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ahlogic · 1 year

Text

a billion trillion kisses (for you)

pairing: wally darling/reader

rating: g

author's note: gender neutral reader to the best of my ability, probably some discrepancies having to do with the lore, i made wally taller lol

ao3 (it's formatted so much better on there. i hate u tumblr!)

You’d moved to Home last Spring, on one of the rainiest days the little town had ever seen.

Looking back now, it’s a fond memory. But at the time, rain pouring down from the sky, soaking your hair and your clothes and all your cardboard boxes, it’d been miserable. You remember just wanting to crawl beneath a canopy tree and cry. Your boxes of books had all fallen apart, landing on the wet pavement outside of your house. Your favorite shoes were ruined, covered up to the laces in mud. It felt like a sign. Something sent from the universe, urging you to turn around and leave. To go back to where you came from.

Only, you couldn’t remember where that was. You still can’t.

And right as you’d given up, settling on your front porch with your face buried in your hands, the clouds parted. Metaphorically, of course. The sky continued to cry. But, a set of footsteps headed towards you, sloshing in the puddles that had formed, and you’d peeked between your fingers to see–him. All lean legs, and a deep, blue cardigan with hair to match, covered up in a red raincoat. He’d been wearing loafers, then. Something you’d come to familiarize yourself with, something you’d later recognize as his signature. He walked towards you with all the confidence in the world, and a bright smile on his face.

“Hi there, new neighbor!” He called out, loud enough to be heard over the rain. “I’m Wally. I live just over that way,” he pointed over his shoulder with his thumb. “I couldn’t help but notice all of these books lying on the ground, and then I saw you and thought, ‘Oh, looks like they need help!’ So, here I am.”

His very presence had seemed so outlandish back then; so unreal. His will to lend a helping hand had felt a little bit degrading. Someone as bright as him, bursting with color and cheer, coming to stand in front of you on such a horrendous day. You’d wanted to be mad, to snap at him to go away. You remember that you hadn’t really felt like socializing, then.

But before you could get a single word out, Wally knelt to the ground, and began gathering your books in his arms. They were covered in mud, and dripping rainwater. They dirtied his cardigan as he held them to his chest, but he didn’t seem to mind. Once he had his arms full of them, he stepped around you, and walked straight into your house. Like he lived there, too. Like it would’ve been silly of him to wait for an invitation.

Shocked at his boldness, you sprung to your feet, hot on his heels. You watched with big, wide eyes as he set your books down on the floor. The carpet was covered in muck and water, and Wally even more so; the mud on his cardigan would likely stain, and his rainbow pants were patchy with water. His hair, still half-styled in a pompadour despite the heavy rain, dripped rain down his yellow cheeks. He wiped his hands off on his pants, and flashed a bright smile at you.

“Do you need some help getting the other boxes in here?” He’d asked.

You blinked at him, once. Twice. Had no idea what to make of him. And then, subtly, you nodded. “Yeah. That’d…that’d be appreciated.”

So, that’s how you met your best friend.

Only, now, that terminology is beginning to feel incorrect. Because Wally is a friend, yes, and he is best in the sense that he is your favorite in all of Home (Julie would positively lose it if you said that aloud), but it's been a year of living in this town; of seeing his bright smile, and hearing his awkward, warm laughter nearly every day. It's been easy to hold Frank, Eddie, and even Howdy at a distance–two of the three are already a pair, and you don't see them nearly as often as you do Wally. Even Julie only shows up knocking at your door a couple of times a week.

You and Wally have become near-inseparable. If you aren't taking walks, stopping to cloud gaze every so often, then you're painting together. If you aren't painting together, you're ransacking the bodega, or arranging weekend picnics in the park for all of the residents. And if you aren't doing any of those things, then the both of you are curled up on your sofa, flipping through magazines, or reading poetry together. It isn't even a conscious thought anymore; not on your end, at least. It's become so normal to wake up, go about your morning routine, and then meet up with Wally come noon.

The other residents are getting suspicious, to say the least. Julie hounds you about it each time you have a sleepover (at least twice a week), Eddie has started wiggling his eyebrows in your general direction each time he sees you together, and even Howdy in all of his obliviousness gives you a picnic basket of food randomly one weekend for, "your date with Wally. On the house!"

You're not sure if the others are teasing Wally as much as they're teasing you, or if he'd even notice, but you know it's only a matter of time before someone makes an implication that you can't come back from. You're essentially bracing yourself for the question, the one everyone has yet to ask–what are you guys?

Julie is hosting a 'color-by-numbers' event at her house this evening, and nearly everyone will be in attendance. And if they asked you the question, you wouldn't have an answer. Not a clear one, anyway. You and Wally are friends; you can say that with confidence. You're each other's confidants. Wally has told you things he's never told anyone else. How Barnaby has spent a lot of time teaching him how to recognize his emotions, and how he gets lonely, sometimes. Was almost always lonely before you moved to Home. How he is so scared to lose you and the others, the anxiety of the thought alone renders him paralyzed if he thinks about it for too long. He trusts you, and you trust him, and you love him, even more so. You don't really know what to make of that.

So, there isn't one answer to the question of what are you guys? There are a dozen, jumbled and criss-crossed and tangled, and you can't pull them apart alone. You'd need Wally's help, and that would mean confessing, and you're not willing to do that. It could ruin everything.

When late afternoon rolls around, you're ready to go. You're wearing your favorite outfit, and your hair is styled to perfection. You've even put perfume on; the kind Howdy made for you from fresh berries, and you don't know why that matters or if Wally can even smell, but–

You're getting ahead of yourself. Getting nervous. Now isn't the time for a freak-out. You take one last look in the mirror, steel your shoulders, and set off for Julie's house.

"Yay, you're here!" Julie throws open the door, tugging you inside before you even get the chance to knock. "You're the last guest to arrive. Now we can really get the party started!"

You wave at the others as you step into the living room. Sally is here, serenading Barnaby with a ballad you've never heard before while he closes his eyes, nodding along with her voice. Eddie and Frank are bickering about something, but Eddie is borderline giggling, so you know it isn't serious. Howdy is getting his paints all lined up in a row, face pinched in concentration. And Wally is sitting in front of the couch, back propped up against it. Your eyes meet his, and he smiles at you softly, stealing the breath from your throat. You stare at him for longer than is appropriate, and you know this because Julie clears her throat quietly, and pulls you to sit down on the floor next to her.

"Everyone got their color-by-number sheets, paints, and brushes?" Julie asks just as she places a sheet of paper in front of you. "Let's begin, then!"

It's fun. It always is, with this group. Barnaby is teasing Julie for painting outside of the lines, and Sally and Howdy have turned it into a competition to see who can finish their painting the fastest. You're happy, laughing along and trying not to spill paint water as you bump elbows with those around you. No one is as good an artist as Wally, but they certainly try, and he's all too happy to help Barnaby get the tiny bits with a detail brush, or help Eddie select the best shade of red. He makes polite conversation, and tells these silly little jokes that aren't really that funny but everyone laughs anyway, and even offers to clean the brushes once the paintings are finished, but–something isn't right. You can tell by looking at him that he's got something on his mind. His eyes are foggy, and his smile doesn't quite stretch his face the way it usually does.

He heads into the kitchen with a cup of dirty paintbrushes, and you quietly murmur to Julie, "I'm going to go help him. Be right back."

You don't give her time to react before you're on your feet, hurrying after him. You sidle up to him, silently watching as he runs each brush under the water, using his fingers to clear the paint away. He doesn't turn to look at you, and so you duck your head forward to try and catch his gaze. He positively avoids eye contact.

Okay. So, something is upsetting him, then.

"Wally?" You try, keeping your voice even. "Are you alright?

He's silent for a moment, hands stilling beneath the faucet. And then, "No. Not really."

He is never usually this upfront about his emotions. New to acknowledging them, he typically spends a lot of time deciphering what he's even feeling before discussing it with you. You'd just seen him yesterday. He was fine and happy and sweet as he dropped you off at your home, and waved goodbye. This–the coolness to his voice, and the stilted look on his face– is a recent development.

"You're mad at me," you say, slowly. The words don't feel right on your tongue. The two of you never fight. You've never even seen him angry. "Aren't you?"

He drops the paint brushes into the sink and sighs. Actually sighs. "No. Not mad at you."

"Mad at something I did, then?" You ask.

He turns to look at you, finally. He is nearly the same height as you, just a tiny bit shorter, but he's able to look directly into your eyes. His mouth is stiff and straight, and you hadn't noticed from far away, but his eyes look dull up close. Lifeless.

"Barnaby said something to me, earlier today," he tells you. "I've been thinking about it."

"Okay," you nod, unsure of where this is going.

"He said, 'if they haven't returned your feelings by now, it's probably because they don't feel the same way, pal,'" Wally does his best Barnaby impression, but it's too slow and a little flat. "And then you came inside, and you sat next to Julie and Howdy! So, I think it must be true. And I am very, very not happy about that. Very…sad. Yes, that's it. I'm sad."

Your heart does this weird thing in your chest, and your stomach tightens. His feelings? What exactly are they specifically? You've upset him, somehow, without even meaning to. You've made him sad without getting a say-so. If he'd just talk to you, you could explain. You could clear things up.

You reach out to take his hand. Physical affection is still new to him, and you know that. You try to be careful; try not to push him. He is learning more and more every single day, and you know that he's grown to love hand-holding. You tangle your fingers with his, and his cheeks go a little pink. You can't stop staring at them.

"Wally," you begin, trying to keep your voice level despite the butterflies in your belly fluttering around because of his touch. "Remember a few months ago, when we talked about how you have to tell me when you're feeling lonely, because I can't just know all on my own?"

He nods. "I remember."

You flash him a small, gentle smile. "Good. Okay, so–all emotions are like that. You have to tell someone what you're feeling. They can't see into your mind."

"But," he starts in a huff, foot tapping against the tiled floor, "Barnaby said-"

"I know what he said," you carefully cut in, giving his hand a little squeeze. "But, this is just like when you're lonely. I can't understand how to help, or make you feel better until you tell me about it. Okay?" He nods. "Alright, so…why don't you try and explain what feelings I supposedly haven't returned."

"It's hard," he says. He lets go of your hand, and leans back against the countertop. "It's different from sadness, or loneliness. I know what they feel like. And I know happiness, too, and even anger. But this is–I don't know what to call it."

You hum, mulling over his words. "Well, can you tell me what it feels like? Physically, I mean. Like when you're sad and your eyes burn, or when you're lonely and your chest hurts."

"It's like," he closes his eyes for a moment. "Hot. My cheeks feel warm, like when I help Poppy take her cookies out of the oven, and the air hits my face."

"Okay," you say. "Good. Keep going."

"And sometimes my stomach, just–I don't know. It feels like there are tiny worms inside, wriggling around," he says.

You think you understand what he's trying to explain. What feeling he's attempting to map. You know it all too well; have been beating it back with a stick to keep it at bay in his presence for weeks and weeks. Still, you don't want to project anything onto him. So, you wave a hand and urge him to continue.

"Sometimes, when you hug Julie, I just get so mad," he murmurs. He is looking at you now, all wide eyes and clenched fists down by his sides. "And when you and Sally go on walks, and she holds your hand, I can't-" He cuts himself off, and takes a deep breath. "Barnaby says it isn't fair to feel like that. He says it's selfish, but I just–I can't help it."

Your lungs seem to stop working within your body, air stuck in your throat. You can't open your mouth; can't unhinge your jaw. You have no way to expel it.

"When you hold my hand, it tingles," he takes a step towards you. "I made Barnaby teach me how to hug because I wanted to do it with you."

You remember that whole debacle. When you first moved to Home, about a month into your friendship, you'd tried to give Wally a hug. He had totally gone limp in your arms, unaware of how to even hug back. And then, suddenly, a couple of weeks later, he'd gotten better. Was able to slide one arm around your waist. It progressed further with more experience, and now, he is perhaps the best hug-giver in all of Home.

You blink at him. Manage to wheeze out, "You learned how to hug…for me?"

"Yes," he nods. He takes another step towards you, the toes of your shoes touching, and the look in his eyes cannot be described as anything but hopeful. He raises both hands up, up, and cups your cheeks. "I've been watching Frank and Eddie a lot. Barnaby says they have a special kind of love. That they–they're partners, and they've promised themselves to each other."

Your ears are practically on fire, your entire face so hot you know Wally must be able to feel its warmth.

His thumb swipes along the apple of your cheek. "I know that their touches are special. Different from how Barnaby and I touch, or Julie and Sally do. I want–I've been watching them, and I want to have what they have, with you."

"Sometimes, they say 'I love you' to each other, and I know they mean that in a special way, too," He smiles now, soft. Rose-petal delicate around the edges. "I want-"

"Wally," you squeeze your eyes shut so tight you see pops of color behind the lids. Your heart feels as though it is clambering for an escape, trying to make its way up your throat. "Stop, please. I can't–you don't even understand what you're saying right now. You don't know what love is. You don't know what it means."

"That's not fair," he whispers. He brings your face closer to his. "You asked me to explain, so I did. And it isn't–it's not fair for you to decide what I do or don't understand. I'm trying my best."

"I know," you say on an exhale.

"I told you how I feel," he goes on.

"I know," you echo.

"And I know what it means to want to hold someone," he murmurs. "I know, now. I didn't before."

"Before what?" You ask, despite your better judgement.

His eyes sparkle, just a little. Just enough. "Before you."

"Love is a heavy thing, Wally," you tell him. Your knees feel weak, and this is so hard to take in, so hard to conceptualize because you've never let yourself entertain the thought before. But you're trying to get the words out, for him. He deserves your honesty. "When you promise yourself to someone, it's difficult to take it back."

"I wouldn't want to take it back," he rushes out. One of his hands moves around to press against the base of your neck. "Why would I want to take it back?"

"Well," you begin, slow, "you could become unsure-"

"I won't," he interrupts, impatient and jittery.

"You could decide that you didn't mean it."

"Never," he says, almost startled. "If this feeling in my belly and my head and my chest is love, I don't–I'll do everything I can to make sure that it never goes away."

"There are lots of ways to love somebody," you argue, but it sounds weak, even to your own ears. Futile. You are fighting a losing battle, and you know it.

"Stop," he pleads, resting his forehead against yours. He closes his eyes. "Just tell me. Was Barnaby right? Do you really not feel the…the same way about me?"

You laugh at this, wet and sticky in the back of your throat. "Has Barnaby ever been right about anything?" You tease.

"Rarely," Wally says with a grin.

"I love you," you tell him. "Like, the same way that Frank and Eddie love each other. I love you like a promise."

"Like a promise," he repeats. He moves back, far enough that you can see how big his smile stretches his face, but he's still got one palm on your cheek, and the other on your neck. "Like-"

He leans forward and presses a closed-mouth kiss to your lips, pulling away with a little smack, and a triumphant, "Muah!"

Your eyes go so wide you fear they might roll out of your head, and your face is so hot it might as well be spewing flames. Wally is standing there, looking pleased with himself and the tiniest bit smug, and a laugh startles its way up your throat like bubbles. You playfully shove at his shoulder, and fall into him as you laugh harder.

"I saw Frank and Eddie do that, too," he tells you, one arm wrapping around your waist.

"Of course you did," you mumble into his neck, grin splitting your face. "That's not–it wasn't quite right, but the effort was there."

"I'll get better with practice," he says.

Scandalized, you pull away to look at him, mouth agape. "Wally Darling! Are you flirting with me right now?"

"Yes," he says, blunt. He smiles bright and pretty, and boops your nose with his finger. "I've read two of Julie's romance books. I'm a very fast learner."

You return his smile, and press a hand to your chest, right over your heart. You feel positively full to bursting, and you know that, whatever comes next, things won't be smooth sailing always. Wally has a lot of growing to do, and you're going to have to learn to support him along the way. Love is not clear-cut; isn't written in permanent ink on notebook paper. It ebbs and flows like watercolor paint, and can wash away as quickly as it came.

But–Wally looks at you, skin yellow-orange beneath the dull, overhead lights, and he grins wide and infectious and so, so pretty. He leans forward to press another kiss to your cheek, smacking a second, "muah!" into your ear, and it isn't everything. It isn't an answer, or the end-all be-all. But it is good, and right. And it is enough.

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ahlogic · 1 year

Text

go away (or don't)

pairing: wally darling/reader

rating: g

author's note: gender neutral reader to the best of my ability! i'm very new to welcome home so please be kind @:)

ao3 (it looks so much better there! go to hell, tumblr!)

Your relationship with Wally, new as it may be, is not without its challenges.

The transition from friends to something more had been a bit of a sticky subject at first, tacky to the touch. But a dozen long conversations and drawn-out explanations had really cleared a lot of things up, and by the end of your first official month as Home's newest couple, things had seemed to be tilting towards hopeful.

Now, as you stand in the middle of Wally's living room, arms folded over your chest, you're not positive that you didn't rush into things.

You aren't mad at him. He is standing just a few feet away, face carefully blank, arms limp by his sides. He is nearly impossible to be mad at. But for all your talk of boundaries, you'd forgotten to discuss something very important with him; your dedication to your friendship with Julie.

"She spends the night with you," Wally says, voice even. "A lot. I don't even get to spend the night with you."

He'd been upset to find out that your twice-weekly sleepovers with Julie hadn't stopped even after your relationship with him kicked into gear. You hadn't brought it up during any of your discussions because you didn't think it mattered. You weren't– you aren't– willing to change anything about your relationship with Julie. You won't sacrifice it. It's too important to you.

"Julie is my friend," you tell him. It's important to keep a level head. Getting upset will only make the situation worse. "I'm not going to stop spending time with her just because you and I are together."

"She lies in your bed," he says. "With you. Beside you."

Bickering with him is…not what you expected it would be. Despite him being more in touch with his emotions than ever, it still doesn't transfer well into his voice. He speaks slowly, the cadence near-robotic, and it's difficult for you to decipher how intense the emotions that he's feeling actually are right now. He doesn't look mad. He isn't smiling, and his eyes are slightly narrowed, but besides that, he is a blank slate. It's as infuriating as it is confusing.

"Wally," you sigh, uncrossing your arms. "She's just a friend, okay? I'm allowed to have friends."

He tilts his chin up defiantly, and there it is–something to latch on to.

"I don't think it's appropriate," he says. "Frank and Eddie don't sleep in other neighbors' beds."

"You do understand that we can't model our entire relationship around Frank and Eddie's, right?" You ask, quirking a brow.

"You're not listening," he huffs. His hands twitch at his sides, fingertips curling into his palms. "You're being unkind."

"No," your jaw flexes subconsciously. "You're being unreasonable."

He lifts his eyes to the ceiling. "Home? Do you think I'm being unreasonable?"

There's a subtle creak, and a consecutive bang, bang.

"Well, there you have it," his mouth curls up into a smile, but it is smug and a little bit cruel.

"Wha–You can't ask Home!" You exclaim, throwing your hands up. "That isn't fair! This is between you and I."

He mimics your earlier stance by crossing his arms over his chest. It's a little off; a little clunky, but he gets the gist of it. He looks closed off, and hurt, and maybe angry. You can't read his eyes well enough. It's a learning process, and he is the kind of book that people spend hundreds of years decoding.

"I think you've overstayed your welcome," He nods towards the front door, and it swings open. "Goodbye, neighbor."

You don't move. He's kicking you out? Your legs feel like they've been cased in cement, and your tongue is heavy in your mouth. No. The argument cannot end like this. There has to be a resolution, or the two of you will never come back from this. Your relationship is too new to handle something so detrimental.

"Wally," you try. His name sounds soft and sweet in your voice because, for all the bickering and the mean words, you cannot be mad at him. You just can't.

"Please leave," he says. He shifts on his feet. "I think I'm…mad. And I really, really don't want to be mad at you, but I don't know how not to be. So, you should go."

You appreciate the fact that he is attempting to explain his feelings. That he's digging deep, and being honest with you. You know that it hasn't been easy for him, learning about conceptualizing emotions, and letting himself take the time to decode them. He has struggled. You've helped him through almost-panic attacks too many times to count. He gets overwhelmed sometimes, and you know that, even for you, relationships aren't simple. Standing up to you, it must be difficult.

"Relationships are hard, sometimes," you say, taking a step towards him. "It's normal to be angry with your partner when you both disagree on something very important. And…I know that trying to talk about it can be frustrating."

He relaxes just slightly at your words; you see it in the way his shoulders droop. He still has his arms crossed over his chest, but he is looking at you now, and his eyes go round at the edges. They lose their sharpness.

"Frank and Eddie disagree on things, too," you continue. "Being partners with someone means compromising."

"Compromising," Wally repeats. "But you won't–you're not compromising with me."

"Let's sit down and talk about it some more," you suggest, offering him a warm smile. "We should never intentionally hurt each other, alright? If my sleepovers with Julie have hurt your feelings, I want to make that right."

You take a seat on his sofa, patting the spot next to you. He hesitates for a moment, and then sits down, too. His ankles cross, and he folds his hands in his lap.

"You don't like it when I have sleepovers with Julie because she lies in my bed with me?" You ask. You're careful with your words, with your tone. You don't want to upset him further, or have him close himself off.

He nods. "I've read Julie's romance books, and when two people love each other, they always share a bed."

Ah, yes. Since the realization of his feelings for you, Wally has been in love with the idea of love. He reads Julie's silly, cliché stories, and asks Frank and Eddie questions that are perhaps a bit too personal. He is smart and curious, and he's always wanting to learn. This–all things romance– has just been his newest fixation. You're not sure that Julie's books or Frank and Eddie's ever-changing dynamic are the best references for him, though. He is not like the love interest in a romance novel. He shouldn't try to compare himself to anyone else.

"Sharing a bed isn't always romantic," you explain. "There are a lot of different kinds of love. But," you reach out to place a hand on his knee, soothing, and he lets you. Does not move away, so you take that as a good sign. "If me sharing a bed with someone else makes you uncomfortable, I'm willing to compromise. How about when Julie comes over, she lies in my bed, and I sleep on the couch?"

He takes a moment to think about this. You see the cogs turning in his head, the way his mouth straightens out, and then pulls down at the corners.

"Okay," he says. "I think that would be…okay. I would feel happier with that."

"And," you tell him, "you can't keep basing your idea of love around what you read in books, okay? All relationships are different. You have to learn to navigate it through experience."

"I just," he looks down, eyes closing for a second. "I have questions, sometimes. I don't know where to find answers."

Your hand slides up to cup his cheek, and his skin goes a little pink beneath your touch.

"Next time you have a question, just ask me about it, alright?" You say. Your thumb smooths along his skin, and you brush a bit of blue hair behind his ear. "We'll work on it together."

"I like how that sounds," he smiles, eyes twinkling beneath high noon's light beaming in through the windows. "Together."

Pleased now, he scoots closer to you on the couch. His mouth curves up, and he gets this mischievous look on his face that you've come to associate with his silly little antics. He dives forward and kisses the round apple of your cheek, darting away with a sweet, "muah!"

"So you're not mad at me anymore, then?" You ask, tips of your ears warm.

He shakes his head. "Not mad. Sorry I tried to make you leave earlier."

You take his face between your hands, and squish his cheeks until his mouth puckers up. He looks goofy and open and so, so happy. Before you can talk yourself out of it, you press forward and kiss him on the mouth, once, then twice. The pink on his face goes deeper, and his ears turn red, too.

"I'm sorry for not taking your feelings seriously at first," you say. "I accept your apology. Do you accept mine?"

"I don't know," he shrugs. "Maybe a few more kisses will sway me."

You laugh, falling against his chest, and he wraps both arms around your shoulders. He is soft, and smells like cedar and sunlight. You breathe him in, and tilt your head back to leave a little kiss to his jawline.

"You drive a hard bargain, Darling. I suppose I've got no choice but to bend to your will."

You tackle him onto the couch until he's lying on his back, head propped up on the arm rest. You pin his wrists by his sides and leave chaste kisses all over his face, each one signed with a tiny smack, and a "muah!" He laughs, and it is still drawn out and slow and stale, but it is so very him, and that's all you have ever wanted.

He buries his devastatingly cute, "ha, ha, ha's" into your shoulder, and you kiss him and kiss him until the both of you are breathless, and the sun begins to set.

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