#steve secretly loves the fuss so he never really complains

[rogueddie]

El, who learnt through Hopper that if you do something bad then something you like gets taken away, kidnapping Steve whenever someone in the party does or says anything that upsets her

[joehawke]

Hey Stephen Drabble

Or: a shittily written Drabble written at 2am loosely based on Eddie writing the song Hey Stephen by Taylor Swift.

Or: Taylor swift x steddie? Count me in.

There’s things that Eddie likes to keep to himself, locked away in a box that’s lost it’s key; things even Wayne and the boys don’t know. Stupid things like how he doesn’t entirely know how to swim, just figured doggy paddling would be enough (and can you blame him? His parents were never around to teach him, and it’s not like the trailer park had a pool and you wouldn’t catch him dead at Hawkin’s community pool), or the way he secretly binges cheesy romantic comedies when Wayne’s on a night shift, because can you blame him? He’s a hopeless romantic at heart. Stupid things really.

So despite the heavy metal front that Eddie tends to put in place when it comes to writing for corroded coffin, he has one more secret that he likes to keep sealed in his box of classified information if you will; he’s a sucker for a good love song. And listen, don’t get him wrong, he’s well aware that some of the best metal artists of all time have written some of the most beautiful love ballads, but there’s something just so intimately soft and sweet about a basic slow love song. Sue him. So yeah, what if he has an entirely separate song notebook filled to the brim with easy chord progressions and cheesy soft melodies? He’s just a guy. In all fairness, in all honesty and retrospect, he hasn’t touched that stupid journal in a little over a year, what with the whole end of the world-inner dimension to hell thing, and he had figured he wouldn’t come close to opening it’s broken spine in awhile, but one Steve Harrington makes it almost impossible to leave it to sit and collect dust on his shelf like he had planned.

He’s been back from the hospital for a little over two weeks now, resigned to strict bed rest since leaving the dingy corridor that was the government “suite” in the hospital (also known as the basement wing, and isn’t that sweet of them), and despite his best efforts at attempting to be a big boy and be alone, Harrington hasn’t stopped playing nurse. Steve Harrington, dethroned King of Hawkins High, has basically set up shelter in the Munson’s humble abode (thank you government hush money).

Eddie’s a simple guy, he can’t complain if Steve wants to play nurse, he can however fuss about the stupid butterflies that have built cocoons in his stomach for the last month. Which leaves him to now.

It took some convincing, but after almost an hour of Eddie attempting to compel Steve to leave and go check up on the others, and with Wayne at work, Eddie’s finally got the house to himself. Despite Steve’s persistent voice in the back of Eddie’s head telling him to stay put on the couch so you don’t rip your stitches, I’ll be back in less than two hours. I mean it Eddie, Eddie crutches over to his bedroom diligently, careful not to let his crutch get stuck on wadded up clothes (and yeah, Eddie’s surprised Steve hasn’t started doing his laundry yet at the rate he’s been playing mommy). He sits on the floor near one of his basket made bookshelf’s and rummages through for his notebook. When he finds the one he wants, he flips through steadily with his tongue sticking out of his mouth in concentration as he looks for a blank page and a pen. He’s had this itch in the back of his mind (or heart?) for the last month now, and it heavily revolves around Steve Harrington’s lips. But because that’s impossible, he does the next best thing. He writes.

He’s not even sure how long he sits on his dirty floor writing away and strumming chords on his guitar before he hears the familiar cut off of Steve’s beemer pull up. Eddie quickly curses to himself before getting up so fast Steve would have an aneurysm had he seen him, quickly crutching back to the couch. He barely makes it in time before he hears the sound of Steve’s key in the door (Steve’s key. Steve’s key. What is Eddie’s life.)

“Hey Eds.” Steve says as he takes in Eddie on the couch. And isn’t that something; Eds. Eddie had to bite back a literal purr the first time Steve had called him that.

“Hey Stevie,” Eddie replies, careful not to give himself away. Steve eyes him carefully, like he can see right through Eddie. “So how are the others?”

“Good. Yeah. What’s up with you?” Steve asks, his brows furrowing as a small questionable grin places itself on his mouth. Eddie waves his hand in dismissal, failing miserably at being stealthy. (And since when was Eddie a bad liar? The man tells stories basically for a living. But can you blame him when Steve is looking at him like that?).

“Nothing! Just uh - hungry. You did tell me not to move a muscle Harrington, remember that conversation when you left me to fend for my poor old self?” Eddie says dramatically, giving Steve puppy eyes. Eddie watches as Steve suppresses an eye roll.

“I made lasagna last night to heat up for tonight” Steve says, and huh, when did Eddie miss that?

“Right. Of course you did”

“I’m going to go wash up and I’ll be back to plate up some dishes for us, okay?” Steve says, before heading back to the opposite end of the apartment. Eddie sighs in relief as he finally allows himself to slump back against the couch.

After Steve washes his hands, he heads into Eddie’s room, shucking off his jeans to put on a pair of sweats. He reaches down to retrieve his car keys in his pocket, when he comes eye to eye with one of Eddie’s open notebooks. And huh. That wasn’t there when he left. He picks it up, going to close it, when he sees his name. Look, Steve knows he shouldn’t snoop, he’s well aware actually, but you can’t blame him when his name is written in bold curly letters.

Steve knows he should stop reading, knows this is personal, but the lyrics have his heart lodged into his throat and he can’t bring himself to look away.

“— you might have me believing I don't always have to be alone. 'Cause I can't help it if you look like an angel, Can't help it if I wanna kiss you in the rain, so come feel this magic I've been feeling since I met you. Can't help it if there's no one else, Mmm, I can't help myself.

Hey Stephen, I've been holding back this feeling, So I've got some things to say to you (ha) I've seen it all, so I thought, But I never seen nobody shine the way you do. The way you walk, way you talk, way you say my name, It's beautiful, wonderful, don't you ever change.

Steve’s breath hitches at the lyrics written down, of what he can only assume as the mention of what he saw in the upside down and how Eddie’s thoughts still somehow manage to correlate to Steve.

Hey Stephen, why are people always leaving? I think you and I should stay the same, 'Cause I can't help it if you look like an angel, Can't help it if I wanna kiss you in the rain, so Come feel this magic I've been feeling since I met you. Can't help it if there's no one else. Mmm, I can't help myself

Tears well up in Steve’s eyes as he reads the meaning behind the first sentence, and then the meaning behind every one after that. He brings his free hand up to his mouth as he continues to read.

They're dimming the street lights, You're perfect for me. Why aren't you here tonight? I'm waiting alone now, So come on and come out and pull me near And shine, shine, shine

Hey Stephen, I could give you 50 reasons why I should be the one you choose. All those other girls, well, they're beautiful, But would they write a song for you? (Ha-ha)

I can't help it if you look like an angel, Can't help it if I wanna kiss you in the rain, so, Come feel this magic I've been feeling since I met you, Can't help it if there's no one else

Mmm, I can't help myself If you look like an angel, Can't help it if I wanna kiss you in the rain, so Come feel this magic I've been feeling since I met you Can't help it if there's no one else

Mmm I can't help myself. Myself

Can't help myself, I can't help myself

Oh, oh, oh”

Steve didn’t even hear Eddie’s crutches as Eddie makes his way into the room. Steve looks up just in time to see the ghostly look on Eddie’s face.

“What are you doing?” Eddie asks, harsher than he means to, and maybe it’s the way Steve stands there speechless, or the tears in his eyes as he looks up from the words on the paper, but Eddie cringes in to himself. Steve must thing he’s a freak, and Eddie doesn’t blame him, if the shoe fits and all.

“I - Eddie -“ Steve stutters out, gripping the notebook tighter.

“Just - just save it. I’m a freak, I get it okay. Can we please just forget about this” Eddie asks, leaning on his crutches for support as he walks farther into the room before snatching the book away from Steve’s vice. Steve flinches slightly, before nodding, and Eddie just barely misses the tear that cascades down Steve’s cheek, and if this were any other scenario, Eddie would wrap his palms around Steve’s cheeks, wiping away the salty storm with the pads of his thumbs, but this isn’t any other scenario and Steve probably hates him now.

Eddie shoves the notebook under his pillow hastily before sitting down on his bed in a slump, looking anywhere but at Steve. He sees Steve go to move before he hears him.

“I uh - I gotta go. Wayne’s almost home” Steve mumbles out, before rushing out the door. Eddie hears the faint click of the front door open and shut and listens as Steve’s beemer pulls out of the lot.

Fuck.

I got tired and couldn’t finish, do I do a part two?

[artificialqueens]

Emergency Contact (Branjie) - hy-jinkx, athena2

AN: A huge thank you to Writ for being an incredible beta for this, we hope you all enjoy it!

You can also read on AO3.

José is watching TV when he gets the call. It’s a number he doesn’t know, and he’s about to complain about hoes dialing the wrong number and just ignore it, when something drives him to answer. Maybe it’s the fact that it’s nearly Christmas, stores blasting the same songs over and over, list of presents to buy his family still untouched, and the holiday always brought phone calls from random relatives he’s never seen in his life. Or maybe it’s the same force that drove him to answer the odd number when he got picked for Drag Race, a number that’s taken him to a pink workroom twice and into the arms of a tall Canadian man for what was too short of a time as he lived it and now feels too long a time to have spent memorizing Brock’s breathing and the freckles dusting his back, for it all to come crashing down anyway.

He presses the phone to his ear, and a kind voice says she’s calling him because—and then it’s like the ocean roars in his ears, and he misses all the medical nonsense the woman is spouting, because all he hears is that Brock is in the hospital.

Brock is at the hospital, and they’re calling him.

He is Brock’s emergency contact.

José realizes with a start that he doesn’t know his own emergency contact, wouldn’t even know how to change it. But Brock, always so responsible, so organized, must have changed his when they were dating. The thought that Brock trusted him enough to be an emergency contact gives his heart that familiar flutter. It quickly dies, though, at the confusion. Why, when Brock always takes care of that shit, hasn’t he changed it back to Steve or his mom or whoever it was before they started dating? Why is José, Brock’s ex-boyfriend, answering a call that should be making someone else’s heart–a heart that could handle this, that hadn’t been broken just a year ago– pound?

Is it worse if he just forgot to change it, or left it intentionally? It doesn’t matter. Brock is alone in the hospital in LA, and it’s almost Christmas, and leaving him there isn’t an option, regardless of whatever status they’re in right now. He tells the woman he’ll be on his way, writing down the name of the hospital so his forgetful ass doesn’t blank on it in ten seconds.

Brock must be freaking out, José thinks, hating himself for knowing how Brock would react, for still feeling that familiarity toward him, for trying to understand Brock’s mind. Too bad he couldn’t understand his mind all those months ago.

He grabs his coat without so much as another thought. It occurs to him that he doesn’t even know what’s wrong with Brock, had zoned out for that part of the call. Was he sick, or hurt, or even worse? Was he in pain or asleep? What if it was really bad?

Fuck it. He’s out the door.

The hospital was one of Brock’s least favorite places. He felt out of his element in his hospital bed, completely out of his realm of control. His care was in someone else’s hands, and a stranger’s at that.

He wasn’t sure if he trusted a stranger with his life. The only people he did trust with his life were his family and - well, José. Even if he didn’t want to admit it, he would likely always trust José that deeply, the younger man just having that effect on Brock.

Maybe that was why he never had the heart to remove José as his emergency contact.

Or maybe he had simply forgotten, his mind too preoccupied once the whirlwind of drag race airing had begun. He didn’t have time to worry about things like that, especially when he was so diligent about his health while being on the road almost constantly.

This was just a hiccup, an accident really. He didn’t see the point in calling José right now, but apparently the nurse disagreed with him.

“Might make you feel better seeing a familiar face,” the nurse had offered, flashing him a stern smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes before stepping out of the room. Damn his inability to say no to people.

The minutes felt like they passed by at a snail’s pace, Brock’s mind reeling. José was coming, but Brock had no way of really knowing how his ex would react. He knew José would be concerned on some level, and there would likely be some yelling involved, but whether that was at Brock or the hospital staff was yet to be determined.

Would José laugh at Brock’s injury, or would Jose dote on him like he had when Brock got sick while staying with him in LA?

Maybe if he was lucky, they would let him leave before José showed up, but he doubted that would be the case. Instead of allowing himself to think about his ex and the sense of dread he felt knowing José was likely on his way, Brock tried to keep himself busy by playing a game on his phone.

José tears through the doors like he’s on a mission, all his confusion and anger replaced with genuine worry, ready to grab the first person he sees and demand they take him to Brock.

“I’m here to see Brock Hayhoe,” he begins at the reception desk. “He one tall-ass hoe, you can’t miss him.”

“Name, please?”

“José Cancel. I’m his fri–” no, his abuela always said Christmas isn’t a time to lie, even if it’s just to himself,  “–I’m his emer–I’m his contact person.”

“Room 372.”

He’s off, past the snowmen and bulbs and snowflakes lining the walls, trying to bring cheer to a place that to him really isn’t a place for cheer. Hospitals and all their bad juju always gave him the creeps, and he’s secretly grateful when drag shows and touring give him an excuse not to visit a sick relative. He knows it’s terrible, but he just can’t take it. He can’t take the cold white rooms, all the people in pain and suffering in ways he didn’t understand, in ways no one could help. To have someone he loves in that position…his heart just can’t take it.

Brock is one of the only people he could possibly do this for. He even turned into a full-on nursemaid that one weekend Brock got sick in LA. He checked Brock’s temperature and gave him medicine and tea like people did in the movies and almost started a fire trying to make chicken soup, Brock protesting the fussing all the while. He sat on the couch with Brock’s head in his lap, stroking his sweat-damp hair and waiting until Brock’s breathing evened out and he finally got some rest, staying up most of the night to watch over him. It’s a part of him only Brock has seen, a part no one else has earned since.

There’s a paper snowman outside Brock’s door, and the fake, construction-paper smile only makes the place seem gloomier, because surely there’s people here who won’t see Christmas or a snowman ever again.

He takes a breath and turns into Brock’s room, the sight almost making him walk right back out. There is no way someone as big as a moose should look this damn small. Brock is about half his normal size—a size that completely covered José in bed on those nights he needs to forget—in the hospital bed, and it makes him seem fragile, like those fancy dishes people locked away in cabinets and never used. His Brock–though he needs to give up on that now–is not supposed to look like this. There is not supposed to be an IV in his arm or all those monitors that belong on a spaceship around him. If he thought Brock was pasty before, it’s nothing compared to the ghostly paleness now; a ghost that just can’t stop haunting José, whatever he does.

There’s a chair by the bed, but José is too rattled to sit.

“What the hell kinda mess did you get yourself into?” José demands, holding tight to the angry side of him to keep from breaking, to keep Brock from the spiral he knows he’ll sink into if he sees José scared or worried.

“You came,” Brock deflects. Is that happiness in his voice? Whatever it is, it breaks through José’s anger. If Brock is awake and talking (and maybe even happy to see him), then it can’t be that bad, right?

“Yeah, I came,” he says softly. “I wasn’t gonna leave your ass in the hospital alone. Especially so close to Christmas. I know you hate this shit.” Damn it, he wasn’t going to do this. He wasn’t going to get familiar, wasn’t going to let his heart soar when he saw Brock.

“I do.” Brock sighs helplessly, and José notices the rumbled sheets, Brock’s restlessness something he knows well.

“So, what did you do?” José asks. “Had to be some dumb shit, knowing you.” He decides to keep the joking tone, to avoid the part of him that aches seeing Brock so small and vulnerable, the part that wants to take Brock home where the scariness of the hospital can’t reach.

Brock’s cheeks turn slightly pink and he stares at the floor, a sure sign of his embarrassment. No matter how much José told himself he wouldn’t do this, Brock is still a book José’s read so many times his fingertips have discolored the pages, a movie he’s watched so many times he knows every line.

“Well…” Brock begins. “I was practicing dancing and tripped over Henry. I twisted my knee a little. It’s nothing bad, they just want me to spend the night to make sure the swelling goes down and that there’s no other damage.”

“You tripped over your cat?” José tries to hold back a laugh, but he’s so relieved it’s not serious, that Brock was just being his dumbass self, that he can’t help it.

Brock bites his lip the way he does when he’s trying not to smile. “Yeah, I know. Laugh it up.”

“You dumbass twinkle toes,” José snickers, taking the seat next to the bed. “I’m glad you okay, though. You need anything? I’ll go hollerin’ for the nurses, you know me.”

“I’m okay right now,” Brock says. “I’m a lot better now that you’re here.”

Oh shit. José’s stomach should not be tingling now. Brock shouldn’t even be saying this shit. Brock is looking at him with those green eyes soft and wide like a puppy, and José knows he’ll be here all night no matter how much it pains him.

Despite how nervous Brock had been about seeing José, he finds the other man’s presence to actually be pretty calming for him. He figured part of his nerves had probably come from being stuck in a hospital bed alone, having always felt unsettled whenever he had to go to the hospital for any reason. But with José around, Brock felt a sense of ease, and deep down he knew everything would be okay.

So what if he laughed a little more than he should at José’s jokes, or felt himself blushing as José called him out for injuring himself in such a stupid way? None of that really mattered with José around, as much as Brock hated to admit it.

There was a part of him that knew this was probably not a good idea, allowing himself to fall into the comfort of just being around José. They weren’t together anymore, but it was so damn easy to fall back into their old ways whenever they were around each other.

It was easy to forget they had ever broken up.

Now that José is sitting in the chair beside Brock’s bed, Brock feels the urge to reach out and grab his hand. Brock knows he’s not hurt badly, that he’ll probably be just fine in a few days, but there’s a part of him that still craves reassurance from the man sitting beside him. To Brock, it feels a form of validation, a way to silence the worries that threaten to send him spiraling down a rabbit hole of what if’s.

He resists the urge to grab José’s hand, instead folding his hands in his lap as he reminds himself that José is no longer his.

“You don’t have to stay, you know,” Brock mumbles after they sit in silence for a while, his eyes slowly flicking over to glance at his ex. Their eyes meet for a second, and Brock swears he can feel his heart skip a beat, despite what the monitor on the other side of his bed might say. He quickly averts his gaze, feeling his stomach sink as the reminder hits him once again that he should not still feel this way about José.

They had been broken up for months, they were practically strangers at that point. And yet, José somehow still felt like the most familiar person in the world to Brock.

Brock both loved and hated the duality of their situation.

“You’re hurt. I ain’t leaving you alone, B.” José’s voice sounds soft, almost as if he’s afraid that speaking too loudly will shatter the fragile bubble they’re living within in that moment.

It’s a side of José that Brock hasn’t seen since they broke up, and seeing it now makes Brock feel vulnerable. This is the José that Brock fell head over heels for, consequences be damned. Seeing this Jose now is almost too much, a bitter reminder to Brock of all the things he’s lost by losing José. No more stolen kisses backstage, no more late night calls from halfway across the globe, no more days spent holed up together in hotel rooms on the rare occasion they’re in the same city for more than a few hours. Maybe it’s because he’s in pain, but in that moment Brock wants nothing more than to have José crawl into the hospital bed with him and curl up against his side.

He’s happy to settle for holding José’s hand though, smiling softly at the younger man as José reaches out and gently intertwines their fingers. It’s not much, but it’s enough to ease Brock’s nerves and bring a soft heat to his cheeks.

Maybe, if he’s lucky, Jose won’t leave this time.

José can leave at any time. He knows this. He does not need to be here, in this hard chair making his ass, back, and neck ache at the same time, looking at boring white walls, and half-watching the channels Brock flicks through. He doesn’t need to hold Brock’s hand as long as he does either, but once he touches that smooth skin, he just can’t let go of it.

He can leave at any time. But he doesn’t. There’s some force keeping him planted in that chair, getting Sour Patch Children ( ‘ they’re kids,’ Brock insists) from the vending machine and passing some to Brock, roasting the doctors that walk by, all to keep a smile on Brock’s face as the afternoon-pink sky deepens to a dark plum.

“What you got planned for Christmas?” José asks.

“I think I’m actually gonna have time to go home,” Brock answers. “It’ll be nice to see the snow, you know?” he adds.

“Yeah.” José nods, though he’s used to a warm Christmas in Florida as a kid and here in LA now. Cold weather always made him wish for the sun-kissed beach, but Brock loved the cold and snow. Brock had been so excited when he took José to Toronto in the fall, chatting about how it would be snowing soon, and José let the finger-numbing-even-in-gloves cold fill him with hope that he would get to see a Toronto Christmas with Brock, even though he could feel the end coming by then.

“I think I might be able to stop home for a day too,” José says. “You know I like my warm weather.” He’s excited to go home, he really is, but something in him is missing the Christmas he never got to have with Brock, the snow-covered streets he never got to see.

“Yeah, you do,” Brock says, and José wonders if his voice is so heavy because he’s weighed down with the same ache for what never was.

José has already hit it off with the nurses and is allowed to stay the night, complimenting their sneakers and making them laugh telling them about the time Brock kissed one of the cats in his sleep, thinking it was José. He tries not to let the pain sink in, not to let the gaping hole in his heart devour him, because while he has this collection of stories, memories of just the two of them, that collection will never grow. There will never be more sleepy mornings in bed and movie nights and inside jokes. He can reach for the memories like cookies in a jar, but eventually he’ll scrape the bottom of the container, and all those treasures inside will have rotted.

He forces the thought away as he nestles in a blanket the nurses bring him, as he watches Brock fall asleep, the slow, steady breathing a noise that has carried José off to sleep several times. His own personal lullaby.

He doesn’t think he’s slept the same since he lost it.

There’s a lot of things that haven’t been the same since he lost Brock.

He watches some unfunny late-night show, and doesn’t realize he’s fallen asleep himself until a gasp lurches him awake, Brock sitting up in bed panting like he’s run a marathon.

Even though it’s a little scary seeing Brock so frightened, José relaxes, because he can handle this. Calming Brock is something he’s done on countless nights when Brock couldn’t sleep, pacing the room and venting his worries in frantic breaths, when José just held his restless body tight and brought Brock back to himself. Nights when Brock had doubts about himself, questioning if he was good enough for José, doubts that turned into doubts about José, doubts that turned into doubts about them as a couple, doubts that no amount of soothing or kisses could quiet.

But José can quiet these ones, and he will.

“Hey, what’s wrong?” he asks, taking Brock’s sweaty hand

“Nothing, I just–I forgot where I was for a second,” Brock explains, slowly reigning in his breathing by himself, the way José used to help him do sometimes when the anxiety got too strong.

“Everything’s okay,” José soothes, “You’re here with me.”

You could be here with me forever, he thinks. You’d never have to be anywhere else, he doesn’t say.

“I’m here with you,” Brock echoes. “I’m really happy you’re here, J. Thank you for staying.“

Fuck. Jose’s heart skips a beat. He doesn’t know what kind of painkillers Brock is on, if he should blame it on that, or if being trapped in this room only feet apart for so many hours is bringing something out, but he doesn’t care.

Maybe this is why Brock never changed his emergency contact. Because when it comes down to it, who did you want there in an emergency?

The person you feel the safest with.

And all the dark parts of Brock he’s seen, all the insecurities and fears and times when he was being a dork instead of the Ice Queen, were because Brock felt safe with him.

And still does, no matter what they are now.

“Scooch over, toes.”

Before he can stop himself, he climbs into the bed and wedges himself between Brock and the railing.

“You’re sure?” Brock asks. An ask of hope, not doubt.

“I’m sure. But Imma regret this if you still snore like a moose.”

Brock goes off into that snorting laugh, the one José used to scheme ways to bring out, seeing Brock acting so free and wild his reward for whatever stupid things he had to do to earn it.

José turns on his side and nestles his head on Brock’s chest, into the comforting curve of his shoulder. Brock’s hand snakes around his back, lightly stroking José’s hip, fingers narrating the story that will never leave them. José knows he would go back and relive it all again if he could.

José cranes his neck up and presses his lips to Brock’s cheek, light stubble scratchy beneath him, the kiss bringing back memories he usually tries to avoid.

But tonight, he lets them play in his mind on repeat as they drift off.

When Brock wakes up in the morning, the first thing he notices is José curled up against his side, one leg carefully thrown over his un-injured leg. The other man is still sound asleep, snoring away softly. The sight warms Brock’s heart, making him wish he could reach his phone to take a picture, wanting to remember this moment, because who knows how long it would last once José wakes up.

As rays of sunlight begin to peak between the blinds, stretching across the floor and slowly illuminating the room, Brock wonders how he and José didn’t work out. The distance wasn’t ideal, especially when they were on different continents and couldn’t even get their schedules to line up for a five minute phone call, and it was rough trying to navigate a public relationship. But when José felt like home no matter where they were, why the hell couldn’t they make it work?

The noise outside Brock’s room steadily gets louder as the hospital staff rotate out, the graveyard shift heading home. He winces as he hears a nurse outside his room hollar something to a colleague down the hall, feeling José stir beside him. The younger man’s eyes slowly flutter open, one of his hands raising up to rub at them as he lets out a lazy yawn.

The sight is one Brock is all too familiar with. He’s seen it dozens of times before, and yet he doesn’t think he could ever tire of it. Soft, sleepy José was probably one of Brock’s favorite things to witness.

“Mornin’,” José mumbles quietly, his head tilting up to look at Brock. He feels an imaginary string tug at his heart, the emotional pain a welcome distraction from the aching in his knee.

“Morning,” Brock whispers back. He knows he doesn’t need to stay quiet, they aren’t risking waking anyone up, but the delicate nature of the moment - of their situation - almost feels like it requires him to whisper. As if being too loud would ruin everything, would burn whatever was left of the bridge connecting them.

A heavy silence falls between them as Brock frantically wracks his brain for a way to make José stay just a little bit longer. He knows that soon enough a nurse will come to check on him and make José move from his spot tucked into Brock’s side, and once there’s space between them again, Brock has no guarantee that José won’t just walk out of the hospital without so much as a glance back.

“I miss you,” he murmurs after a few more minutes of silence, earning himself a scrunched up look of confusion from José.

“I’m right here, what d’ya mean?” José’s voice is a little louder now, causing Brock to tense up a little. That’s a mistake though, because then José carefully untangles their legs and sits up. Fuck, he had to act quick.

“I miss being with you. I miss… I miss us,” Brock admits. There’s a moment where Brock is convinced that he’s overstepped, José not saying anything as his eyes dart to look down at the floor.

“I miss us too, B.” José lets out a soft sigh, his hands fidgeting in his lap the way they always do when he’s nervous. Brock hates being the cause of José’s nerves, hates it so much that he has to fight back the urge to place his hand on top of José’s out of fear of overstepping.  “But it didn’t work. We didn’t work.”

“We could try again though. Take it slow this time?” So what if he sounds a little too hopeful, a little too desperate? So what if less than 24 hours ago Brock was anxious as hell to see José? Things were different now. The only thing making him anxious now was the thought of losing José again, of letting him slip through his fingers a second time. “We’ll make it work.”

“Do you really think -”

“I do.” Under normal circumstances, Brock isn’t the type to crawl back to exes. But this is José, the only person who had ever felt like home to him, the person he would always safe around. Maybe that was why he never felt like he could fully move on from José.

Before either of them is able to say another word, a nurse knocks on the door twice before stepping into the room, plastering on a sickly sweet smile as she glances between the two men. She tells them that Brock is free to go and tells José he shouldn’t be in Brock’s bed, then leaves the room just as abruptly as she entered.

There’s another moment of silence before either of them speak again, only this time it’s José who breaks the silence.

“Tell you what,” he starts, finally looking over at Brock. “Christmas parade’s goin’ on downtown, why don’t we go then we can figure us out?”

Brock can’t help the smile that takes over his face, hope surging through him. “I’d like that,”  he agrees, nodding his head happily.

“Then get your ass up, I’m gonna get you some crutches or some shit so we can leave.”

The words bring a smile to Brock’s face, make him feel like he’s back on Cloud 9 for the first time in a while. The words don’t guarantee that things would be different this time around, don’t event promise that there would be a this time around , but they still leave Brock feeling oddly calm and hopeful, given the fact that he’s still in the hospital. Seeing the way that José smiles at him before stepping out of the room to track down a nurse seals the deal for him.

Now more than ever, Brock is grateful that he never removed José as his emergency contact.

[thingsaretuffallover-blog]

Preference: What They Secretly Love That You Do.

Darry:

Darry loves when you’ll play with his hair. When you two are in front of the gang it’ll just be you lightly playing with the hairs at the back of his neck but when you two are alone or simply just in front of his brothers you’ll run your fingers through his hair and just move them gently. He’ll complain at first but it’s half hearted because it really does calm him down.

It was almost midnight on a Saturday Ponyboy and Sodapop had just gone off to bed but you and Darry were still sitting on the couch, to comfy to move. Your legs were over Darry’s lap and your body was pressed against his. His eyes were closed and his head was tilted back against the back of the couch but your eyes stayed open as you watched him. You moved your arm up slowly so you could begin running your fingers absently through your boyfriends hair. You saw the faint glimmer of a smile cross Darry’s lips as you did so and you watched his worries slowly relax off of him.

Sodapop: Sodapop loves when you drag him along to see ‘girly movies’. He’ll complain about the whole way to the theater but the second you’re watching it he gets almost more into it than you do.

You were sitting at the drive-in theater with Sodapop’s arm around you as you waited for the movie to start. They were doing a special showing of ‘Breakfast at Tiffany’s’ and you had been excited all week since you convinced Sodapop to take you. Now that you were there sitting and waiting he was sulking to himself.

“This is stupid. Can’t we just go back to my house and see what’s on? Or we could go to the regular theater in town. I think there was a movie there that you would like.”

You turn and give him a look. “Stop pouting and just enjoy the movie okay?”

Sodapop just sighed and put his arm around you. The movie soon started up and Sodapop was immediately captivated. He was so into the movie that he wouldn’t even turn his head away from the screen at your many attempts to kiss him. When the movie finally came to the end you couldn’t help but laugh as Soda looked over at you.

“Don’t you dare tell the others about this.”

“Yes, m’am.” You laughed causing him to nudge you playfully before leaning in to finally give you a kiss.

Ponyboy: Ponyboy loves when you take his sweatshirt. He’ll whine that now he’ll be cold now but he really doesn’t care. He just loves being able to look over at you with his hoodie on.

You were all sitting at the drive in seats. The movie was about halfway through and you couldn’t stop shivering. Your head was resting on Ponyboy’s shoulder and you looked up at him. “I’m cold.”

“You knew we were coming here. You should brought a jacket.” He said and you continued to stare at him so he sighed and sat up so he could take off his sweatshirt and give it to you. You put it on with a grin and leaned back into his arms.

“Jeez, Y/N, now I’m freezing.” he groaned and so you leaned up to kiss his cheek before turning back to the screen. Once you were looking away he looked down at you and smiled.

Two-Bit: Two-Bit loves when you’ll get him to dance with you. Sometimes you do it seriously and try to get him to slow dance, other times you’re just messing around to whatever comes on the radio but he loves using you as his excuse to get up and dance to his favorite songs.

Two-Bit and you were sitting on the back of his car, the radio could be heard faintly through the cars open windows. The two of you had been silent, holding hands and just drinking some beer when a song you recognized came on. You smiled softly and looked up at him before standing and tugging his hand.

“Dance with me.” You said.

“Come on, baby, I don’t dance.” He replied and didn’t budge.

“Please,” You begged gently with another small tug at his arm and he relented easily and stood. You pulled Two-Bit close to you and made him sway back and forth with you. He complied until the song started coming to an end and he began lifting you off the ground spinning you, causing you to erupt in a fit of laughter. After he put you down again you persuaded him to dance for a couple more songs.

Dally: Dally loves when you take his hand to hold. He never went to take it on his own as it would look more his style to have an arm around your shoulders but he did love when you would take his hand in your own. He loved the feeling and though he would never outright admit it you always knew by the way he would squeeze your hand lightly every once in a while or kiss your knuckles when the gang wasn’t looking.

Dally and you were trailing behind the rest of the group as you all walked down the sidewalk into town. He had just lit a cigarette and once one of his hands was free you carefully thread your fingers together and he squeezed your hand gently. Once you all had arrived at where you were going you moved to pull your hand away so his friends wouldn’t tease him but as you did his hold tightened and you couldn’t help but grin to yourself as you felt his them gently moving to stroke your hand. Two-Bit went to say something but with a glare from Dally he shut his mouth quickly. He didn’t let go of your hand once for the rest of the night.

Steve: Steve loves when you take care of him after a fight or a rumble. He does love to show off his injuries like they were trophies but while he would never admit it to you there was something nice about you fussing over him and making sure he wasn’t hurt to bad.

Steve was laying on the couch at the Curtis house as you gently held a cloth to his bleeding lip. You sighed in frustration however at the fact that he kept talking. “What are you doing that for, Y/N. Let it be I want people to see how tough I am.” He grinned and you just shook your head.

“Steve, don’t be so stubborn and let me help you. I hate it enough when you go out and fight the least you can do is let me make sure you’re all right after.” You frown.

“Alright fine,” he said begrudgingly. “But only for you, babe.”

You nod and press the cloth to his lip again and his eyes close. You place your free hand on his cheek to stroke it comfortingly and you can’t help bit feel happy as you see him lean into the touch.

Johnny: Johnny loves when you get all clingy on him. Whether it’s in private and you have his arms wrapped around his neck as you lay as close as possible or whether it’s in front of the gang sitting on his lap with your head resting on his shoulder Johnny lives for these moments.

You were asleep in your room when you heard someone come through the window. You weren’t to worried as you knew it was your boyfriend Johnny. You always left it open a crack for him. Johnny carefully crawled into bed beside you and immediately your arms wrap around his neck and your legs around his waist to hold him close. As he spoke you pressed a few gentle kisses to his jawline and down his neck.

“Hey, love..” he whispered softly and you just hugged him tighter. You felt his hand run gently up and down your back and soon you felt Johnny relaxing into your embrace.