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idkthisisjustforfanfic · 4 years

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two years too late, chapter f i v e (wc: ~10k)

The basement was covered in champagne--which Jessie wasn’t pleased about when you followed her down the stairs with Harry in tow.

“Are you fucking kidding me? Adam!” Jessie surveyed the room, just as drunk as the rest of them, but clearly more annoyed. It was dripping down the walls, seeping into the carpet and the cushions of the sofa--you felt bad for whoever planned on crashing there.

“It was him!” Adam pointed at Jake, who had a foamy lather on his face and a smirk on his lips.

“Was not!”

“It was Jake,” Bryn said, her finger pointing to him quickly--Harry giggled behind you as he took in the scene.

You didn’t quite have all the patience in the world for the shenanigans right now, seeing as you’d just heard some of the most earth shattering news ever spoken. You hadn’t imagined it, right? That was your first thought.

A dream, for sure. One you’d wake up from and wonder what on earth had gotten into you, thinking something like that was realistic. You’d head to work and keep it all a secret, grabbing coffee in the afternoon with Whitney or Carly.

But as you blinked, suddenly feeling more drunk than before and more annoyed by Jake and Adam than ever, you realized it was real and you were here and he’d just said those words.

“Alright, well one of you go get a towel for Christ’s sake,” Jessie turned to look at Harry, he bounded up the stairs in a matter of seconds, letting you breathe easier as soon as he was out of the room.

“Uhm, we have a crisis,” you said quietly, your voice almost stuck in your throat as you watched Jessie head for the bottle of champagne that had been dropped on the ground--its contents spilled out in front of it like a wounded soldier.

“M’aware, Y/N, can you fucking help?”

“No, I mean,” you started to speak but Adam cut you off.

“Relax Jessie it’ll dry.” He tried to swat her hands away from it, she gave him a quick shove. He toppled over, gaining a laugh from Jake who still had champagne on his cheeks.

“I didn’t try to shake it so hard but then the cork popped off,” Jake bit out through laughter, but Jessie wasn’t listening. She fluttered around the room, ripping the cushions from their homes and placing them on the floor, as if that was going to do something. Harry reappeared with two towels at the foot of the stairs, Bryn took one from him quickly to work on the cushions, tiny helpless creatures and she was their doctor.

Adam hoisted himself up from the carpet. “This couch is older than we are--I doubt your parents will even care.”

It felt like you were all suddenly 15--rushing to dispose of the evidence before someone came home to find you wasted and passed out on the floor after a good old game of truth or dare. Harry stood beside you, looking down after a few seconds passed.

“You okay?”

“Yeah--just, kind of drunk I guess.”

It wasn’t necessarily false. The rush and the excitement made the alcohol content in your blood nearly double, it felt. You looked back up at him, but he pulled his gaze away before your eyes could meet.

Did you pull him aside? Bring it up and confess and discuss and hope to god that this time would be better than the last?

“Okay,” Adam picked up the bottle on the ground and threw it in the bin, stepping over the spill before he looked at the two of you.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” you both spoke, your voice higher than Harry’s.

Adam pulled his head back, alarmed by your new ability to speak in unison. “Well, I need food. So are we eating what your parents have, Jess, or are we going out somewhere?”

Bryn let out a groan at that. “I am not trudging through the cold right now--and no where’s open anyway.”

“We can just get take out,” Jessie offered. “I’m not letting you lot ruin my parents house and eat their food.”

You rifled through a drawer in Jessie’s parents’ kitchen while she finished cleaning up, ranking best Chinese food to worst kebab in town with Jake over your shoulder. “Let’s just do Fortune City,” he said, reaching for the red and green pamphlet.

He opened it up and used his finger to trace down the menu, Harry walked into the room and offered a smile. “Oh let’s get that spicy dish we got that time,” he stared over Jake’s shoulder, eyes scanning the page.

Jake scoffed, “right, that one.”

“You know, when we went last--” he cut himself off, eyes flashing to you before Jessie walked into the kitchen, a grimace on her face from the cleaning she’d done.

“Hung out?” You finished his sentence for him, Jessie stopped in her tracks when you continued. “When you all hung out without me? And lied about it?”

Harry’s eyes seemed to drift around the room, silently hoping someone else would step in to save him. “You--you know?”

“She blabbed the other night after a few drinks,” you pointed a thumb to Jessie, wisps of blonde hair matted to her face from sweat. “It’s fine. Whatever.”

You weren’t that mad. You’d had enough time to process their lying and shitty behavior and while you didn’t like it, you understood. Which didn’t mean that you wouldn’t hold it over their heads for the rest of your lives. Harry was too freaked out, though, to realize that you weren’t all that upset.

“We just had dinner, was no big deal, really.”

“I don’t care,” you said, your voice monotonous as you pushed the feelings down. Maybe there’d be a time when you’d tell him it hurt, but it certainly wasn’t right now, in the kitchen at Jessie’s in front of everyone.

“Why didn’t you tell me that you knew?”

“She said she doesn’t care!” Jessie snapped at him, whacking him on the shoulder as she took the menu from his hands. “Can we just order and not spend more time rehashing that stupid night?”

Everyone’s eyes landed on yours, except Jessie’s. She was too busy perusing the options to realize that she’d spoken her harsh words in front of both of you--something that hadn’t ever happened.

Sure--there’d been plenty of conversations between you and Jessie and Bryn and Adam and Jake. Plenty between all five of you. Just like--you assumed--there had been at least some between the five of them. But you hadn’t quite gotten to the place yet of talking about it with both you and Harry present in the room.

Bryn, with a heart of gold and a knack for sensing when you were about to lose your shit, spoke up quickly. “I’m calling now so tell me what you want or you’re not getting fed.”

“Lo Mein!” Adam shouted quickly, rushing over to stand next to Bryn as the phone rang, thankful for a break in the tension.

Harry, whose eyes were still on you, didn’t even smile when you met his gaze.

You felt Bryn’s foot kick you in the head--the best alarm money could buy. The sounds of breathing filled the room as you opened your eyes, the sun seeped through the curtains someone had tried to pull shut to preserve slumber.

Everyone was scattered about on the floor--legs tangled with arms and blankets strewn about. Empty food containers sat on the coffee table as you extracted yourself from Bryn’s feet.

“Hi,” a whisper from across the room. Of course, Harry peered back. You were surprised he stayed the night, wasn’t he used to sleeping on california kings, not shabby carpet?

“Hi,” you cleared your throat and squinted, the morning light still harsh for tired eyes. Adam stirred on the couch and let out a heavy sigh, fast asleep as you took three steps out of the slumber party circle.

“Don’t even remember drifting off,” he said, his voice still husky and deep from sleep.

You nodded. It had been a blur: the food came, grabbing chopsticks and fighting over forks. Seated in a circle in the living room upstairs, the television muted in the background as various other cities rang in the New Year. Adam threw a noodle at you that lodged itself on your forehead, prompting a slew of photos.

“You want to go--go get some food or something?”

Your eyes fell to the rest of your friends, scattered on the floor as if they’d fallen one by one in a battle. “Should we just leave them?”

A quiet laugh, his eyes scanned the room but then met yours again. “I think they’ll live.”

So you both stood and used the bathroom, pulling on shoes and coats before stepping into the morning air, crisp and clean. Clouds danced from your lips even inside his car that had been parked in the driveway overnight, he rubbed his hands together in front of the vent when the warm air blew.

“Happy New Year,” he said, peering at you sideways as the car moved in reverse down Jessie’s long drive.

“Happy New Year,” you said. “Listen, about what you said last night--”

“No, Smalls, you don’t have to--”

“I just didn’t know--”

“It’s probably best we leave everything from years past in years past, right?”

“Huh?” You turned to look at him now, the side of his face was red from the cold air. Trees passed by the window as you drove, the tiny town coming into view when he pulled up to an intersection.

His words sounded different than the ones you were used to speaking. Forget it, you’d said. Forget the words and the feelings and the nervous laughter that spilled from your lips and the tears from your eyes. Forgetting was different than leaving things completely in the past.

“I just feel like I’ve been bringing it up a lot and you clearly--you don’t want to live in the past. Annie’s?”

“Sure,” you nodded--consenting to the local breakfast joint with an amazing fry up, mouth still parted as if words would crawl out any second. But they didn’t, they stayed in your chest, wrapped around your lungs like ivy on an old house.

So it was his words that stayed--floating in the air between you as you tried to break free from their hold. Left blinker, down London Road, you wondered how many other people were up this early on a holiday.

“So, s’2018. Let’s start fresh.”

You could have said it. You could have told him all the things you’d rehearsed in your head over the years. You could have confessed and admitted it all and hoped for the best. But instead, you hopped out of the car and followed him inside Annie’s--the warmth and the smells swirling around you when the overhead bell chimed to alert others of your entrance.

You ate in relative peace, only interrupted once for a photo and twice by the waitress who remembered Harry from before the band. He drove you home and promised to see you in a day or so--after all, he’d booked you both on the same flight back to New York.

But a lot stood between you and New York. In fact, the city that never sleeps felt a lot more out of reach, like there was more than an ocean between you. Maybe it was Harry’s words, his presence, even. Maybe the fact that he was back made you feel like New York wasn’t just your city. What had once been the hiding place for a broken heart was suddenly shared territory.

But for now, it was just the green door to your house standing between you and warmth. When you keyed in, wiping your feet on the same bristled doormat your family’d had since 2009, you were met by your parents in the living room--they sat in robes in front of the telly, cups of tea in their hands.

“Morning, lovie,” your mum looked up from the telly, her readers slipping down her nose as she smiled up at you. “How was your night?”

“How hungover are you?” Your dad laughed as you shut the door, earning an eye roll from your mother. At least you didn’t have to hide it--gone were the days of sneaking home from Jessie’s before they were up and pretending like all you’d done the night before was play a game of telephone and drank chocolate milk.

“M’not, really. Tired, but, it was good.”

“Who brought you home?” She stood from the couch to walk towards you, a voice spoke from the telly as your dad stared down at the paper on his lap.

You shrugged out of your jacket after she hugged you. “Harry.”

“Hm.”

“Hm what?”

She shook her head, immediately feigning innocence as she made a beeline for the kitchen.

“Mum,” you whined, following behind her as your dad pushed himself off of the couch with a grunt.

“Just seems like he’s being awfully sweet to you, is all. The plane tickets, rides home. Nice that he’s spending so much time with you all--and, with you, obviously.”

Your parents knew all about it. Not that night, necessarily. They knew vaguely that something embarrassing happened. S’fine, lovie, your mum had said. Let’s have some tea and you’ll forget all about it. You wished.

She knew that you’d had feelings for him, the kind that were hard to get rid of when his face was on magazines and when his songs haunted the radio. They both knew that you were mad that he’d left and bitter about the fact that keeping in touch apparently wasn’t on his list of things to do as a famous celebrity.

But they didn’t know the full story--few people did. It was too much to tell your parents and too much to repeat for the fourth time in the quick 24 hours after it had happened, each word pulling more out of you. First you’d told Jessie, Jake, and Adam. The back booth at Annie’s, only three away from where you sat this morning. Coffee cup in hand. Then Bryn in her bedroom that afternoon. Then your sister, Katie.

Your mum filled the kettle and put it on, turning to face you as your dad found a seat at the island. “He told me he always thought we’d be good together.”

Both of their faces went still, hesitation mixed with excitement, peppered with confusion. The stairs creaked around the corner, your sister seemed less than thrilled by the noise that floated up from the kitchen, obviously waking her up.

“Welcome home, loud mouth,” she greeted, earning a flick from your mother as she passed by.

“Katherine,” she chastised with laugh. “Be nice.”

“Wait--so what else did he say?” Your father was still a few steps back, leaning against the door frame from the living room, the newspaper now rolled up beneath his arm. “Did you, you know, talk about anything?”

Katie peeled a banana and pulled up a stool. “What did I miss?”

“Harry likes your sister!” your mum nearly squealed with excitement, her hands clasping together in front of her heart.

“What?” Katie asked, her jaw nearly dropped, banana in hand. “He said that?”

“No,” you corrected, waving a hand at your mother to dismiss her, embarrassed by her excitement and her misinformation. “He said he thought we’d be good together. Big difference.”

There was a difference. His words technically didn’t mean that he currently had feelings or maybe even ever did. Maybe he meant that he thought you two could tolerate each other--the way you had to if you were going to marry someone and spend 50 years with them.

“And you didn’t tell him you’ve been in love with him since you were, like, 12?” Katie stared at you like you had three heads.

“No,” you said. “I didn’t.”

“Why not?” Your dad took a few steps closer.

“Okay I don’t need everyone up my arse about it, okay?”

“Language,” your mother warned.

You let out a dramatic groan. It was barely half past eight and you hadn’t had a minute to yourself. First it was Harry and breakfast and now them. You didn’t have time to even process what he’d said or what it meant and your attempt for clarification in the car only left you more confused. And on top of that, you were 23. You could say arse if you wanted. You also didn’t owe it to any of them to explain where things stood between you and Harry.

“I don’t know what I’m going to say to him or what any of it means but I’ll keep you all updated. Good?”

“Relax, Y/N,” your mother turned to the kettle when it whistled. “He’s been your friend forever--you’ll figure it all out.”

The first thing you did after you climbed the fourteen steps to your childhood bedroom that morning was call Alyssa. You knew she’d have your head if you didn’t keep her up to date, so while you spoke with feigned annoyance and distaste at his words, you were doing your best to keep the butterflies locked inside your ribcage.

Alyssa swore that this was good. He’d never say that if he seriously thought you were annoying or obnoxious or whatever. Her smile was big but her excitement was bigger, she made you promise to tell him she said hi and she counted the days until you’d be home before she let you hang up. Three.

You used the afternoon to recover from the night: Netflix on the couch with your sister, a homemade meal of your mum’s. Dad’s famous Yorkshire pudding and even a game of scrabble before bed.

Katie--a third year at the University of Manchester--saw your parents more than you did. Drives home were easy and regular, seeing as her boyfriend of three years lived two streets over. So being home was a little bittersweet, it was every time. You loved New York and you didn’t even mind the way it smelled (except in the summer on rubbish collection days), but being home in the warmth of your own house with your parents down the hall felt soothing.

Which is why, on your last night, you were hesitant to even reply to Harry’s text.

Harry S (5:19pm): Want to come over for dinner?

It was a strange request--one that certainly hadn’t happened in a long time (if ever). You stared at the message, laid flat out on your bed, wondering if he’d perhaps meant to send it to the group.

Books lined the shelf against the wall--clothes in the hamper from high school. Suddenly, when you read the message again, the butterflies broke free.

Y/N L/N (5:21pm): Is that okay with your mum?

With your mum? You immediately regretted the words--while your stomach might currently feel fifteen, you didn’t need to act like you were.

Harry S (5:21pm): Was her idea, actually!

You let out a sigh, sounds floating up from the kitchen of your mum’s voice on the phone with someone. What were you going to do, say no? Voluntarily pass on spending time with the guy you’d been crushing on for years? You reached for a sweatshirt and tugged it over your head, smoothing back your hair as Katie knocked on the door.

“Where are you going?”

“Out.”

“Out where?” Her head dipped to the side, her eyes getting thinner when you climbed off your bed and reached for a scarf.

Katie was always nosy. She’d always been the little sister who had to know what you were doing, why you were doing it and if she could do it too. This was certainly something she couldn’t do.

“To Harry’s,” you said with a shrug, looking around the room for your coat.

“So, are things like, fine between you now or?”

“They were never not fine,” you lied, hoping she wouldn’t go there.

“Yeah,” she let out a laugh. “And Bryn likes boys.”

“Why is everyone always using that as their comeback?” You stopped moving and looked up, her smirk softened, a sudden niceness washing over her.

“Things are good, though?”

You paused for a second, unsure of how to answer her question.

“Just get out, Harry,” you said, your eyes wet with emotion, the taste of salt on your lips. Your arms wrapped around your own shoulders, hoping to keep yourself from shaking on the bathroom tile.

“Y/N, hold on, just wait, I think--”

“No, Harry, alright? I shouldn’t have said it and now I look even more like an idiot.”

“Smalls, you need to calm down.”

He reached a hand forward to touch you, but you shimmied away from his touch, looking up at him before speaking through another sob. “Don’t you have more famous friends to hang out with?”

“They’re--okay, I guess.”

“So you haven’t talked about it?”

“No,” you said quickly, hitting the lights and stepping past her into the hallway. “And hopefully we won’t.”

“Oh bullshit,” Katie laughed, following you down the stairs. Your dad looked up from a seat on the couch when he heard your footsteps coming.

“M’going to Harry’s, be back whenever,” you called, hoping your parents wouldn’t join in on Katie’s interrogation.

“If you didn’t want to talk about it you wouldn’t be hanging out with him.”

You paused again at the door, hand on the knob before twisting it open, a momentary hesitation. “Then maybe I do.”

The door shut behind you, an echo into the sky as you shoved your hands in your pockets. You’d walk, that was fine. It was maybe a fifteen minute hike to his neighborhood with winding driveways and bigger gardens.

And it wasn’t too cold, warmer than New York and less windy by far. A mild winter was nice, something your parents always talked about when you were little--it’ll be a mild one, this year, for sure.

You didn’t always know what they meant, but when you walked home that night in the misty air, you finally understood.

No frostbite. No snowflakes the size of quarters. Instead, it’s like the world had taken pity on you--deciding to blow gusts of unseasonably warm air as you counted the steps away from the house.

They didn’t know where your were, which was fine. They didn’t need to.

They didn’t need to know you told him everything. From the good to the bad to the broken-hearted, years of secrets spilled into the room, then out of your mouth and your stomach all the same.

He opened the door when you knocked, a smile on his face. Surprise, you realized. You hadn’t said whether or not you were coming.

He let you in and took your coat, cheeks pressed against Gemma and Anne’s all the same, a mirror image of a few mornings back. Dinner around the table, an empty seat for the fourth member of their family no longer there.

You’d heard through Jessie that it happened--a sudden sickness and even quicker unraveling of life. Jake and Adam went to the memorial--it was small and quiet, they said, they didn’t even get a chance to say hi to him.

But there was laughter in the house like there’d always been. If anything, louder and more whole-hearted as you listened to them tell stories, a quiet observer of a personal moment.

You were banished to the living room, though, when Anne wouldn’t let you help clean up, ordering Harry to pour a glass of wine for you before joining you on the couch. You slipped your legs up beneath you, fingers wrapping around the glass stem.

“M’sorry I didn’t text or this summer, y’know, when he passed.”

He let out a sigh and plucked at his lower lip, eyes focusing hard on the clock on the wall. “S’fine, I didn’t really--I wasn’t much fun to talk to.”

“Still, kind of unfair of me to have been mad at you for missing Adam’s gran’s funeral a few years back when I couldn’t even bother to reach out.”

He smirked a bit, his eyes peering at you sideways, sarcasm lacing his words, “you were mad about that?”

You rolled your eyes, his feigned naivety pulling a giggle from your lips. As if you hadn’t given him an earful about it that night.

“S’fine, Smalls. Really, I get it. What were you supposed to say? Hey, sorry your step-dad died. I know we haven’t talked since I told you to fuck off right after--”

“Okay, I get it,” you held a hand up, hoping he wouldn’t go on. He laughed, and instead of giving you trouble, he leaned over and pressed a kiss to the side of your head.

Gemma padded into the room, a glass of wine in her hand and Christmas socks on her feet. “Whoa, keep it family friendly, please.”

Harry rolled his eyes, immediately launching into a story about the time he walked in on Gemma and boyfriend--both fifteen at the time--making out on the couch after school. It was then that Anne popped her head in the room, her own glass of wine clinking against yours when she sat on the couch.

Glad to hear about it ten years later, she laughed.

You stayed like that for a while, feet on Harry’s lap and laughter between sips of wine, comfortable with the company and content with the night.

A second glass, refills for everyone before a board game. Giggly and competitive enough to not realize that Gemma swung her phone around the room, capturing three seconds of memories to preserve the belly laughs in a digital time capsule.

But eventually it was time to head home, Gemma’s sleepy eyes opened and shut when you stood from the couch. Anne disappeared up the stairs after a hug goodbye. Don’t be a stranger, she said.

He followed you into the dark, settling on a walk to yours instead of a drive. “Like in New York,” he said, his footsteps echoing on the pavement were louder than yours. “Midnight walks are a lot more quiet here than they are there, though.”

You laughed, looking up to trace shapes in the stars. A tree, a bird, maybe even a heart. Your breath floated up when you spoke. “The Village is still pretty calm.”

He nodded, his eyes following yours up to take in the darkness. “Ever freak you out that this is the same sky that’s over New York? Like, maybe not right now, but you could see these stars from there, too.”

“Never really thought of it that way,” you stepped off of the sidewalk, drifting into the street simply because you could. You couldn’t do that in New York.

“We’re always under the same sky. I think about that when I travel--when I’m missing home, too.”

The topic had been there, hidden beneath the brush on the side of the road or beneath the butterflies in your ribs, fluttering wings serving as a distraction from the inevitable.

New York wasn’t home for him. It was home for you.

“When do you go back on tour?”

“Beginning of March. I’ll mostly be in New York until then, though.”

You didn’t say anything.

“Why?”

“Just wondering.”

The corner of his mouth pulled up in that stupid, shit-eating way it always did. “Gonna miss me?”

“No,” you rolled your eyes, a scoff as if he was so far off it hurt. “I was just wondering.”

He hummed, drawing out the noise as if he was deep in thought. “M’gonna miss you. And the Pad Thai, and the wine, and your living room, but, yeah--I’ll miss you.”

You bit at your lip, hoping to avoid the smile that wanted so badly to burst out of you, yet comfortable with the fact that maybe he knew there was something that swirled in the wind between you both.

“Why do you always do that?”

“Do what?”

You turned the corner onto your street, thankful for the warm reprieve to come.

“Act like you hate me,” he watched you closely, a playful smile on his lips.

You scrunched your nose, pulling your gaze away from him as you shoved your hands in your pockets. “I don’t hate you.”

He was quiet for a second, his voice less playful and teasing when he spoke. “You know, you say that you wish we could put it in the past, but--”

He shook his head, reaching a hand up to rub at the back of his neck. A lump of cement gathered in your stomach, you swallowed down the anxiety.

“But you’re pretty stuck on it.”

Eyes on the pavement in front of you. Two driveways until yours.

“It was the worst night of my life, probably,” you laughed a little, looking up at him with hesitation. Even that felt vulnerable to admit.

“Because of me?” his voice trailed up at the end of his question, the surprise evident on his face.

You laughed, “no, because of me.”

December 29th, 2015 - 9:42pm

You were sat in the kitchen of Kenny Tilley’s house, dull eyes watching as Bryn mixed you a drink and set it down in front of you. The thump of the bass seemed to rattle the vase of flowers on the table--a Christmas brunch leftover.

“S’gin and orange juice.”

“Thanks,” you mumbled, reaching forward to let your fingers wrap around the cup.

“Oh come on,” Jessie tried. “He was a twat, boring and not that bright, anyway.”

You looked up at her, a warning in your eyes to shut it. You pulled the cup to your lips, hoping the sour taste would washing away the traces of him. He didn’t even call.

“Any boy who’s 21-years-old and breaks up with you over text is a wanker,” Jessie said, her voice softer as she sat at the table beside you. She placed a hand on your arm and fluttered her eyelashes at you. “I’ll fucking kill Charlie Westman if I ever see his stupid face.”

“S’why you gotta date women, honestly,” Bryn let out a sigh and sat on the other side of you--a pang of guilt ricocheting in your gut when your eyes met hers.

This was supposed to be a fun night. The gang back together, a reunion of sorts with other classmates and friends alike. And this time, Kenny Tilley had offered up his parent’s basement rather than the Red Lion: cheaper, bigger, and no worries about being drunk in public.

“M’fine,” you said, another big swig of the drink as if to really sell it. “It was only a year--nothing too wild. Not meant to be, I guess.”

Your eyes welled with water the more you spoke, you blinked quickly to try to hide it, but it was no use. Bryn thrust a napkin in your direction, her smile apologetic and understanding.

“M’sorry, maybe I should just leave,” you said, looking between to two of them for some sort of reassurance. Going home would be miserable, you thought. An empty bedroom, empty bed, empty heart.

So maybe you should have seen it coming. Maybe Charlie Westman was a bit daft and maybe he didn’t seem all that interested in you aside from the times when you were naked in bed. Maybe he liked the curve of your hips more than he liked the conversation about the ethics in journalism.

“Oh my god,” Jessie turned to you quickly, her voice quiet so as to not be overheard by the rest of the bodies crammed into the kitchen. “Harry just walked in with Jake.”

“What?” Both you and Bryn leaned forward over the table, eyes scanning the rest of the room to catch a glimpse of the top of his head. Long and curly--you knew that, you’d seen it on the internet.

“This is not good timing,” Jessie remarked, pushing your drink a little closer to you, her subtle and endearing way of telling you to buckle up.

Of course, as if the universe wasn’t cruel enough already by making your boyfriend dump you via Happy Christmas text message, your year 10 crush showing up out of the blue was just icing on the miserable cake.

Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad if you didn’t have your younger sister’s friends begging for his phone number. Don’t have it, you’d say. What good was texting someone who never responded, anyway?

“Doesn’t he have a band to break up with?” You muttered, holding the cup to your lips, another sinking feeling washing over you when he took a step into the room, his eyes landing on yours before his lips stretched into a smile.

“Hi,” he said, Jake and Adam flanked him on either side. You matched the movement of Jessie and Bryn. Standing, offering a hug, forcing out good to see you, how’ve you been?

As if you didn’t know, as if you weren’t keeping tabs on his tours, his albums, his success as the boy from the small town who left you to settle like dust after he tore through. So sure, he wasn’t the first person you wanted to see, maybe not the tenth of fifteenth either. You’d rather reminisce on embarrassing year 8 stories with someone who couldn’t top them with that one time at the Brits.

“Heads up would have been nice,” you said to Adam, your arm around his waist after he offered a hug--he’d heard about the break up.

“From Charlie?”

“No--I mean, yeah, but I meant from you. Kind of a lot in one day, you know?”

Mending a broken heart was something you were used to. When Harry left for the X-Factor you spent a good month texting him like nothing had happened. Funny stories from school, pictures, updates on classes and homework. A part of you believed that if you could just keep things as close to normal as they’d been, you’d avoid any type of shift.

You’re clearly in love with him, Jessie would tease, her eyebrows thin in true 2010 style. Just tell him.

You’d crowd around the living room to watch the show, voting furiously when you could and waiting for text messages or phone calls from him after. But they slowed down. When he lost he didn’t call, when the band got signed he sent a group text. He was home that Christmas and told you all about how he’d lost his virginity to someone much older. You left the room.

There were rare appearances between then and now. He tried his best at first--there’d be concerts he’d invite you to and parties he’d come home for. The holidays were usually a given, at least for the first three years after he left, but 2013 was spent in New York with his new friends, 2014 was supposedly on a boat somewhere in the Caribbean. So now, his hands in pockets in front of you, he smiled.

“Missed you, Smalls,” his head dipped to the side.

You let out a quick laugh, immediately receiving an elbow in the side from Bryn. “Yeah--same.”

A sigh from Jessie--your fake smile wasn’t wide enough. You offered a big, toothy grin, prompting Jake to usher Adam and Harry towards the alcohol supply and, likely, away from you.

But what did you care? Broken hearted, alone, and now reminded of the way things were--a sloppy house party reunion wasn’t meant to be so emotionally taxing.

Which is why you tried to lay low. A second drink, a third. You listened as Bryn told Daniel Prentiss about her internship, chimed in about your hopes to move after school. No idea where, you’d said. Anywhere but here.

A fourth drink, chips and dip. If you were going to make it home in one piece, a snack was necessary.

Harry loitered around, never too far away but never too close, either. He listened when you laughed at Jake’s terrible story about a job interview, even complimented your advice about not being twenty minutes late with a stain on your pants.

You ignored the looming sadness in your bones and especially the girls who seemed to hold on to Harry for a second too long, stealing glances from the corner of your eye, hiding behind the rim of your cup.

A fifth drink, the bathroom. You had to wait for someone else to come out, you leaned against the wall and closed your eyes. You could have fallen asleep right there.

“Hey,” his voice was close, pulling you back to reality as soon as the door opened. Jenna Barnsbury giggled as she passed by with Maddie Winslow in tow.

“Jesus,” you said, a hang over your heart, the state of pseudo-slumber now a far-fetched dream. Someone let out a joyful shriek in the living room. “Didn’t you see my eyes were closed?”

“Sorry--I--” he smirked, “you weren’t sleeping, were you?”

“I was standing up,” you rolled your eyes, a deep breath filling your lungs--drunker than you thought.

A laugh escaped your lips when he offered a shrug in response. His eyes watched you closely for a second, heat on your cheeks when his lips twitched into a smirk.

“Well, gotta go,” you said suddenly, side stepping into the bathroom, your hand on the knob when he mimicked your movements.

“Wait, Smalls,” two steps into the bathroom, his hand closing the door behind him, a clanking on the tile.

“What was that?”

“Dunno--” he looked down to his feet, it was now you realized that he was drunk too, his eyes wide when he bent down, returning to eye level with a tarnished piece of gold in his hand. “Shit.”

“Harry--what the fuck did you do?” You grabbed it from him, pushing him out of the way to inspect the damage. The little shiny piece had come from beneath the knob--the locking mechanism that typically offered privacy now left you stuck in the ground floor bathroom of Kenny Tilley’s parent’s house. With no one but Harry Styles. You shook the knob, hoping it would give. Nothing.

“S’locked,” he said, a hint of guilt laced through his low voice.

“Gathered that,” you said, pushing it up against where it had come from. You stuck a finger in the small hole, bent down to press your eye up against it. You straightened up, turning around to face him in the bright light of the toilet.

“D’you have a phone?”

“No,” you shook your head, leaning your back on the wall in defeat. “I think I gave it to Jessie--so I don’t text Charlie.”

“Charlie?”

“My boyfriend,” a sigh. “I guess, ex-boyfriend.”

“Oh,” he said, unsure of how to respond. “Sorry.” A change of subject. “Someone will come. Eventually someone will have to use the loo or notice we’re gone.”

You looked around the room, slumping down to the floor. White and blue tile, small soaps that smelled like your gran and a hand towel that your mother would have loved. While it might not have been your first choice location, you didn’t mind the reprieve from a thumping bass line. “Can you turn the light out? S’fucking bright.”

You covered your eyes with your hands while you waited. When darkness washed over, you pulled them away, adjusting your gaze to find his face--only lit up from the moon that peered through the window. He was now sat beside you.

“Guess it’s a good time to catch up,” he laughed, sticking a hand out in front of you to twist a ring on his pointer finger.

“I’m fine, Harry.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Your head was spinning, your stomach was flipping, and you couldn’t quite decide if being alone in a bathroom with Harry made you want to strangle him for being such a twat or jump him and stick your tongue down his throat. You sat on your hands.

“School’s good?”

“Yep.”

“Your parents?”

“Mhm.”

“And Katie, too?”

“All good.”

A moment of hope passed--a voice outside the door that would maybe notice two people stuck inside. Deflated chests when nothing happened.

“So Charlie--was he from uni?”

“Yeah,” you spoke in a breathy sigh, wondering where he was and what he was doing right now. If anything, Charlie had been a great distraction from the boy seated beside you.

Sure, there were short little romances after he left for the band--dates to the movies or making out in someone’s bedroom--but nothing that seemed to work well enough to make you forget the way Harry didn’t seem to miss you.

“Think it’s over for good?”

“Why are you so interested in my life suddenly?”

The words erupted out, cracked the seal of your lips before landing on the floor in front of you--a pattern of crossed lines and smooth, white, tile.

“Sorry,” he said, a shrug of his shoulders. “Just, making small talk.”

“Well you’re a little late.”

“What?”

You turned to face him suddenly, the quick movement making your stomach and head unhappy. “We haven’t spoken in a year, m’pretty sure. You barely even text on our birthdays--you didn’t come to Adam’s gran’s funeral--and yet you show up here and expect everyone to be so thrilled to see you? Did you ever realize that maybe we’re not? Maybe our lives have moved on without you and you don’t just get to be a part of them whenever you please?”

His eyes were wide, his pink lips slightly parted, more heat on his cheeks now, you were unsure if it was the alcohol he’d drank or the words you’d spoken. It felt good, though. Like opening the window on a muggy evening, letting fresh air break the tension and sweep through the staleness. You’d been feeling that way from the start.

“Well, s’not like I’ve been sitting around in my living room, y’know. I’ve been working my arse off for years and now s’just over and I have to answer to you?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Smalls,” he let out a breath and looked around the room. “I don’t want to do this.”

“Do what?” You asked, turning towards him again. “Face the shit you left behind?” Water in your eyes when those words came up your throat. “Face the fact that some of us have missed you and waited for you to call or text or even just say hi when you were home?”

The emotion in your voice startled him, he seemed to move away from you on the tile.

“I’ve got a lot going on right now.”

That was all he said. Silence for a moment. You reached up to pull at the door. Nothing.

“Of course,” you said, more anger than before. “Of course I get fucking stuck in the toilet with you on tonight of all nights. First Charlie, now you. Men who’ve ruined my life!”

You didn’t even catch it, not until his ear fell to his shoulder and his eyes got all nervous.

A soft voice--curious, not angry. “Wh--I ruined your life?”

“No,” you said, heat in your chest from letting more words slip. “Forget it.”

“Y/N, what are you talking about?”

Maybe it was the tears or the tile floor or the gin in your head. Maybe it was the fact that there was no reason not to. No Charlie. No one else around. What did you have to lose?

“You left,” you said, a solemn nod. “You left and I didn’t like it because I was--” a drunken sigh. “I had feelings for you.”

His eyes were on yours. His stupid long hair was up in a bun now, a different look when he sauntered through the door. “Why--why didn’t you tell me?”

“What was I supposed to say, Harry? Come back from your one shot at fame because I have a crush on you?” You let out a laugh at the thought, his shoulders sunk and someone yelled outside the door. Laughter from living room.

“I--I didn’t know,” he said.

“Well, whatever.” You stood from the floor and moved over to the window. “S’fucking hot in here and that was a long time ago. S’fine.”

He stood and watched you, his eyes on your face after you turned around from pushing the window up, immediately breaking the stuffiness of the small room.

“Why are you looking at me like that?”

“M’not.”

“Okay,” you rolled your eyes, drunk, angry, ready for bed. You sat on the toilet, chin in your hands, completely comfortable with your alcohol fueled monologue. Harry didn’t speak.

Two minutes of silence in the dark room. Heat blew from the radiator and you paced on the tile, the room feeling smaller and your words feeling bigger. Had you said too much? Did it matter if he knew? It was so long ago--years, really. Who cared if there was still a swarm of butterflies in your gut when he walked in the room, especially seeing as it was countered by a wave of anger and resentment.

He resigned to his seat on the floor again, back against the door as you continued to walk back and forth. Three steps this way, three steps back.

“Should we bang on the door?”

“Knock yourself out,” you laughed a little, motioning towards the door to invite him to begin.

He banged a fist four times. “Can anyone hear me?”

The talking and laughing was loud, only topped by the music that seemed to get louder the longer you were in there. More silence--Harry reached for a red cup he’d had in his hand in the hallway when you moved to sit down beside him.

“Vodka?” He pushed it towards you, offering you a sip after he took his own. “Kind of gross and not enough juice thanks to Jessie.”

You rolled your eyes, taking it from him and downing the rest. Anger dissolving as the liquid slid down your throat.

He laughed. “Thanks--was, uh, hoping to have at least some.”

“Oh piss off, I declared my teenage love for you. I think you owe me one.”

He laughed at that, tossing the cup into the bin across the small room.

“Is this thing broken?” You leaned forward to inspect the radiator again. “I’m sweltering.”

“Yeah--s’like a Texas summer.”

“Right,” you said, moving your fingers to unbutton your blouse. “You’ve been there.”

“What are you doing?”

“S’hot--too hot.”

“Oh.”

Relief when your skin was exposed--the tile cool on your back as you leaned against the wall once more. “I’m probably the last girl you’d expect to see without a shirt, right?”

“What do you mean?” He asked, his head turned to the side to watch you for a second, but you couldn’t get over the cool tile on your bare skin.

“Dunno,” you slurred out the word, a whine escaping your lips when he cracked a smile. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?” He laughed, his finger reaching over to poke you in the stomach.

“The cute smile thing.”

“Can’t help it,” he shrugged, a pause before he continued. “You bring it out of me.”

You looked up at him, your lips pulled into a thin line to avoid the smile that so badly wanted to plaster itself on your face. The bathroom was dark, the noises of a muffled party were seeping through the door. Jessie’s laugh, Jake talking loudly over the music.

But you felt safe in here--secluded and cozy and best--or worst--of all, it was just the two of you. You turned to look at him quickly. “Why’d you show up tonight, anyway?”

He brought his gaze to the floor quickly. It wasn’t necessary a question you needed to ask. His band was done. Who knew what he’d do next--though you knew he’d figure it out--maybe a quick stop in Holmes Chapel was enough to get him grounded.

“Was hoping to see everyone--I meant it when I said I missed you.”

“Hm,” you leaned your head back, closing your eyes. That made the nausea worse. “Try it again.”

The door was still locked when he pulled at the knob again--but it didn’t give. He turned around and looked at you--a drunken smirk on his face before you could even speak.

“If I’m locked in a bathroom with anyone, m’glad s’you.”

Maybe he said it because you were shirtless--but the four gin and tonics you had liked to believe otherwise.

“Right.”

“Really--could have been Nina Victor.” He faked a shiver at the thought.

“Well, ditto.”

It was quick, a fleeting thought that moved from your heart to your head to your hands without much warning. You moved towards him on the floor, your lips connected for a moment. But then you felt him pull back.

You felt his hands on your shoulders, a steady force, but gentle, too.

“Smalls, I just--I don’t--”

“I know,” you said, slumping away from him, “it’s not like that.”

“I just don’t think--”

“S’fine, Harry,” you bit out, pushing yourself away from him on the tile. “You don’t have to explain it. I get it--there’s lots of girls for you, and I’m just the one who got left behind when you got too fucking famous for us, right?”

“S’not what I’m saying--you’re not even listening.”

But then you felt it. That watering feeling in your mouth, the one that made you rush to the bathroom or clear the room. “Oh God,” you said, moving to the toilet quickly, lifting the seat just in time for you to dump the contents of your stomach, splashing into the water.

Was it alcohol or emotion? A mixture of both, you were sure. The music floated up from the crack beneath the door, the heat pumped from the radiator, your bra looked black in the darkness of the room, instead of a deep plum.

“You’re okay,” he said, moving forward, a hand on your back.

You flinched at the contact. “Don’t touch me,” you said, tears in your eyes as you reached for something to wipe your mouth.

“Are you okay?”

“I’m fine!” you yelled over your shoulder, flushing before slumping back to the floor, pushing yourself away from him as tears poured over. “I’m stupid and drunk and you need to forget everything I’ve said and we can’t ever speak of this, okay? Don’t even talk to me--just go back to London or LA and don’t ever speak to me again.”

“Whoa, Y/N,” he barely finished saying your name before you let out a sob.

“Don’t--okay? I shouldn’t have kissed you and I’m drunk and I’m disgusting,” the words were slurred into one run on mess of syllables.

He watched you, frozen, crouching close by like he wanted to help but knew his touch would shatter you. The door opened quickly to reveal Bryn, a smile on her face faded when she heard the sob escape your lips.

“What happened?”

“I just--we were stuck in here--and she,” he sputtered out the words, endless sentences with no finish lines.

“Y/N, hold on, just wait, I think--”

“No, Harry, alright? I shouldn’t have said it and now I look even more like an idiot.”

“Smalls, you need to calm down.”

He reached a hand forward to touch you, but you shimmied away from his touch, looking up at him before speaking through another sob. “Don’t you have more famous friends to hang out with?”

“Harry, just go, I’ve got it,” Bryn pleaded from behind him. He turned to look at her over his shoulder, the first time he’d taken his eyes off you since the lights came on. One more look to you, a sigh. He pushed himself up off his knees and disappeared back into the party, fading out like he always did.

So you didn’t tell Bryn, you couldn’t. You bolted for the front door and ran into the night, hoping to leave it behind and praying that this time, he wouldn’t ever call again.

He stopped walking beside you at the base of your driveway, pulling your mind back to the present.

“I’m the one who fucked it up,” he said. “I’m the one who pushed you off.”

“What?”

He wiped at his mouth, suddenly more animated and worked up. “I didn’t not want to kiss you,” he smacked a hand on his forehead, the words spilling out of him like they'd been locked up for two years. “You were drunk, I was drunk. I pushed you away because I didn’t want it to happen like that. I didn’t want you to regret it.”

Your mouth was in an ‘o,’ unable to produce sounds or words or anything of the sort, the thought settling into your body that your version of the truth hadn’t been his.

“I didn’t talk to you for so long because I knew I’d fucked up and I knew you were mad and frankly, I was fucking terrified of pissing you off after seeing how angry and upset you were.”

More silence, you blinked three times, he caught his breath after speaking so quickly, wisps of heat coming from his mouth as they danced towards the moon. “You also, y’know, told me to never fucking talk to you again, so,” a shrug of his shoulders, a slight laugh.

There it was, the wall you’d tried so hard to build and maintain, broken. Crumbling down, brick by brick, deconstructed by his words and the pain in his eyes when he waited for you to say something.

“I didn’t--I thought,” you tried to speak, stuttering like the engine of an old car. “I thought you pushed me away because you didn’t like me.”

“Smalls,” he shook his head, his eyes on the ground as if he’d find the words there, crumpled beneath your feet. “That wasn’t it.”

“So then, when I told you I liked you before you left, why didn’t you say something?”

“I tried,” he let out a laugh, a smile crawling onto his face as his eyes got wider. “You were so mad so quick and I was so freaked out and you’d just broken up with that kid and we were plastered, Y/N.”

“I remember,” you rolled your eyes.

You tried to slow your breath, in and out, hands in your pockets. He took a step closer to you. “I know I sucked at being a friend.”

You swallowed. A nod--it was all you could offer.

“I’m sorry it took me two years to tell you that I felt the same way.”

Another nod. Instead of speaking, he leaned in, pressed his lips to yours lightly, but laughed at the touch.

“What?” You pulled back, your eyebrows dipping south.

“Better late than never, right?”

His arm slung over your shoulder, walking you to the front door in first date fashion. He kissed you again, fully amused by the way you couldn’t manage out much of a response other than that you’d see him tomorrow--breakfast with the gang before everyone would head their separate ways.

You were so busy floating into the house and into bed that you must have missed the ding of your phone. The screen lit up when you set it on your bedside table, Carly’s name on the screen.

The cloud that carried you up the stairs disappeared, dropping you down to earth just as quickly as it swept you off of your feet. A screenshot of your blurry face. On the couch, next to Harry. Wine in your hand.

Carly J (11:24pm): Care to explain?

AN: THERE IT IS Y’ALL. More surprises to come, as always. Is it what you thought? Many hints, for those who were searching so diligently: “But that was nothing compared to the level of embarrassment you were used to when it came to Harry and things that came out of your mouth.” Hands pressed to the tile, “Your stomach seemed to get warm and for a second, you feared it would happen again.” A few of your guessed that she would get sick but I wasn’t about to give it away so easily. LET ME KNOW WHAT YOU THINK!!

tag list: @clorenafila @ainsleesolareclipse @castawaycths @harryspirate @wanderlustiing @ursamajor603 @thurhomish @omgsharry @jdcharliewhiskey @stepping-into-the-light @rachkon @jdcharliewhiskey @sad-little-asshole @shawnsblue @gendryia @g0bl1nqueen @laula843 @flooome a-woman-without-a-plan @awomanindeniall @shaw-nm @staceystoleyourheart @ohprettylittlemind @anssu-amry @my-fandomful-life @stylesfantasy @bookingbee @mleestiles @haute-romance-quotidienne pinkpolaroidgirl craic-head-horan @bluegreencolorsflashin

#tytl #two years too late #harry styles fanfic #harry styles fanfiction #harry styles story #harry styles writing #harry styles writings #harry styles imagine #Harry Styles Fan Fiction #harry styles blurb #harry styles smut #harry styles series #harry styles imagines

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fandom-games · 6 years

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Challenge 13, Team F, Round 2

Based on this prompt: https://writing-prompt-s.tumblr.com/post/175851233698/one-day-when-walking-home-from-work-you-make-a

Gods didn’t look the way Dan had expected them to.

Well, to be fair, Dan hadn’t actually been expecting to see a god on the london underground anyway. But if he had, he would’ve expected them to be big and glowing,clean, in flowing white robes with beautiful healthy smiling faces.

He wouldn’t have expected them to be so skinny they looked like they hadn’t eaten in weeks, or be covered in grime, or to be wearing an oversized tattered army jacket, with only what looked like a potato sack underneath. But I can’t emphasize this enough, he wasn’t expecting anything at all. So when he saw this figure enter the train, saw the way they stumbled, saw their face that looked so young but so tired, and took in the crowded train and lack of seats, he of course stood up and offered his seat to them. Maybe if he knew they were a god he would’ve acted differently, but probably not. Maybe if he knew what they would do to him he would’ve stayed seated, but again, probably not. Because Dan was a nice person, and god or not, this was obviously someone that needed his help.

They didn’t thank him when they took his seat. There was a dry rasping sound that made it seem like they were trying to say something, but they decided that was too much effort, and they slumped down in the seat, exhausted. Dan stood watching the figure carefully, worried as he gripped onto a bar to keep his balance. They appeared to have the face of a young girl, but their skin was sunken in and slightly wrinkled, making them appear much older than the age dan presumed them to be, which made Dan have the suspicion that they were possibly on drugs. He worried for their health, so he kept an eye on them until he reached his stop. He began to exit the train but to his surprise, when he passed his former seat a cold bony hand reached up and grabbed his arm. He turned, and saw the figure trying to pull themselves up from their seat.

“Help me.” They raspeed out, their voice cracking. Dan felt a pit in his stomach. He didn’t like when strangers touched him, this whole thing made him rather uneasy, but whoever this was was clearly in distress, so he nodded. He helped them off the train, up into the streets, and then brought them to sit on a bench when it seemed they would break if they walked any longer.

“I should call 999.” Dan muttered. He studied the figure closely for their reaction, if their condition was caused by what he thought he expected them to be scared to go to the hospital where they would be studied. But they just sighed wistfully and cleared their throat.

“No use,” they coughed. “Too late.” They kept coughing, dry, loud, and uncontrollable. They certainly weren’t in the best shape, but Dan didn’t think it was too late.

“Who are you?” Dan asked finally. “What’s your name?”

They made a sound that might’ve been a laugh, or another cough. Dan couldn’t tell. “Don’t have one no more. No one remembers, so neither do I.” The coughs must’ve been helping to clear their throat, because their voice was more audible now, and less cracking.

Dan was confused. “You-you don’t remember your own name?”

“It’s been so long, so many things to remember, so few people that care. You wouldn’t understand, you’re so young, you’ve never felt this tired before. I hope for your sake you never will.”

They talked with the wistfulness of someone born in the great depression, but they couldn’t have been older than Dan. He was starting to become sure this person was crazy, and maybe he should call an ambulance after all.

“How old are you exactly?”

“Too old, far too old. Time is so strange, it feels different to those that experience so little of it. To you time is like a ticking time bomb. To me, to those like me, it’s like a cage.” Dan raised an eyebrow, and they sighed, realizing he wasn’t buying it. “Let me show you something, give me your hand.”

Dan remembered how cold and tight their hand was last time he felt it, he didn’t want to touch it again, but reluctantly he held his hand out. The moment their skin made contact he knew something was strange, it felt like a burst of electricity, but it didn’t hurt, it was a warm sensation that spread throughout his body. Images flashed through his mind; a room full of tall bright beings in many colours, a ceremony, a flash of light, an image of earth blank and empty, then with life, old civilizations he had never seen, temples. And throughout these visions was someone specific, their face changed, their body changed, but he felt they were the same throughout. A warm presence, a smile, a feeling of home and safety.

Their hands disconnected. Dan knew it had only been a second, but he had just seen centuries. He looked at the figure in front of him, the face still that of a stranger’s, but he felt a familiar aura from the visions.

“It’s you, you’re a…a God- or Goddess?”

The figure smiled. “Either is fine, though I suppose Goddess suits me most in this form. I prefer an older, more neutral form but, I was in this state when I became too weak to change. Too weak to travel the way I prefer, forced into mortal transportation, memories fading.”

Dan realized what they were saying. “Are you…?” He trailed off, he didn’t want to say the word.

“Dying?” They finished. “Yes, I suppose I am. Nobody remembers me anymore, all my temples fallen, all my followers long dead. One begins to fade after a while of being forgotten. The others expected this, they have chosen one to take on my domain so nothing will be lost.”

“Your domain?” Dan asked curiously.

“I suppose your best word for it would be…love.”

“You’re the god of love?” He repeated in disbelief. He looked at the poor figure in front of him, dirty and sick, and just couldn’t picture it. Then his eyes fell on their hand, which appeared to be shimmering in gold. “Your…your hand.” He said worriedly.

The god looked down and sighed. “It’s time then I suppose. I thank you for your kindness, humanity could use more like you. Your good deed will not go unrecognized. The one you love will return your feelings.” They closed their eyes and Dan felt energy radiating from them. “It is done.” The entirety of both their arms were shimmering gold now.

His eyes widened. “What? No I don’t want him to love me from a spell. Reverse it, I don’t want anything to change!”

The god didn’t seem to be listening any longer, the gold spread quickly, and before Dan new it the entire figure was covered. “It’s been so long,” they mumbled. “So tired. Finally some rest.” A smile spread across their face, and with that they exploded into a cloud of gold dust which disintigrated quicky.

Dan looked down the street, there was people walking by, but no one seemed to have noticed. Had he just imagined it? He noticed tears streaming down his face, and wiped them away quickly before standing up and beginning to walk home. He was worried about what he would find when he got there though. He had seen enough plotlines in TV shows and books about love spells, they were never a good idea. The person they were cast on became obsessive and completely unlike themself. And it wasn’t even real love so what was the point? He didn’t want that for Phil, he liked Phil the way he was. But Dan decided he would just have to deal with whatever craziness the love spell caused.

Except when he got home, Phil said hi as normal. They watched some anime, had some dinner, nothing was different. Dan of course, felt a bit stupid. Of course he hadn’t actually met the dying god of love right? That would be crazy, he had just imagined it. There was no love spell, so of course nothing had changed.

But a thought plagued his mind, the crazy part of his mind with no sense of reason. Maybe he hadn’t imagined it. Maybe the spell just didn’t work because… Phil already loved him.

No, that was crazy…right?

94 points!

-kayden

#team f #Challenge 13 #round 2 #submission

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drizzitwrites · 5 years

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Football RPF Challenge - Day 8: Doing Something Cute

Today’s scene is from the fic I plan to write AFTER I finally get this WIP I’ve been working on since July done and published.

Based off of yesterday and how much time and energy I usually have on Thursdays, I fully expected that this would be yet another day of me trying to write new content, it falling flat, and me just ending up editing something from my current active WIP instead, since the whole thing starts off with some bits about Vincent trying to do super cute things for Christian.

BUT! This morning while brushing my teeth it occurred to me that I could also work on a scene from the next fic that has to get written (which, as always, could have been considered for both yesterday's theme of "doing something stupid" AND today's theme of "doing something cute" since with these two one is also usually the other, let's be real). Anyway, I'm going to attempt to write this new scene and we'll see how it goes. Ideally it will work since the being cute bits in the other fic have already rather been edited to death so I could only very marginally say "well I edited those other bits so I still made progress for today." You'd have to squint at it rather side-eyed in order for it to be plausible.

[POSSIBLE SPOILERS FOR CURRENT WIP AND FOR THE NEXT FIC IN THE SERIES]

Today's scene--Vincent has decided to have surgery to fix an injury that's plagued him for nearly a year now. It's fairly minor and routine and he's perfectly capable of going through it himself and relying on the Spurs staff to get him situated since it's a weekday and Christian, et al have training.

Christian has other plans and manages to talk his way out of training to be there in hospital when Vincent wakes up.

What you need to know is that at this point the whole team (or 95% of it at least) knows about Christian and Vincent's relationship but Christian is still coming to terms with that and what it means and it's still not something he's keen to talk about widely (or at all).

Vincent blinked his eyes open into harsh white overhead lights shining daggers into his skull, then let out a groan and instinctively tried to raise his left arm to throw a hand over his eyes.

He immediately regretted everything about every single one of these actions as a sharp pain shot through his arm starting at the top of his hand and radiating upward all the way to his shoulder. This made him follow up the groan with a loud yelp and some highly uncomplimentary phrases in Dutch.

To his left, a far too cheerful voice tells him to "hold still, please. You'll rip out your IV," and he remembers...

Hospital. Surgery. To repair the foot he'd injured back in December and stubbornly decided to not do anything about until now.

He lay back, dropping his hand to the rough cotton of the sheet, and closed his eyes against the fluorescent lights. Around him, sounds started filtering back in--the hums and beeps of the machines surrounding his bed, clatter of carts and murmur of voices flowing past the open door to his room, rush and bustle of a busy London hospital.

Once more, the cheerful voice, and Vincent now remembered it as belonging to Asima, the anaesthesiologist who had prepped him for the procedure, her large, dark eyes kind as she held his hand and slipped the syringe into his IV.

Her face, round and expressive, framed by the deep green of her hijab, had been the last thing he'd seen before he'd drifted away into oblivious sleep.

"...alright?" she asked, and Vincent blinked his eyes open once more, this time holding them in a half-squint in an attempt to ward off some of the harsh white glare.

"Wat...?" Vincent asked, the word slipping out in Dutch instead of English.

This, for some reason, put him in a brief panic that oh, God, he might have forgotten how to speak English and here he was in England and getting ready for a hopeful move back to Turkey and he'd never be able to communicate with anyone ever again--before his brain kicked back into gear and he let out a laugh at the absurdity of that entire scenario.

That laugh led to another, then another, until he was giggling uncontrollably for absolutely no reason. Asima let it happen, going about her work as though a grown man laying in a hospital bed with tubes coming out of his hand and machines beeping out his vital signs laughing his head off about seemingly nothing was just another Monday afternoon for her. Maybe it was, who was Vincent to say?

"Is that..." A different voice, low and soft and strong; cut through with an undercurrent of concern that, for once, Christian didn't sound like he was even bothering to conceal. "Is everything okay?"

Vincent flicked his eyes open once more, then dropped his head to the right in the direction of Christian's voice. His eyes scanned past dull beige walls and gleaming metal fixtures, everything polished and sterile and clean. He twisted and shifted, ignoring the prick of pain in his hand as the motion shifted the IV needle as his eyes finally landed on he familiar figure perched on the edge of one of the chairs slid into the corner of the room, leaning forward, elbows on his knees, his eyes fixed on Vincent.

"Christiaan," he said, the word coming out a bit raspy and breathless as though his voice hadn't been used in a few days, although in reality the surgery had only been scheduled for a few hours. "Je bent er nog steds."

Maybe he really had forgotten English.

Insistent pressure against his shoulder and Christian looked up, eyes focused above and behind Vincent's bed to where Asima still stood, pressing Vincent back down into the too hard mattress.

"Sit back, please," she said.

Vincent rolled his head back towards Asima, who once again stood over him, dark eyes staring down at him expectantly.

"Are you doing alright?"

"Ja," Vincent said and then "Godverdamme. Yes. I mean yes. I mean...I'm good, just...ugggghhhhhh."

He lifted his hands again, wanting nothing more than to scrub at his eyeballs in some vain attempt to wipe away the lingering fog still filling up his brain. His right hand lifted free, but he once again let out a yelp as the IV sent a stabbing pain shooting up his arm.

"Vincent?" Christian's voice again, closer this time and now laced with a vague panic. A familiar hand wrapped around Vincent's own, long fingers twining with his own, skin hot and damp with sweat.

"I'm fine, Lieveke," Vincent said, still speaking in Dutch, although this time less for a lack of capacity for English than out of habit. "Just..." He took a breath. "Trying to make my brain work in English."

The last bit, he actually managed to say in English, which he took as a good sign. He was probably on the road to recovery with no lasting damage. To his brain, at least. He had no idea what the state of his foot might be, except now that the anaesthetic was wearing off he was starting to notice the sharp pulsating throbs of pain radiating through his foot and his leg.

He squeezed Christian's hand tighter against the sensation, and Christian returned the grip.

"I am...good," Vincent repeated, this time for Asima's benefit. "Is everything...?"

"The surgery went well," she said. "Everything went according to plan. We need to keep you here for a bit longer for some observation and to make sure there aren't any unforeseen complications, but you should be ready to return home this evening."

Christian breathed out a sigh that it sounded like he'd been holding in for most of the day, then gave Vincent's hand another squeeze. "Good. That's good news. I can...oh--"

He trailed off, abruptly straightening up and stepping back from Vincent's bedside, although he didn't release his grasp on Vincent's hand. "Liefje, will you...I have to make a phone call or two. I'll be back as soon as I can, okay?"

"Oke," Vincent said, not letting go of Christian's hand. "But...where are you going?"

Christian brushed a hand across Vincent's forehead, sweeping back the sweat damp fringe of his hair that had fallen out of place. He leaned over the curved metal railing running the length of the bed and pressed a kiss to the centre of Vincent's forehead, his lips cool and dry against Vincent's skin.

"I'm going to make sure everything is perfect for when it's time to get you home. A few minutes, Liefje, I promise. I know you're fine, and I trust Asima here to take the best care of you, but I don't want to let you out of my sight for a minute longer than I have to."

Vincent shook his head and let out a low chuckle of a laugh. "You are ridiculous, you know that?"

Christian's eyes wide and Vincent could see a thousand emotions all flooding behind them--fear and helplessness and relief and apprehension and love--and Vincent knew that if the roles were reversed he wouldn't be keeping things together half as well as Christian was. The surgery had been minor and routine, and Vincent was in peak physical condition. But just because you knew, rationally, that everything was going to be okay, that didn't mean the non-rational parts of your brain would let you believe it.

"I'll be fine,Christiaan," Vincent said, unlinking his fingers from Christian's and pulling him back down for another kiss. This time, Vincent shifted, still mindful of the IV and assorted tubes running out of his left arm, and sliding upward in his bed until his lips met Christian's.

He wrapped a hand around the back of Christian's neck, pressing him in closer. Christian's lips parted, and Vincent took the opportunity to swipe his tongue against Christian's teeth. He was rewarded with a small gasp, and Christian opened his mouth wider, crushing his mouth harder against Vincent's. Slide of tongue against tongue, scent of Christian's cologne filling Vincent's nose and the faint hint of citrus and mint lingering on Christian's tongue.

From Vincent's left, Asima let out a small, deliberate cough. Christian all but leapt backwards, mouth still open, eyes wide, both hands in the air in front of him--as though he'd been caught in the middle of some sort of nefarious criminal activity.

"Sorry to...interrupt," Asima said. "It's just...I need to ask a few questions and check some of your vital signs. Plus, well..." Her bronze skin flushed pink and she cleared her throat again. "If your heart rate or pressures elevate too much I'd have to call in a medical team. So..."

"Oh, god," Christian gasped, his face nearly tomato red now, and Vincent couldn’t help but laugh at the sight, though he could feel the heat creeping into his own ears and cheeks.

"I'd better..." Christian said, holding up his phone. "Back soon."

He turned towards the door, not quite running towards the corridor, but walking with purpose as he jabbed at the screen of his mobile.

"Christiaan," Vincent called out just as he reached the doorway, and Christian stopped in his tracks and spun to face him, phone now dangling in a loose grip at his side as he focused all his attention on Vincent.

"Bedankt," Vincent said. "For being here. I really...it means a lot."

Christian shook his head and gave Vincent a warm smile. "Where else would I be, Liefje? Now listen to Asima and I'll be back soon."

Vincent nodded and returned Christian's smile, his whole body glowing with the warmth of Christian's affection. "Oke. Ik hou van je."

"Ik hou ook van jou. Zo veel."

Christian flashed Vincent an awkward wave, then disappeared out the door and around the corner.

#football rpf #football rpf challenge #30-day football rpf challenge #30-day writing challenge #christian eriksen x vincent janssen #november writing #writing #drizzit writes #thoughts on writing and life

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askullinajar · 6 years

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A Little Help From Your Friends (Part 4)

T/W: Suicide Mention. Also mentions of near sexual assault. Nothing graphic, just some sleazy guys getting handsy, but I thought I’d warn just in case.

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6

Fic Info: Takes place around 2 years before the events of A Merry Little Christmas. Rating: Mature. Pairings: Lucy/Lockwood, Holly/Rani, others if you squint. Ao3 link: here

Stuck in a jar, longing to get out, longing to live again, the skull never thought there’d be a future where he wished he had just stayed dead.

But maybe all he needed was a helping hand from the people who somehow, against their better judgement, cared. A helping hand from each of them. In turn.

Part 4: The Stranger

The nighttime breeze was cool against Skully’s face as he strolled leisurely through the park. He wasn’t supposed to be alone, he knew, but he couldn’t take much longer of being cooped up in his flat, so he’d snuck out while Holly – his babysitter for the day – had been busy making a bunch of dinners to freeze so he didn’t have to bother cooking. She was too nice sometimes, it was sickening.

He sucked in a deep breath of air. There was something about going for a walk after dark that seemed to make the world just melt away. The air smelled different, fresher. Stars twinkled in the sky. There was barely anyone around so no pressure to keep acting human. You could just let everything go for a moment.

He walked this way during lunch break at work, on occasion. He could see the hospital from here, the lights still shining through the windows. He still wasn’t allowed back at work for a while, but, god, he missed it. Not necessarily the people so much – he didn’t get along so well with them – but the routine. The feeling of actually being useful.

He watched shadows move past the lit windows. There was supposed to be a new employee joining the forensics department some time, he remembered. He hoped they weren’t as mind-numbingly boring as his other colleagues. You’d think a field in studying crime scenes would attract some interesting people sometimes, but no! At least Rani and A.J. popped in from time to time, or he’d literally go insane.

How long had he been out now? He had sort of zoned out for a while there. He didn’t want Holly panicking and calling the others. He should probably head back.

Then he heard a scream.

A female scream. Skully knew these streets; full of back alleys and pubs and nightclubs. It was just about the time of night that drunken men would be let loose.

The screaming continued. He bolted towards the sound.

A young girl, no older than eighteen, stood cornered in an alleyway, surrounded by men who were getting a little too handsy.

“P-please. No. Just let me go. Please.”

“Come on,” a man was saying as his comrades laughed, “a little dress like that, you can’t expect not to get some attention now…”

Skully didn’t really think before he barrelled straight into him, shoving him away from the girl.

“Run,” he told her. “Straight to the police station.”

She didn’t need telling twice.

The lead man picked himself off the ground and glared at Skully. “Think you can get in the way of me getting some?”

Skully gave him a loose smile. “I think I just did.”

Skully had met people like this before. Victorian London had been swarming with them. Once upon a time, he’d have made short work of them; a quick slice to all the major arteries before having Bickerstaff’s burlier men drag the bodies to the basement. They usually wound up in the Thames after that. But now, London’s officers were a little more competent, and Skully couldn’t be bothered with the fuss at that moment. Anyway, he didn’t have his knives… And Lucy would probably get mad at him.

Of course, he had ghostly talents at his disposal, but that was to remain a secret. He didn’t want these men blurting out about a man with supernatural powers.

So, when the first man gave a roar and charged towards him, he side-stepped and let him run straight into the wall, where he crumpled on the ground, out cold.

While the other men stood dazed at how fast their friend had fallen, Skully took the opportunity to weigh them up.

Once, a good few years ago, Lucy has asked him if he still saw people the way he did as a ghost – their spirits rather than their bodies. He had told her no, but that wasn’t strictly true. He saw their physical form as anyone else would, yes. But also, just beyond that, their souls. Clearer after dark, like with death-glows. How bright they were. And how rotten. That was another thing; he was sick of seeing all the rot.

These men, they were all rotten. Their souls black and festering, distorting their features. They were hideous to look at.

Skully couldn’t see his own soul in the mirror, but he often wondered, what with all he’d done and his questionable moral compass, whether his soul looked like that. And if it did, whether it could be reversed.

The men came to their senses. The big, burly one took a swing at Skully. He dodged and jabbed his elbow into the back of the man’s neck. The man gave a shout as he stumbled, and his wiry friend aimed a kick towards Skully, who dodged and knocked his other leg out from under him, making him collapse to the ground.

Too preoccupied with the two men, Skully failed to dodge as the final man swung at him. He was an average looking guy, but damn, he could pack a punch, and Skully sprawled to the ground, his right cheek throbbing.

As he was trying to push himself up, the burly man kicked at his ribs, and Skully fell back down, gasping, winded.

Oh, how tempting it was to unleash his powers. But he couldn’t; the truth coming out could lead to the public getting ideas, which could lead to another Problem, the lives of children be damned. People were horrible that way.

Another kick forced Skully to roll over. That one had definitely cracked a rib.

The alleyway was dark, the souls of the men darker. Maybe he’d just let them beat him. At least the girl had gotten away.

Then: light. Almost blinding in its brightness. A person, Skully realised, with a soul brighter than he’d ever seen, who had run over and now stood between him and the three men.

The wiry man laughed. Such a disgusting, nasally sound. “Look at this! A little girl’s come to your rescue. And we thought you’d chased away our only plaything.”

“I’m not little,” said the person, “and I’m not a girl.” And they punched the wiry man straight in the face.

He swayed on the spot for a moment, then fell flat on his face, joining his former leader.

Skully pushed himself into a sitting position, too shocked and in awe to do anything else.

The remaining two men blinked in surprise, then they seemed to come to their senses.

“Kind of small for a boy,” the burly one growled, swinging a punch at the person.

“I’m not a boy either,” they said, spinning out of the way, their long bronze hair flying out behind them, and jabbing the man in his torso three times in quick succession.

The man’s arm seemed to just… collapse.

“What the…?” he started, staggering. That was when the bronze-haired person round-house kicked him in the head, and he fell to ground too.

But now they were facing away from that damn final man, who pulled his arm back ready to punch. Skully didn’t even think before he thrust his hands forwards and sent a blast of psychic wind that threw the man into the wall so hard the brick cracked.

The person turned their head and looked down at the unconscious man, then to the other three bodies, then finally to Skully.

“How did you…?” they both said in unison, then the sound of sirens came into earshot.

The person’s sky-blue eyes grew wide.

“The police are coming? I can’t… I won’t be able to talk to them. I–” They began flapping their arms frantically at their sides.

“Hey,” said Skully, pushing himself to his feet. He made to reach towards them and steady their arms, but they jerked out of the way, so he kept his hands raised, close but not touching. “It’s okay, just run. I’ll handle this.”

They turned their wide-eyed gaze on him. “But… what about you?”

“Listen,” he said. “I’ve already been arrested three times this year and its only March. And, yet, I’ve never been charged with anything.”

They frowned. “How…?”

The sirens grew closer.

“Doesn’t matter,” he said. “But trust me, I can handle this. Just go. And thanks for stepping in, by the way.”

They managed to give him a small smile before they ran off and disappeared down the alley, just in time for a police car to arrive and two officers to step out.

“Jim Walker,” said the senior officer. “Why am I not surprised? What’s the story this time?”

Skully grinned at him. “Oh, you know me, Dave. Just in the wrong place at the wrong time, is all.”

Dave eyed the unconscious forms over his shoulder, then looked Skully up and down. “And how did you get that cut on your cheek?”

“I tripped,” said Skully. “I’m such a clutz!”

Dave hummed. “You must be, the number of times you’ve just ‘tripped’.”

He put his radio to his mouth. “Need an ambulance and backup, ASAP.”

Skully smiled. The number of times Dave had arrested him, at least he knew by now that these men were no nice guys and backup would be needed.

Dave glanced over his shoulder at the other cop and huffed. “What’re you waiting for, McGuire? Cuff the boy!”

“Oh!” McGuire blurted, fumbling with the handcuffs at his belt. “Yes, sir!”

Skully eyed the other cop. He was younger, perhaps fresh out of the academy, and Skully hadn’t seen him around before. He smiled. Fresh meat.

“Don’t have any padded ones, do you?” said Skully, holding up his bandaged arms. “Only my wrists are a little sore.” He tilted his head to one side and gave the young cop a lazy smile. “Or do you prefer them rough?”

McGuire’s face turned bright red and he began spluttering, dropping the handcuffs in his embarrassment. Skully’s smile grew wider.

Dave let out a sigh. “Walker, I’ve told you before and I’ll tell you again: Stop trying to seduce my officers.”

Skully adopted a looking of mock innocence. “Trying to?”

Dave just gave him a dead-pan stare, a look he was famous for. “Forget the cuffs, just get in the car.”

Skully happily obliged, and watched through the window as ambulances and more police cars showed up, officers hand-cuffing the men to their stretchers.

He wondered where the bronze-haired person was now, and if he’d ever see a soul so bright again.

Previous Next

#lockwood and co #lockwood & co #The Skull #skully #Jim Walker #lockwood spoilers #holly munro #fic #my fic #skully will get much needed hugs in due course worry not #rowan writes

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mayasderen · 7 years

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SkamwlwWeek: Favourite pairing - Sana x Noora

I wrote this because i started to entertain the idea of the 4x5 evak karaoke scene as them and honestly??it just works. Anyway special shoutout to @lesbiannooras for being an angel, looking through this mess and making it a lil bit less of a mess (also being super enthusiastic ily Lizzie!)

So.

Noora is standing on a stage.

She’s standing on the stage of the karaoke bar SYNG.

She’s standing there because her lovely friends couldn’t stop nagging her about going there and singing her heart out.

She’s standing there ‘cause her friends aren’t lovely.

No, they were. They sure as hell mean well. Obviously things have been a lot better since she’s come back from London, realized she was gay and confessed her love to Sana. Things were good but a relationship like that, the kind she’s had with him doesn’t leave you completely unharmed. It’s also not good for your confidence and will to show yourself to a lot of people and know that they’re going to perceive you in different ways and you have no control over it. Oh, Noora! She’s so pretty and fun and have you seen her hair? I’m so jealous I heard boys are running after her like mad. Like there’s any universe in which that doesn’t sound threatening. Maybe in the universe of straight girls who weren’t stuck in an abusive relationship for a year, and even though Noora would never wish them that, she’s had to realize, that universe is as far from the one she’s living in as it gets.

So yeah, obviously the girls thought it would be good if Noora battled her insecurities and stopped giving a fuck about people seeing her and just went up there and had fun. It sounded easy and they smiled at her and Sana smiled at her, and suddenly it seemed like The Easiest Thing In The World. Her girlfriend kind of had this effect on her.

And there she is. Standing on the stage.

The first chords of Marina and the Diamonds’ Happy are filling in the bar. It was an obvious choice, kind of cliché if she wanted to be really honest with herself. But she’s started to like cliché as she noticed. It was safe and warm and you know what? She doesn’t have to prove to anyone that she’s not exactly that, that she’s a ‘special girl’. She went through some serious stuff and she really didn’t think that she could be happy again. But she is here and she is looking down on the crowd of her friends.

Eva has her arms around Vilde while talking to Eskild. They’re both glowing with love and contentment. Linn is standing next to them looking curiously around the place. She’s doing a lot better, she’s been seeing this girl and the fact that Noora can’t feel like she had a role in that made her heart ache. She hasn’t been the best friend to Linn before everything happened but she’s been trying a lot and it seems to work. Chris is talking to Ingrid looking at her face like it’s the most interesting thing she’s ever seen. She’s confessed to Noora that she might have a little huge crush on her and she’s ready to move in from Kasper. Mari is hugging her girlfriend looking cheerful beautiful as always Noora has coffee with her the week before and she told her all about Iben, how they met at a party where P Chris got drunk and tried to make out with her, but Mari saved her and they started talking. It was a lovely story and Noora could swear that she hasn’t seen Mari this happy, like ever. Even and Isak are talking to the boys who were joined by a few new people who Noora believes are Elias’ friends Sana told her about (speaking of: he is looking at Eskild’s direction suspiciously a lot and Noora can’t help the grin spreading around her face) Those two boys looked drunk in love, as they always did, reminding Noora of the times she wished she could find that, or find it again but no, it wasn’t him. They never looked at each other like that, even at peaceful times. No, that was something different, not that healthy, not that glowing, not what Eva and Vilde or Even and Isak had. And Noora almost gave up trying she almost believed that there was no one for her, no one who could’ve gone through similar things, and understood everything she felt, who would look at her like she’s the only thing that matters. What she didn’t think of was that maybe she already had it but she didn’t know where to look. Maybe…

Brown eyes piercing through her skin. Not the way his cold glare used to, it’s peaceful and warm. It feels like home. She’s watching her. She’s standing next to their friends who are laughing and joking and she’s watching her. When their eyes meet she smiles and Noora remembers that was the first thing she’s fallen in love with. The two dimples those perfect cheeks and the infinite kindness that’s in this girl and how there are people who aren’t lucky enough to get to know it but Noora is one of the few who do because Sana decided she was worthy and that’s the most amazing and unbelievable thing that has ever happened to her.

And as the first lyrics turn yellow showing her what to say she realizes she really really likes this cliché. She found happiness in herself and her friends and it’s good and it’s peaceful. And with that, Noora starts to sing.

It’s almost faith-like the way she came to this realization just as he walks into the bar. Obviously Noora is aware that he’s back, she knows something about her new girlfriend too. Apparently they met in London and he made her come to Oslo with him. She’s ridiculously skinny with blonde hair and she’s wearing a tight short white dress looking obviously uncomfortable. It’s like a sick reverse game and Noora doesn’t like it. As they walk in he’s holding onto that poor girl like a handbag and stops at the middle of the room as soon as he notices her.

Noora could never read him. He’s quite expressionless if she wants to be honest to herself. And now he’s standing there and Noora doesn’t know how to breath suddenly and why isn’t he showing emotion? Look angry, look surprised, just do something for god’s sake. Noora can feel her vision getting blurry and her thoughts racing and her heart beat feels like the whole place can hear it. Suddenly she feels soft hand around her arms and on her back, and someone taking away her microphone and suddenly Sana’s voice is all she can hear in the noisy bar.

It felt so sweet, it felt so strong It made me feel like I belonged And all the sadness inside me Melted away like I was free

Sana is looking at her and she knows she’s singing for her and they’re the only two people in this club and she’s looking into those brown eyes and she swears she feels the warmth of the sun on her skin . She takes a deep breath and looks back at him and he looks. Disgusted probably. Shocked. Mostly just like he always does. He’s a pathetic excuse of a man who can’t even show one emotion and in that moment Noora realizes that he doesn’t deserve her. He never did and he never will and it doesn’t matter how many times she has told herself that or the girls told her or Eskild told her and how many times she went to sleep crying repeating it to herself like a mantra, like her life depended on it she never truly believed it. She believed that he could take what he wanted, he had the right because he’s been through stuff and Noora was a needed person and it didn’t matter if she felt good or felt like herself. And it made her distant and push away the people she loved the most and she couldn’t even think of the fact that he might not have been the only option; that maybe he, along with other men, weren’t even an option for her because when you get so cut off from yourself, from your identity, you want one thing. To be loved and to do everything he wants. And the problem is that you only realize that those two shouldn’t mean the same thing when it’s too late. But there’s no too late and she just proved him wrong because she’s never been happier than she is without him and he quite honestly can fuck off with his big car and his expressionless face even back to London for all she cares.

Because she’s here and she survived and all of these people in the club love her unconditionally and doesn’t want to change her or her opinions. They would never treat her like she isn’t worth shit and even if they did, there’s one thing that asshole has taught her, it’s that staying is not your only option and when you start to treat yourself the way you treat your friends, you realize you have the power to walk away. And Noora will never ever let anyone make her believe that she can’t do just that anymore. Because she’s not alone, she’s never been, it’s clear from the view of this messy room of happy smiling faces and lively noise and all of these people cheering for her.

And with that, Noora squeezes Sana’s hand and she looks at her girls let’s out a laugh and whilst she feels her girlfriend’s lips on her cheek she starts shouting the chorus along with the bar and all her friends and she feels the tears running down her cheek from the pure happiness that’s shaking her entire body.

I found what I’d been looking for in myself Found a life worth living for someone else Never thought that I could be, I could be Happy, happy

#uh? yeah.#just a quick warning this fic is p heavy on anti-williamness but so am i and honestly if u like him why r u even on my blog...but anyway #dont read this if u stan him #another warning is that im literally the anti-julie andem i make everything gay so dont b alarmed #and i hope u like this??idk seems like a bit of a mess for me but i needed to sort out my feelings about s4 in general and how they treated #my girls #sana x noora #skamwlwweek #skam #sanoora #berta writes stuff #idk #wlwskam #sana bakkoush #noora amelie saetre

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ecotone99 · 5 years

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[SF] [HM] Case in Point

**Case in Point was written as a short story, and is also now the prologue for the SF novel I'm writing, of the same name. So feedback very much appreciated, good or bad, to help me shape & develop the novel!**

Frank Kincaid was not a happy man. He wasn’t even Frank Kincaid. At least, not the original.

It started like this: you want something done right, do it yourself. Don’t have the time? Copy yourself into a new body and send them instead. Expensive, certainly, but if the job was important enough, the payoff sufficiently high, you’d be crazy to send some other schlub. But what if the job was unpleasant? What if it was something you didn’t want to do? Well, that was easy too: you adjust the copy, tweak it a little so it won’t mind getting its hands dirty or, if it does, it’ll be stubborn enough to do it anyway. And then, assuming you’re a decent human being, you meet up afterwards, buy yourself a few beers, pat yourself on the back, and reintegrate.

Assuming. Of course, if you’re not a decent human being, then you just take the money and run. Saves having to fill your head with all those unsettling memories. And then your copy would find itself stranded somewhere – say, a sleazy bar in the cheap side of a half-finished habitat dome on Mars – with no money, some newly-acquired enemies, a head full of edited memories and personality algorithms, and one solitary certainty to cling to: that the real Them, whoever They were, whatever Their actual name might be, was an absolute, first-class, no-holds-barred, unrelenting bastard.

As small comforts go, that one was pretty tiny, but Kincaid clung to it with a tenacity that had probably cost his old self a small fortune in psychosurgery bills to acquire.

He glared up at the barman defiantly, and ordered a whisky. The barman glared back and laughed.

“Nice try. Orange juice or lemonade?”

Kincaid sighed, gesturing his meagre bank account into life in the space between them, and proffered a ¥2,000 note. “How about a coffee, and maybe you could Irish it up for me?”

The barman shook his head in disgust but took the bribe anyway. Kincaid snatched up the drink and retreated to a table in the corner where he could brood in peace.

“For the love of God, kid, read the sign. No smoking.”

Kincaid glanced guiltily at the cigar poised halfway to his mouth, and returned it unlit to his top pocket.

That was another thing. Would it have been too much to ask to give himself a fresh set of habits to go with the new body? Say, a keen interest in football, sucking his thumb, and fizzy drinks from around the solar system. As opposed to booze, tobacco, gambling and womanising – the last being particularly problematic. There was an old joke: “I wouldn’t touch any woman who’d be interested in the likes of me.” Ha. Welcome to Self Loathing, Population: 1.

He glowered into his coffee.

“Jen: Any interesting contracts available?”

Genevieve burst into glorious life in the corner of his retinal HUD and pursed ruby lips thoughtfully. “Some old lady’s offering fifty thou’ for the safe return of her missing cat?”

“Hysterical laughter. For the last time, I’m not a PI anymore, I don’t find pets. Next?”

“Halcyon have-”

“Hang on. Fifty grand? For a cat? Mark that one down as a definite maybe.”

“Sure thing. Halcyon Interplanetary Industries have a ¥150,000 bounty on one Tricia Altmann, wanted for embezzlement. Civil case, so bring her in alive. I’m flashing up her corporate ID, address, known contacts and immediate family.”

Kincaid scanned the data sourly. “A hundred and fifty. Well, aren’t they generosity incarnate. What did she do, make off with the petty cash? Don’t you have anything with a little punch? I’m not getting off this rock on cats and suits.”

That earned him a stern look from eyes the colour of molten bronze. “Cats and suits pay the bills, Frank. “Punch” gets you killed.”

“What are you, my Mum? Come on, something in seven figures, at least. Make it worth my while.”

She raised an eyebrow but let it pass. “You know I hate the ‘armed and dangerous’ file.”

“We’re not having this discussion again. I’m going back to Earth. I’m going to find the real me. I’m going to punch him for a while, and then I’m going to bodynap the bugger. Okay, maybe reverse the order on that one and switch bodies first. The important thing is, I’m getting my body back, and my life, and the real me can have this one, see how he likes it. That’s going to take money and plenty of it. And that means spraying bullets – no two ways about it.”

She gave him a Look. “It’s only because I care, Frank.”

“You’re programmed to care, don’t make it sound noble.” He regretted it instantly, but the damage was done. Synthetic hurt feelings washed over technicolour features, sculpted brows drawing together in artificial fury. “Listen, Jen-”

“Fine. You want seven figures? How about eight. The Raminov Brothers, Lev and Vadim, wanted for extortion, armed robbery and five counts of murder. Seven mil’ for Vadim, eleven for Lev, dead or alive. There’s your big score – might even cover the hospital fees. You can catch them now if you hurry, they’re all over the news, shooting up a housing fab three blocks away. Two badges dead at the scene, so – your lucky day – the reward should be going up any time now.”

“I-” The apology got no further than his throat, or its digital equivalent in his private VR, where it twisted into a grunt of annoyance. “Huh. Right then. Was that so hard? Flash me the address and let’s get going.”

She sulked all the way there. Well, he was an arsehole, right? Case in point: young Frank, two years out of New Scotland Yard Crime Academy, working traffic in South London. That’s London, Earth. As in, real air, real whisky, real coffee. There he was, admiring the congestion, when a black roadster came screaming out of a side street hotly pursued by a ’29 Ford Classique. They both swerved to avoid the gridlock, the Classique mistimed it, mounted the curb, and ran over a ten-year-old kid.

Messy. Kincaid still remembered the shock of staring down into the ruined face as he dialled the emergency services, hoping against hope the boy’s parents were among the privileged few who could afford personality backup, because it didn’t take a medical degree to see that nothing was going to be salvaged from what was left of that poor skull. The driver was stood beside Kincaid, sobbing that he was a copper in pursuit of a suspect, that he hadn’t seen the kid, oh Christ, he just came out of nowhere.

No sympathy. The man’s career was over, of course, and he didn’t try to fight it, but the higher-ups wanted to paint it as a freak accident. No Reckless Endangerment, just a blameless copper in the wrong place at the wrong time, resigning out of guilt and nothing more. Kincaid wouldn’t have it. That much speed in a built-up area, someone was going to get killed, and he testified accordingly. Two more ruined lives to add to those of the family – the kid wasn’t backed up, so it was jail for the officer, and Kincaid was drummed out of the force on a trumped-up disciplinary a few months later. Or maybe it wasn’t so trumped up; he’d had a few issues since the accident, hadn’t exactly been cooperative with the mandatory trauma counselling. So some punches were thrown, big deal.

The point was, he’d had it easy, threw it all away on a point of principle. And for what? To hammer another nail into the coffin of a man already riddled with guilt? Arsehole.

He checked the action on his Glock Needlegun, made sure the concealed armslide was unobstructed, and swung himself out of the beat-up VW that currently served his transportation needs. There were a couple of camerabots jockeying for position outside the fab’s characteristically Martian red brick frontage, but no immediate sign of trouble. He pushed past them, drawing angry electronic squawks as their live feeds filled with the back of his head.

A shot rang out from inside the building as he reached the entrance, followed by a burst of automatic fire. He flattened himself against the wall. The distant wailing of sirens gave him about a two minute lead on the police – couldn’t claim a bounty for men who were already dead or in custody. He unclasped his satchel, pushed open the door and stepped inside.

The foyer was gloomy and had the look of a rundown hotel, shoddily converted into housing after the colonial bubble burst: grubby carpet that might once have been beige, cracked plaster, and a cheap plastic reception desk made up to look like wood. Kincaid decided against using the lift and was halfway up the first flight of stairs when more automatic fire rang out, answered by a couple of single shots. Sounded like the next floor, somewhere off to the right. The bloody forms of two private police decorated the landing. No pulse.

He pushed through the door to his right and followed the gunfire down a dim corridor. Half the lighting strips were out and one in every two of the doorways had been crudely sealed up as part of the conversion, the brickwork left exposed. No one had even bothered to paint over. He peered around the corner and then ducked back hastily. Two men were taking cover beside a kicked-in door, automatic shotguns in hand, the kind of faces that betrayed a lifetime of violence – broken noses, cauliflower ears, more scar tissue than unmarred flesh. Lev and Vadim, without a doubt. There were bullet holes in the plaster behind them; someone was firing back?

The shotguns sounded out once, twice, three times. Kincaid risked a glance in time to see the pair pile through the doorway, firing as they went. He followed as stealthily as he could, pausing outside to take stock. The Russians were advancing down a short hall, weapons trained on the far door, through the tattered splinters of which could be seen the remains of a hand basin, a cramped bathtub, and fallen across it, bleeding heavily, a middle-aged woman. A handgun slipped from her grasp as Genevieve flashed up a photo ID: Tricia Altmann, formerly of Halcyon Interplanetary Industries.

Kincaid considered the Glock, but the odds of putting both men down cleanly without either twitching off a shot into Altmann’s face weren’t promising. No time to think. Shit.

“Mummy!” He broke cover and ran towards them, satchel bouncing around at his side. “Don’t hurt my mummy!”

The brothers turned in confusion, and one reached out a hand and grabbed him by the front of his school uniform, hauling him into the air. Pitiless eyes stared into his.

“Your mummy’s going to die, son. You can watch if you like.”

Kincaid reached into his top pocket. “Cigar?” he offered civilly, by way of a distraction, as his other hand found what it was looking for in the satchel and brought it out. “I’d run if I were you.”

He brought his little legs up against the Russian’s chest and kicked as the grenade hit the ground, clattering away across the tiles. He landed awkwardly, rolled into the tub next to Altmann, and covered her eyes as the flashbang detonated.

The Glock slid smoothly into his hand and he was firing blindly into the room before the flare died away. Huh. The Raminovs weren’t as stupid as they looked – there was no sign of them, which meant they’d either fled back down the hallway or else ducked into one of the side rooms. His ears were ringing too loudly to be much help on that front, but Genevieve reported the sound of running footsteps in the corridor outside.

“You okay?”

He realised the futility of the question when his own words were drowned out by the ringing, so he settled for checking her over by hand. Her shoulder was a mess and blood was seeping from a wound in her side, but she was strong enough to pull him off when he tried to lift the blouse.

“Listen-” He shook his head, and switched to virtual audio courtesy of Genevieve. “Listen, you need medical attention. Here-” He fumbled in the satchel and brought out a medical kit. He started to pantomime patching her wounds, but it seemed she’d had the same idea about virtual audio.

“Who the hell are you?”

“Kincaid. Hi. How are you? Now help me get that blouse off before you bleed to death.”

It wasn’t pretty. Buckshot might not be the most sophisticated of technologies, but the shotguns were state of the art, military-grade kit. Powerful, lethal, highly illegal, and still relatively safe to use within the confines of a hab dome. Not as safe as his needle rounds, mind, but not everyone could be the upstanding citizen he was.

He tutted and sprayed on idiot mix – a combination antiseptic, anaesthetic and fast-acting clotting agent that was usually enough to get the drunk and accident-prone to hospital before they bled out. The pock-marked flesh scabbed over and he added a layer of synthskin for good measure. It looked a god awful lumpy mess, but then it would all have to be redone when the shot was removed anyway.

She glanced at him questioningly and he shrugged. “You’ll live. Probably. Here-” He offered his hand and half-helped, half-dragged her out of the tub. “If I’m not mistaken, that’s the sound of a dozen pairs of flat feet piling out of a rapid response unit. Fancy sticking around and explaining all this? Didn’t think so. Rear exit?”

She led the way. They came out in the car park, and she unlocked a corporate dronemobile and ushered him in. There’d be some explaining to do when the police traced his VW out front, but he’d have to figure that out later.

“So what’s your story?”

The car glided out of the lot and into the Martian twilight, and Altmann eased the seat back and sprawled. Her hair was more dust than brunette, her face a patchwork of worry lines, pale with shock, but there was enough of a hint that she might be bookishly handsome underneath it all for him to want to like her. She quirked a tired grin at him. “You first, ‘son’.”

He grimaced. “You don’t want to hear all that.”

She laughed, then clutched at her shoulder. “Ow. Sure, no one ever wants to hear that story, I bet.”

“Hardly anyone at all,” he agreed dryly. “Okay, fair enough. My name may or may not be Frank Kincaid, and I’m not me. I’m a copy. If I can trust my own memories, which honestly I don’t, I was created to collect on a particularly difficult bounty here in New Beijing.”

To be fair, she was probably too tired to look especially shocked, but she still took it pretty well. “Bounty hunter, huh? That mean we’re about to take a detour to Halcyon corporate HQ?”

“The thought had crossed my mind. But I’m happy to cruise on auto while we talk things through. I was after the Russians.”

“Isn’t it against some kind of code to take out the competition?”

He snorted. “Those two, bounty hunters? Do me a favour. The pittance on your head wasn’t even enough to get my attention, never mind the Raminov Brothers.”

“Pittance? I’m positively insulted. I thought they’d at least stretch to a trifle. So if they aren’t bounty hunters, who are they?”

“Thugs. Killers. Any idea why they’d want to spray paint your home in buckshot grey?”

“Not if they weren’t after the money. That wasn’t my home, by the way. That was temporary. Trying to lie low...” Her voice tailed off and she looked for a moment like she might be sick, then she drew in a long breath and sighed it out. “So, you were telling me about this person you’re not. If I’ve got this right, you’re some kind of edited copy, sent to kill a big shot here in New Beijing. Anyone I know?”

“Wu Lao Hui.”

He smirked. No hiding her reaction to that little name drop.

“Wait, you-”

“Yep. Wu, AKA Ahmad Ben Shah, AKA The Butcher of Benghazi, AKA Theodore Valentinas. That last name you probably won't have heard before, but it’s the one he was born with. The man swapped identities like you’d swap shoes. Anyway, that was me. Unnamed government operative, my arse.”

She frowned sceptically. “The Libyans couldn’t reach him, and you took him out in that piece of shit body?”

“Appearances can be deceptive. Which was the whole point. Valentinas had a brother, lived with him in the bunker, and the brother had a family. Specifically, a wife, Lara, and their ten-year-old son, Raph. This body was custom ordered by the original me to be a perfect duplicate of Raph. I was created to occupy that body, and psychosurgically altered to suit the needs of the operation. I strolled in past security, shot Valentinas twice in the chest and once in the head, and strolled right back out again.”

She whistled. “So why-”

“-doesn’t anyone know it was me?”

“And why-”

“-am I still here? Because, firstly, killing the head of the most powerful crime family in New Beijing is one thing, living to tell the tale is another (hello, Frank Kincaid, blabbermouth, pleased to meet you), and secondly, I can’t afford transport off this rock. Frank 1.0 welched on the deal. Collected the money and disappeared. That’s assuming, of course, there ever was a version of me working as a bounty hunter on Earth, and I wasn’t cooked up in a lab by Libyan Intelligence to take care of business. Plausible deniability, all that jazz.”

“Wow. That’s a lot of uncertainty to live with, and any way you look at it-”

“-I’m buggered. Yep. Speaking of which, your career prospects aren’t looking too rosy right now either. Care to fill me in? Maybe we can work out why two hired killers with military issue hardware have taken such a dislike to you.”

She took another deep breath. “It doesn’t make any sense. Look, I work in Accounts. The pay stinks, the hours are lousy, and my boss has bad breath and wandering hands. So, I siphoned a little out of the slush fund. A couple of mil’. Just enough to tide me over till I found a new job – I didn’t think they’d even notice.”

He raised an eyebrow.

“Okay, several mil’. Nine, actually. Still, petty cash to a hypercorp.” She leaned into him, one hand on his chest, and big brown eyes bore into his. “Please help me, Frank.”

Kincaid sighed and shook his head sadly. “Just when I was starting to like you. You’re a poor helpless pencil pusher who got greedy, and now the big nasty hypercorp is trying to kill you. Good thing there’s a strong, dashing man for you to snuggle up to.” His lip curled in disgust. “You’re not a pervert, Ms Altmann, and neither am I, so drop the act. You wouldn’t be trying to manipulate me this hard unless you knew a lot more than you’re letting on.”

She recoiled as if she’d been struck, and sat watching him for a moment. “Halcyon are trying to kill me, Mr Kincaid.”

“Doesn’t wash. Why set the bounty so low if they give a damn about finding you? Try again.”

“Because licenced bounty hunters won’t kill over simple theft – it’s illegal. And Halcyon don’t want me alive, they want me dead. I took ¥100,000,000, and it’s still not about the money.”

Kincaid whistled softly. “Go on.”

“It’s about our Russian friends, in a way. And corporate espionage, corruption, false accounting, insider trading; all the happy things. A lot of big players went bust when the bubble burst, and Halcyon owns most of them now. There’s reasons for that. Dirty, shameful reasons. The kind of reasons politicians need an incentive to overlook. I was supposed to deposit the money in Governor Chou’s Swiss bank account, like I do every month. I opened one of my own instead.”

The pieces rotated in Kincaid’s mind, and clicked into place. The best way to serve a lie was with a liberal garnishing of the truth. “So they accused you of petty theft to cover up a larger one. Posted a bounty so low they hoped you’d never be found. Sent in a team of their own to make sure.”

“That’s about the size of it. What do you plan on doing, now that you know? I’ll cut you in for half if you take me someplace safe. You could get back to Earth on that kind of money, set yourself up with a whole new life.”

He would’ve taken her offer – of course he would. He didn’t get the chance, because at that moment a black van T-boned the saloon, crumpling the left rear corner like so much tin foil and sending the vehicle spinning into a wall.

It could’ve been worse. If the autodrive hadn’t swerved at the last moment, Altmann would have been crushed to a pulp and Kincaid would have found himself pinned between the van and the wall. As it was, the car’s automatic restraints protected him from the brunt of it, and he was left with a nasty case of whiplash and a stupid look on his face.

After that the shot starting flying. The rear window vanished, along with both rear headrests, followed shortly after by Kincaid’s. Fortunately, he was already huddled in the footwell by that point, nursing his Glock and trying to kick the passenger door open. It wouldn’t budge. What did budge was the window, which exploded outwards, the roof support, which was neatly severed halfway down, and finally the windscreen, which shattered in several places before giving up the ghost entirely. Then the roof fell in.

It’s hard to describe the destructive force of a fully automatic shotgun if you haven’t witnessed one in action, but if you imagine a regular machine gun and scale up appropriately, you’ll get the general idea. Kincaid got the idea and hammered desperately at the door, wishing he had bigger legs. If the top half of the door had still been present, he probably wouldn’t have managed it, but as it was the composite cracked, split in the middle, and gave way. He wriggled out with all the grace of a beached turbot, leaving an ugly wash of red in his wake.

“Kincaid?”

The firing had stopped. He reached into the footwell and fumbled out his satchel.

“You in there, Kincaid?”

He slid out the compact Heckler and Koch he kept for special occasions, extended the shoulder rest, smacked in a clip and thumbed off the safety.

“We know who you are, Mr Kincaid. We know your reputation. We work for powerful people. Wealthy people. We can pay you a great deal of money to walk away now. We can give you a new body. An adult body, Mr Kincaid, custom grown to your specifications. Combat chassis, muscle aug, the works.”

Kincaid flipped open the access port behind the HK’s tactical display and pulled out the fibre optic viewer concealed there. Bellying forward across the debris, barely aware of the agony in his back, he slid the fibre round the corner of the car and monitored the display. There was the black van, doors open, Lev and Vadim sheltering behind them, weapons trained on the car. He synced the display with his retinal HUD and painted his targets. Then he fired twice into the air.

There was a brief flare as the micromissiles took flight, a streak of light across the tactical display, and both Russians dropped, headless, to the ground.

Kincaid laughed grimly and coughed up blood.

“Jen?” Technicolour curves filled his view. “What’s the damage?”

He didn’t really need to ask. Her playful expression was gone, replaced by a mask of concern. “Multiple buckshot wounds to the back. You have liver damage, kidney damage, intestinal perforations, massive internal bleeding. I – I’m sorry, Frank. I’ve already called an ambulance.”

“ETA?”

She shook her head. “Without medical insurance? Too long. Idiot mix isn’t going to cut it this time.”

He craned his neck, tried to move, then gave up and fed the fibre optic up over the remains of the side window and into the car. There was precious little left of the driver’s seat. Some of the frame, some cushioning, fragments of fabric imbedded in Altmann’s corpse.

He sighed. “You know, that wasn’t a bad offer they made.”

“You should’ve bid them up. They probably would’ve thrown in a fancy car and a house in France.”

“When you’re right, you’re right.”

He lay there for a moment, a cosy endorphin glow starting to replace the fiery throbbing in his back. Drowsily, he said, “Would’ve been nice to get back home. Teach that bastard a lesson.”

The mask cracked. Tears welled in amber eyes.

“It’s a lie, Frank. All of it.”

He frowned, half asleep. “Hm?”

“You’re not a copy. You never were. You’re not Kincaid, but you’re not a copy either. Your name is Webber, Frank Webber.”

The officer who ran the boy over, back in London. That made no sense. That’s not how it went.

“The Met wanted to go easy on you, Frank, but you wouldn’t have it. You talked to the press, told the family exactly what happened. Pled guilty to manslaughter. You served three years in hell when you could’ve walked away, but when you got out, it still wasn’t enough. You kept saying the punishment didn’t fit the crime. You hated yourself. So very much.” She wept, electronic tears streaming down flawless cheeks.

“So you decided to run away. From yourself, from what you’d done. That wasn’t easy in the centre of a media frenzy, you were going to need a new body and fake ID, and transport to someplace far away. You already owed a fortune – the kind of fortune it takes for a child-killing copper to survive behind bars. It took you a while, but you were desperate, and you came up with a plan. You went to the Libyans, offered to solve their problem for them. They trained you, carved away those awful memories, built you a new reality. A new Frank, in a new body, living a whole new life. The punishment fit the crime, I guess.”

Thoughts tumbled through his mind. Memories clashing with facts. None of it fitted anything he knew, it made no sense, and every word of it was hideously, unquestionably true.

“Jen?”

“Sh, Frank. Rest until the ambulance gets here. Just rest now.”

“I better bloody be dying, Jen.” He laughed wildly, coughed, red foam flecking his lips. “Otherwise this was one hell of a wasted effort.”

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