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soup-sponge · 7 months

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love you do not understand the power your writing has over me it's SO GOOD

The line “I promised myself I wouldn’t ruin a good thing, that’s why I need you to do it.” with Lockwood

But it has to have a happy ending because I’m weak emotionally.

happiness

anthony lockwood x gn reader 3.3k

notes: little writing warmup bc i always forget how to write. based off the tswift song so basically angst beware. comfort will come when i figure out how to resolve it lol sorry birdy

The inside of the basket looks nice — a picture perfect picnic blanket covering up the nice lunch you’ve prepared for you and Lockwood. It’s filled to the brim with various snacks, but there are a few you think you like a little bit more than the rest. And not for the flavor, but for their significance.

On the bottom of the basket sits the same sandwiches you had eaten on your first date. They’re cut diagonally, the way he insists on eating them. And somewhere next to the crisps is a glass container filled with orange slices. It’s the fruit the two of you love splitting, hands sticky with the juices as he placed the peels in front of his teeth and gave you orange wedge smiles.

You smile at the memory as you look out the window. It’s you and Lockwood’s first anniversary, and you’re practically buzzing with giddiness about it. It’s been one entire year of your official relationship, and even longer since you’d fallen in love with him.

You took a little longer to get ready today, but you know he won’t mind. He also hasn’t arrived yet, which is a little surprising, since Lockwood is always so punctual about your plans. You had discussed today’s plans at length as he walked you home two nights ago, deciding to eat lunch at the park the two of you had grown to love going to. It’s going to be sunny all day, today, a fact you decided to take advantage of. You lock your door behind you and sit down on your steps, deciding to triple check the contents of the basket just in case.

When you’re done, you take a quick glance at Lockwood’s house, just down the street. The door doesn’t swing open, and a glance at your watch tells you he should've been here thirty minutes ago.

A frown overtakes your face. There’s only a single light on at 35 Portland Row, a fact becoming more and more obvious as you feel the basket grow cold in your lap.

It wouldn’t hurt to knock, you decide, as you start down the street.

“You’re more than welcome to come over whenever you feel like it,” he mumbled one night, placing a copy of his house key in your hands. “I miss you more often than not.”

The doorway seems darker than normal despite the beautiful weather. Or maybe it just seems that way because you’re nervous.

You finally decide to use your key after a minute of knocking with no response.

Lockwood’s rapier is sitting nice and shiny in the pot by the front door, so you know he’s not out on a job. Lucy’s boots and George’s work sneakers are sitting under the bench in the front hallway, so it’s likely that everyone’s home.

Or they’re out without you, a traitorous voice mumbles in the back of your head. You ignore it in lieu of investigating the rest of the house.

The front room is the one with the light on, but it’s empty. You hesitate on the threshold of each room awkwardly. You feel bad about waltzing into their house uninvited, as much as Lockwood insists otherwise, so you call out his name into the darkness.

“Anthony?” you say, moving into the library. There’s nothing around to respond to you here, just the same books that have lined the shelves for years.

You discover that no one’s in the kitchen either, and you take a nervous glance up the steps.

35 Portland Row feels abandoned, like all of the essence of what made it a second home has been sucked out of the room.

“What are you doing here?”

You jolt, the basket falling to the floor and onto its side. Lockwood is standing in the entrance of the kitchen door, looking at you as if he’s just seen a ghost.

“Anthony,” you say, breathless. He must’ve been in the basement.

Your heart is racing from the little scare, but begins to return to normal at the sight of him. The food you had packed spills lamely onto the carpet. “Sorry, I let myself in. I got worried, you uh— didn’t show.”

He’s staring blankly at you, his shoulders rigid and entire body tense.

“You okay?” you ask, reaching a hand out for him.

Something clicks in his mind, and you see it. He rushes forward and wraps you in a hug.

It’s with enough force to almost knock the wind out of you, and both of you teeter dangerously backwards before balancing out again. Frozen in shock, your hands hang at your sides for a second, unsure of what’s happening. His abnormal silence and obvious fear are setting off sirens in your head.

You wrap him in your arms when you feel him take a mangled breath. He doesn’t say anything, and neither do you. Your hands come away from his coat stained with ash.

Ah. Work.

“I love you,” he manages to say. “So much.”

You don’t push. His skin warms where you press a kiss to his cheek. “I love you too.”

A sandwich flattened by his sneakers sits on the carpet beneath your feet.

ii.

It takes you two weeks to realize Lockwood’s pulling away.

You know the case the night before your first anniversary was worse than usual, and had seen the effects it had taken on him. Your worry for him quickly overshadowed just about every other aspect in your life, and you found yourself worrying about him at school, at work, in bed when you woke up, and right before you went to sleep.

He was kind of out of it for a few days after, spacing out during conversations and stuck inside his head. A few times, you caught him just staring at you, and not in the usual way. He was in a constant state of turmoil, some sort of inner conflict going on inside his head. For weeks after, he tended to keep to himself, isolating himself to another side of the couch where he didn’t feel crowded and where you couldn’t reach him.

Your attempts to get him to open up failed each time. He’d shake his head and insist it was an agency thing he couldn’t talk to you about, no matter how much you begged and pleaded. George and Lucy were no use either, loyal to Lockwood and his discretion.

You had to settle for keeping him company and squeezing his hand in comfort whenever you saw him staring off into space. He claimed you were doing more than enough, but it sure didn’t feel like it.

It took you almost two weeks to realize Lockwood was pulling away, but it takes you almost a month to realize Lockwood’s avoiding you.

Lucy calls you on the phone, inviting you over to celebrate their first case after the incident at the start of the month. A small win in the history of the company, but a big win in the context of recent events. She tells you that Lockwood’s still in the same slump, and could really benefit from seeing you. You agree embarrassingly quickly, clearing your schedule at the first chance to see him again. School has sucked up all of your free time, making it virtually impossible for either of you to see each other. It’s been a few days since your last conversation, and you’ve been missing him an embarrassing amount.

You arrive at Portland Row with Lockwood’s favorite brand of crisps in your hand. You buy a new one every week for him to finish at your house, but it’s been so long since you’ve seen him so you have two more unopened bags sitting in your pantry. You miss Lockwood more than anything.

Lucy opens the door for you with a grin, pointing in the direction of the front room.

Lockwood is talking to George, and — it sounds terrible when you put it this way — but you’re surprised to see the massive grin on his face. The two of them are joking about something silly, probably, and you nearly melt on the spot when his entire body shakes with pure happiness. It’s been a long time since you’ve seen Lockwood’s laugh.

You feel bad about interrupting George, but find you can’t stop yourself from gravitating to Lockwood’s side.

“Hey, stranger,” you greet, tapping his shoulder with the bag of crisps.

He goes rigid at the sound of your voice.

“Hey,” George says in his stead. He’s smiling at you with his hands in his pockets. “We missed you. It’s been forever since you’ve been over, hasn’t it?”

You gather enough of your mind to be able to respond normally. “Yeah, it has!” Lockwood’s unresponsiveness has you shifting nervously. The ease in which he spoke with George is gone, suddenly, and all at the sight of you. “I’ve— I’ve missed you guys too. How was the case?”

You turn to George quickly, finally unable to stomach the look Lockwood’s giving you. The grinning boy lifts your chips out of your hands.

“It went great!” he responds as he pops the bag open. He hits Lockwoood’s back goodnaturedly. “This one saved me from nearly falling through a hole in the floor. Isn’t that right?”

Lockwood snaps out of whatever is holding his mind hostage. He smiles cordially at you like you’re a stranger and not his best friend — his lover. “Hi.”

The greeting is so out of place you want to cringe. Lucy joins the three of you, cutting right through the awkward silence. “Can we eat now?”

George huffs, rolling your bag of chips up. “You yelled at me for asking that same question ten minutes ago.”

The two of them head into the kitchen, bickering about this and that. You aren’t listening, the sound of blood rushing too loud in your ears. Lockwood turns on his heel quickly, ready to hurry after them.

You don’t bother reaching out for him, too scared of how he might react. Your arms stay firmly planted at your sides no matter how much you want to pull him to you and never let go.

You never thought you’d see the day where Lockwood pushing you off of him was a possibility in your mind.

It’s Anthony, you remind yourself. You almost want to scold yourself at your silly ideas. Your Anthony.

“Are you alright?” you say, loud enough for him but not your friends to hear you.

His retreat to the kitchen stops abruptly, and the two of you listen as the door shuts behind George.

Lockwood turns to you and nods. He looks pained as he does so. “I’m doing alright. How are you?”

Just last month he had called you on the phone for the sole reason to ask you what you thought about Arif’s new doughnut recipe. Just last month he hadn’t felt the need to resort to small talk to speak with you.

You ignore his question. “Something’s bothering you.”

“I’m fine,” he insists with a smile. “Is everything alright with you?”

“With me?” you parrot. He’s deflecting, deflecting, deflecting. “I’m fine. You’ve been off since that case. What really happened, Lockwood?”

He frowns, crossing his arms tightly in front of him. He’s frustrated when he says, “I already told you I can’t tell you.”

“Says who? Barnes?” you say, trying for a joking tone. “It’s just us, and if something is bothering you this much I think you need to talk to someone about it.” You take a tentative step closer, sick of the distance. “I’m here for you, always.”

Lockwood shakes his head, sighing deeply. “You wouldn’t get it.”

“What, because I wasn’t there?” You move closer, but freeze when he takes a frustrated step backward. “Anthony—”

He groans loudly, and for a moment you think you might be sick. He runs a hand harshly through his hair as if he’ll rip it out. “No, it’s because you’re not a Sensitive.”

You take in a sharp breath. The words are spoken with such vitriol you wonder if this is even your Anthony standing in front of you and not some sick replacement.

“Are you seriously throwing that in my face right now?” The words are barely said aloud. You’re so quiet you wonder if he can hear you.

The late night talks flash through your head. You had told Lockwood about how your lack of psychic sensitivity had made you feel inferior to him and his friends — how it made you feel like you didn’t belong. He had told you that you didn’t need to be able to sense the supernatural to deserve a place next to them — you already had one.

The space between your ribs feels like it’s sunken in. You don’t have the energy to be angry with him, you never have, even when he’s dredging up old insecurities. “You told me that didn’t matter to you.”

“And it didn’t,” he says, sighing again. “But you just won’t get it, you can’t.”

Didn’t.

Your emotions tighten their hold around your throat, and you wonder if it’s possible to choke on them.

You don’t want to argue with him. You want him to wrap you in a hug and apologize for his words that burn like acid on your skin and all the way down to your bones.

I don’t want this. I’m sorry. Come home. What did I do?

No response you can think of sounds right.

“Fine,” you try to seethe, but it doesn’t work. The words fall limply from your tongue. “Tell Lucy and George I had to leave because I’m sick.”

He furrows his brows at you, like you leaving is something out of the blue. “Where are you going?”

The confusion on his face ignites an anger in you that you never knew could be directed at him. “I’m going home.”

He sighs again.

“Dove, don’t leave,” he says, the frustration once lacing his words now gone.

You dig your hands into your jacket pocket, fumbling for the envelope you know is sitting there. The thing has been collecting dust for what feels like a month now, and you want nothing more than to get rid of it.

“I may be stupid,” you say, your words watery. “But I’m not stupid enough to stay where I’m not wanted.”

You move forward, pressing the envelope harshly into his chest. This is the closest you’ve been to him in two weeks. “I hope you enjoy your anniversary gift.”

You make sure to slam the door shut behind you.

iii.

You realize it at eleven in the evening, a week later.

You know, because you’ve been watching the clock, waiting for the familiar sight of a taxi to pull in down the street. When it finally does, three silhouettes filter out of the car. The three of them are lit up under the light in front of their house, and when Lockwood turns to the both of them, you see he’s grinning.

You know it for sure then. You won’t torture yourself any longer.

Lockwood hasn’t spoken to you in a week. He hasn’t tried contacting you since the night you fought, and you’ve spent every minute of the week wondering why.

Did he not think your relationship was worthy enough to fight for? Did he not care about you as much as you cared about him? Did he not love you?

You know you look like a mess. The week of emotional torture had not been kind to you.

But for the first time this week, you decide to be kind to yourself.

—

You almost don’t expect him to open the door.

The light from the hallway spills out the darkness outside, casting you in a harsh light. When he realizes it’s you, his face morphs into shock, then confusion.

“What are you doing out after curfew?” Lockwood asks, tugging you inside. He makes sure to grip the fabric of your coat as he does.

You don’t respond, even after he shuts the door and waits for your answer. You’re busy looking around at your second home, a place you don’t think you’ll be seeing again.

“Hey, are you alright?” he asks.

You could laugh, so you do.

A sad smile is all you can give him. “What are we doing, Anthony?”

He’s frowning, his nervous energy showing in the way his hand is twitching slightly at his side. “What do you mean?”

You shrug, gesturing to the glaringly obvious gap between you. Physically, you can reach out to touch him, but it feels like you’re standing on opposite sides of the Mariana Trench. “Why are we doing this to each other?”

He cracks his knuckles to stop his nervous twitching, and you can tell that he knows.

You’re breaking up.

“Doing what, dove?” he asks.

His play at ignorance hurts. The nickname hurts even more.

“Pretending like nothing’s wrong!” you cry, frustrated. “We haven’t had a real conversation in weeks, and the last time I saw you, we—” your voice wavers embarrassingly. Your face feels hot. “We fought so terribly, and we haven’t even spoken about it. Do you even want to fix it?”

“I know, and I’m sorry,” he says quietly. “I just don’t know.”

“Don’t know what?” There are footsteps from upstairs, probably George getting ready for bed. You hope he doesn’t come down to check on you two.

“I poured my heart out into that letter.” You wonder if he even read it. “And I thought you felt the same. God, Lockwood… You told me you loved me.” The knot in your stomach tightens unbearably. “Why would you lie to me about something like that?”

His eyes widen in alarm. “No, no. I would never have lied to you about that—”

“Everything’s all wrong, Anthony,” you say, louder than intended. “I miss you, and I miss us, and I just miss all of it. I don’t know how to fix it, and just—” You cut yourself off with a choked inhale. “Please.”

You don’t know what you’re begging for, but you know that you miss him. His absence feels like you’re missing a part of you.

Lockwood stares at you intently, the same look he’s been giving you for the past month.

“Break up with me.”

The room goes quiet. So silent you can hear his shoes leave the floor as he takes a step closer to you.

“Is that really what you want?” you think you say. It feels like your body is a machine, just spitting out automated answers to his responses.

But even the most rigorous of programming could never change the way you feel. You only want him to be happy. That’s all you could ever want.

“I promised myself I wouldn’t ruin a good thing, so I can’t do it, I won’t,” Lockwood says. “Break up with me, please.”

Lockwood loves you, you know it. But he isn’t in love with you anymore.

Had he ever been?

The pain burns like a fire in your chest. You’ve been hanging onto this relationship when he had gotten over it a month ago.

“I think you already ruined it,” you manage, wringing your hands together. The tears had started a bit ago, you realize. “You wrecked everything a long time ago.”

“Dove,” he says softly, reaching out for your hands. You don’t know what he wants to say, don’t understand if he’s trying to fix it or stop you from crying or stop himself from feeling bad.

You stagger away from him, a sick reversal of roles.

“I don’t want to hear from you,” you say. The words are foreign on your tongue.

You’re lying to him.

“And don’t show up at my house, because I’m not going to answer the door.”

Swallowing a sob, you grasp his wrist and turn his palm to the ceiling. You don’t remember the last time you felt his skin under your hands.

The piece of metal drops onto his hand, and you don’t turn back to look at him as you stumble out the front door.

You leave him with your copy of the house key. You hope the coolness of the metal haunts him forever.

notes: btw i swear hes not evil like dont worry hes not just acting crazy for fun! lmk if u enjoyed :)

lockwood tags: @pansexualwitchwhoneedstherapy @a-candle-maker @2guysonascooter @amo-a-los-postres @cassiopeiia24 @t2sh0 (just ask to be removed/added !)

#i felt this in my SOUL #in shambles

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