersonthingy]

Could you maybe write a Sally Face One Shot, where Sal developed a huge crush on reader. But he thinks she doesn’t feel the same way. So he writes a love letter in which he puts no hope in, but then she actually tells him she does feel the same.

Does that even make any sense?😭

Yes…it makes sense and I’m weeping over this omggggg 😭😭😭 bruh this had me screaming and kicking in bed as I wrote it omfgggggg. Sal is pretty smart so I know this mf would write some pretty, thought out, poetic type shit

Notes: gn!reader, established friendship, friends to lovers trope

TW: none, just so fucking sappy and fluffy

Sal x reader- Sincerely Sally 💌

Dear (Y/N),

I want to start by telling you that you’re an amazing friend. I’m beyond grateful we’ve met. You’ve always made me feel so comfortable, so wanted, so important. No words could ever truly explain my feelings for you or the thoughts behind them, but I’m going to try.

Since we met, I’ve seen nothing but good in you and I think you’ve made me good, too. You make me feel good. You make me a better person. I don’t know who I’d be without you, but I know who I want to be now.

I want to be the one on your arm when we walk into a room.

I want to be the one you wake up to every morning and fall asleep next to every night.

I want to kiss you every time we say ‘good bye’ and every time we say ‘hello’ again.

I want to be the one you point to with a smile and say ‘him’ when talking to others.

I want to be the one to hold you when you cry.

I want to be the one to hug you when you’re excited.

I want to go every where you go.

I want to slow dance with you.

I want to head bang with you.

I want to paint with you.

I want to sing to you.

I want to hold you.

I want you.

I love you.

I’m in love with you.

And I’m sorry.

Sincerely,

Sally <3

Sal felt like a total loser while sneaking over to your place, which was just down the street from Todd’s house, and slipping the letter in your mailbox. He felt like he could puke just from writing the letter, there’s no way he could ever say these things to your face. He couldn’t help but hesitate, staring at the mailbox as his heart beat rapidly in his chest. ‘They’re going to hate me. I’m gonna ruin everything. What the hell am I doing?’ Sal thinks to himself, staying frozen in place for a good few minutes as thousands of thoughts race through his mind, shaky hands stuffed in his hoodie pockets.

He jumps a bit when he notices the light in your bedroom flick on through your window. He ducks his head and turns to leave, not wanting to get caught lurking around your house in the middle of the night. As he rushes back home, the panic begins to set in because now he realizes he left it…he left the letter behind. It was done. No turning back. He felt sick to his stomach and like he was already grieving the loss of your friendship.

Sal tip toes back in the house, praying neither Neil nor Todd would catch him sneaking in so late and ask questions. He trudges to his room, shedding his clothes before flopping onto his bed. Sal lays on his side and after taking his prosthetic off, stares at the wall for hours thinking about all the ways this could go wrong, all the ways you could reject him, every excuse and lie he could use later to act like it wasn’t even serious, like it was a dumb joke or something. Finally, after his brain had tortured him enough, he drifts off to sleep just before the sun begins to rise.

~next morning~

‘Holy shit…’ You think as you hold the piece of lined note book paper in your shaky hands. “No way…no way!” A giddy smile grows on your face as you clumsily drop all the other mail you had in your hands, besides Sal’s letter, on the ground and take off running for him. It was early in the morning and you were in pajamas still but nothing could stop you now. His house was not far at all and you were too excited not to immediately run to him and profess your love for him.

You and Sal had been friends almost as long as he has with Larry and Todd. You’ve slowly fallen in love with him just as hard as he has with you- the issue is that you are both dummies and think the other person sees you as a friend and a friend only. You’d find yourself dreaming of Sal, not knowing he was dreaming of you too. You’d absentmindedly doodle his name on piece of paper and blush, he’d find a strand of your hair on his shirt and smile so big under his mask. You two have been pining for so long but both so afraid to wreck the relationship you already have. Eventually, Sal felt like he couldn’t get anything done, couldn’t focus on his studies or the ghosts or even eating throughout the day. His brain was full, flooded even, with thoughts of you. He just had to get it out, he had to say it to you now or he would be haunted by it forever. Unbeknownst to Sal…you felt the exact same way.

Bouncing up to his doorstep with an uncontrollable smile on your face, cheeks aching and turning red, you knock on the door and ball your fists up out of excitement. Finally, Todd answers the door, smiling at you before greeting you. “(Y/N)! What are you doing here so early? We-“ “Sal! I-I’m sorry. I need to talk to Sal.” You interrupt, your crazy smile making Todd chuckle softly just as Neil comes up behind him. “Morning, (Y/N)! Sal isn’t up yet. He’s still-“

You weren’t trying to be rude, you adored Todd and Neil but you were currently completely 100% hyperfixated on the sleeping blue haired poet behind the door at the end of the hall way and you just had to see him immediately. “I-I’m sorry…” You laugh softly as you push past them, sprinting for his door, gripping the knob excitedly before swinging the door open. The sound of the door swinging back against the door frame stirs Sally from his sleep, making him groan and glance over at the doorway. Before he can react to you being in his bedroom, in your pajamas still with bed head and an adorable love sick smile on your face, you’re jumping into his blankets with arms wide open. As you practically belly flop on top of him, he huffs softly then chuckles, groggily blinking at you.

“Uh…morning…” He mumbles just before you place the folded love letter on his chest, giving him a small smirk. His eyes open wider now, his prosthetic eye not in its usual socket. Sal scrambles nervously to sit up more, his breath hitching in his throat. He was so half asleep for a moment there, he had forgotten all about the letter he planted in your mailbox last night. “Oh I uh….yeah uh-uhm-“ Sal can’t seem to move his mouth correctly, can’t focus his brain on the words he wants to say. And he just breaks down even more when he realizes you’re in his bed, still in pajamas with the cutest messiest bed head. He can’t deal with the cuteness and his gnawing anxiety…So you speak up instead.

“I love you too.” You smile sweetly before pulling yourself up closer to his scarred face and rubbing your nose against his. Sal lets out a whiny little hum as he lets his nervous hands very slowly move up to rest on your back, smiling like a sappy dork as he hugs you softly. He’s not sure what exactly he was expecting to happen after giving you that letter but this is most definitely the best case scenario. “Let’s just…fucking kiss already.” You say with a cheeky smile, eyes half lidded as you lean in closer. Sal sucks in a breath before letting his eyes close along with yours, pursing his lips out as his hands move up your arms and to your cheeks. His big palms caress your face so perfectly, his thumbs sliding back and forth over your skin as you lock lips, gently moving your mouths together as soft sighs leave both of you.

As his hands pull your face closer, your hands wander up and down his bare arms, legs tangled up in his blankets along with him now, you couldn’t help but let out a soft laugh against his lips. “I’m glad you finally told me…that letter was so beautiful.” You whisper, lips gently ghosting against his now. Sal keeps his eyes closed but smiles brightly. “I wrote 153 of those letters.” He confesses, face burning bright red. “No you didn’t.” You scoff, looking down at him, finding this fact hilarious and also adorable and flattering.

“Oh yes he did!” Todd and Neil are leaning in the open doorway. Oops…you got so excited you didn’t shut the door behind you when you ran in. “Proof!” Neil laughs out loudly as he points to Sal’s trash can in the corner of the room, overflowing with balled up pieces of paper. You laugh as you look over, Neil and Todd laughing along with you. Sal drapes an arm over his face, trying to hold back his flustered smile and embarrassed expression. “Stoopppp.” He complains before you’re standing and playfully glaring at the two boys in the doorway. “That’s enough teasing. Shoo!” You grin at Todd before shutting the door on them and turning back to Sal.

“153, huh? Wow. That’s some dedication, lover boy.” You climb back into his bed, sitting cross legged beside him. “Why didn’t you just tell me in person, Sal? Would’ve been way easier.” You scoot closer to him and run your fingers through his tangled hair. “Uh, I totally disagree. I nearly had a panic attack just putting that letter in your mailbox and then having to walk away from it.” A laugh rings out from you as you toss your head back. “Ha! So, What? You’re afraid to say you love me but not afraid of ghosts or demons or cults?” You taunt him before leaning over to rest your head on his shoulder, closing your eyes for a second. “You’re strange. And I love that about you.” You rest there with him for a moment before a fantastic idea hits you, making you sit up and gasp excitedly.

“Can I read the other ones too?!” Before Sal can answer, you’ve jumped up and ran to the rejected pile of love letters in the corner. “No! (Y/N)! No no nononononono!” Sal jumps up and runs to tackle you, his face blushing so red from his ears and down his neck. You laugh loudly as he wraps his arms around your waist and tries to pull you away from all the other embarrassing things he wrote and considered saying to you. “They’re…in the trash…for a reason!” He laughs and huffs as you you push forward, trying to reach even just one crumpled up piece of paper. “Pleeaaassseeeee?” You plead but your strength leaves you as Sal tickles you and has you cackling on the ground instantly.

And the next 10 minutes are spent wrestling with him on the floor of his bedroom while laughing like drunk idiots and occasionally pressing a kiss to the other’s lips. Eventually, you do get ahold of a few of the discarded love letter drafts and they are either like Shakespeare poetry type shit, or so fucking dorky and corny, full of puns and shit. Larry probably tried to help him with that one lol