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russian-romanova · 4 years

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the one that got away

title: the one that got away

pairing: joe goldberg

warnings: adult language, spoilers for season two of ‘you’, very brief mentions of violence

notes: joe’s pov. i haven’t gotten anything out there in a while, so here’s this.

summary: it’s been years since you ran out on your high school boyfriend joe goldberg. now that he’s seen you again, maybe it’s time to find out if your instincts were right.

+ + +

There was a part of me that had forgotten about you. I would go months without thinking about you, but then the strangest things would conjure up an image of you or your name would ring in my ears for a moment or two before passing out again. So don’t make the mistake of thinking I forgot about you, Y/N. I never forgot. Not really.

We dated in high school, which doesn’t mean much at face value. High School relationships are the ones that are the most fragile when boys can’t control their own body parts and girls don’t seem to know the word ‘boundary’. The teen couples that come into Mooney’s are the worst relationships, where they hold hands and kiss every time they turn a corner. It takes all I have not to turn them away.

But we were… different. We were good, and we took it slow. I was quiet and you were sweet, and God, I don’t think I could ever recreate that high I would get when I walked into school and would see you waiting at my locker, reading some book I had given you or eating some breakfast dessert. We didn’t rush anything, we were slow and steady friends more than anything, at least before we kissed. And when we did kiss, it wasn’t bumbling or awkward like teenage kisses should be. It was perfect, Y/N. Like it was meant to be.

You know why I’m bringing this up. I saw you at some supermarket the other day, in LA. It wasn’t Anavrin or any of those frighteningly strict healthy eating markets. It was just some supermarket I went to in search of some food I had been thinking about, and I saw you in the cereal aisle. You didn’t see me, Y/N, although I wasn’t sure if you would have even recognized me. You had a box of ‘Cinnamon Toast Crunch’ in one hand and a box of whatever the generic brand was in the other. I watched you for a moment, turn the first box over, then the second, before sighing and adding the generic one to your cart. I turned my body so you couldn’t see my face as I waited, only turning once I was sure you had left the aisle the opposite way of me.

Trust me, Y/N, I almost couldn’t believe my eyes. I had to double-take to even think it was you, and then I ended up staring at you for a full five seconds before I remembered where I even was. A supermarket. In LA.

Really, the strangest part was that I had been in LA for around a month and hadn’t somehow caught wind of you. Sure, LA’s a big city, perfect for disappearing -- I should know -- but I have a sixth sense for these sorts of things. It helps that I’ve been trying to stay away from you, really, I stopped searching your name on the internet long ago and I’ve been trying to push you out of my mind.

Still -- I see in you in all of their eyes. Candace. Beck. Love.

Then you pushed your cart away from me and left behind the corner. I trailed behind you for a while, because how are you supposed to see your high school sweetheart and just forget about it? You picked out black beans and condiments, grabbed crackers and milk. Then you were gone.

But I knew you were in LA, and that got me through a while. I was distracted at work, distracted with Love. Even Ellie knew something was off, and of course, I couldn’t tell any of them about you, Y/N. I made up some lie about work or the news, but I couldn’t stop thinking about you. I wondered if you shopped every Tuesday afternoon if I would have a chance of seeing you again if I waited there next week. If you saw me first, would you interact? Would you know what I was doing and confront me or would you leave and hope that I didn’t see you? Would you see me at all?

No, I knew that I had to find you before then, preferably someplace where I wouldn’t look like some random creep approaching a pretty girl. I had to do my research.

I didn’t know whether to be impressed or disappointed when I discovered both an Instagram and a Facebook account that were both private. You were aware of security, at least a little. You had a public twitter account, but nothing you posted on there really pertained to you on a personal level, mostly retweets about characters or politics.

Roughly three weeks ago, you had retweeted some comedic tweet about the benefits of being single. This was a good sign, Y/N. My expectations were set low, but the more I learned about you, the higher they became. I couldn’t stop thinking about you, about our high school years, and how happy we both were. We could be like that again.

I was about to give up on the social media scour when I saw an Instagram account linked to your twitter account, completely different from the one I had already stumbled upon. This one was a much vaguer account, with some photos you must have taken, mostly of other people or of aesthetically pleasing nature views or buildings. The photographs that caught my eye the most -- and I’m sure you understand why, Y/N -- were the ones of Farmington Park and the one of a house front. The house numbers were blurred out, but it wasn’t that hard to trace around on Google Earth. I extended the view and followed the roads surrounding Farmington Park, making the assumption that you were near to it judging by the amount of photots you had posted of it, until I found the house that seemed the most familiar, the one that matched up perectly with the photograph. Bingo.

You should be more careful, Y/N.

✾ ✾ ✾

And so I wait. I see you again, but no longer by accident. I don my jacket and cap, and I wait at the bench near your house -- just a man reading a book, nothing anyone will pay too much attention to. I see you leave your house, which I’m relieved to see you walk out of. I’ve been wrong in the past, and it’s the worst possible feeling I could imagine. But you looked right at me, Y/N. The second day, you walked out of your bright red door and made direct eye contact with me. I have sunglasses on, so I don’t know if you can tell I’m looking back, but you stare at me for a few seconds, and then you move on. I worried you had maybe seen me, but the next day I returned and you didn’t think much of it.

Tuesdays and Thursdays is when you went to the park. As the sunsets, to get those stereotypical sunset photos, I presume, and you stay until late on Tuesday nights because you have Wednesdays off. It’s abandoned by the time it’s nine pm, the perk of small parks in big cities. So I waited until I was ready, until I thought you would be ready, and then I decided it was time to meet you.

8:42 on a Tuesday night, and I’ve never been more terrified before. I sit in the grass and watch you as the people slowly go home, watching you on your phone and messing with your camera. I notice for the first time, the green bracelet on your arm, which I recognize instantly, because I gave you that bracelet, Y/N. In high school, for your birthday. I gave it to you years ago, and you still wear it.

That almost gives me hope.

I had a plan. Once it was empty enough, I took off my hat and sunglasses, and I just sat there. You needed to come to me, to feel comfortable enough to do so. It was going to be an accident that I was here, nothing creepy. Nothing to feed your worries or stresses. I wasn’t a worry, I was a comfort that was reappearing after years and years.

When you saw me, your froze. You just stood there, unmoving and possibly unbreathing, frozen in a moment either now or in the past, mind racing and heart too fast. I waited for you, patiently. It was hard to not run up to you, to talk to you unprompted. But I had waited this long, I could wait a few minutes more.

Finally, you spoke. “What are you doing here?”

I looked up, feigning surprise. “Oh my God, Y/N,” I closed my book and stood up, smiling as if I had no idea you still existed. “What are you doing in LA?”

“Cut the bullshit. I saw you the other day. At least, I thought I saw someone that looked just like you, and now I’m pretty fucking sure that was you, Joe. This can’t be happening. This isn’t-” You trailed off, mumbling to yourself. Your were suspitious, but I could work with suspicious.

“You saw me? Seriously? Where was it?” I laugh as if I’m more confused than you are, still confused and surprised. Keep it up, Joe. Patience. “Why didn’t you-”

“Stop it. You were-” You stopped talking, your eyes widening a little at the absurdity of the situation. “You looked at me, Joe. I know you’re lying, so cut the bullshit. Be honest.”

I think it over for a minute. “I didn’t know if it was actually you or not.” I say, a little bit quieter. I feel like a kid again, and we haven’t even been talking for a minute.

“Honest,” You repeated. “I’m not new to your games, Joe. Where did you see me first?”

“The bus stop,” I say, maintaining eye contact. You give me your ‘bullshit’ look, and I realize nothing has changed. I almost smile before I remember what’s happening, that I need to work fast and convince you. I can’t lose you again, not now that I’ve found you. “The bus stop,” I reaffirm, before adding. “Nice bracelet.”

And I’ve changed the subject.

“I need to go home,” You say, sounding tired and frantic.

I take a step forward. “Let me walk you,”

“No, Joe.” You say loudly at first, and then repeat it a little softer.

“Please, Y/N,” I say in a tone that we both know is close to a beg. You look at me with those big fucking eyes and I hope I’m making the same expression back. The puppy dog eyes are something we’ve both mastered.

“Joe, I don’t love you anymore.” You say suddenly, and you throw your hands out to either side as if that’s it. As if that’s enough to satisfy me and it answers all my questions.

“Then why are you still wearing the bracelet?” I’m begging you now, pleading with you and I hate my own tone of voice.

You glance down at it as if you’ve forgotten about it. There’s a pause as you think for a moment, searching for words or for a lie. I’m frozen when I stand. “It’s not because I love you. It’s to remember.” You look up at me again, and your eyes aren’t just big anymore, they’re teary now. A part of me still wants to run to you, to tell you that it’s okay, but I know I can’t. “You killed me, Joe. Or you might as well have. I’m mourning her. I can’t forget her.”

Any act is long gone. We both know what you’re talking about, about all the conversations we had where you had tried to break up with me and I convinced you, about all the looks your had given me when I did something that would send off a red flag. “I didn’t, Y/N. I wouldn’t have. I was so careful with you.”

You look at me in a way I’ve never seen before. “I hid. I shouldn’t have had to hide. I changed so much about me, about who I was because I was scared you would find me somehow, I don’t know.” You run a distressed hand through your hair.

“Why? Why were you so scared of me, Y/N? I was just some kid in love. I loved you so much. I love you so much.” I take a step towards you.

You match it with one back, putting up a distressed hand. “Stop, Joe. Stop. I’m not doing this, okay? All of these things about you pointed to terror for me and I went with my gut because you hear all of these horror stories about girls and their boyfriends and it was better safe than sorry and-“ You sniff, wiping your nose with the back of your hand. You’re crying and I didn’t even realize it. “And I am sorry, Joe. I really am, but we both know that’s what I needed to do.” And you’re right, Y/N, and it would be a lie to deny it. I didn’t have to do anything to you and you knew who I was. No one has ever understood as well as you.

I am hurt as you look at me, somehow pained yet strong. “I’m sorry,” Is all I can manage out, and you don’t respond.

“I need to go home,” You say finally. “You do too, Joe. This is out there now, and we can move on. Okay? Don’t try to find me again.”

“But I can’t forget about you.” I don’t know if I’m making excuses or being honest anymore. For a split second, I think about lunging at you, grabbing you or striking you or something -- but then I remember that this isn’t just anyone. This is you. Candace, Beck, Love, they’re all modelled after you. I think that’s all I’m working for, is you again. Yet I respect you too much to treat you like them, and I love you too much to really let you go. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do anymore.

“Then don’t,” You look at me with calm eyes. “Then don’t forget about me. It’s better to remember, but to keep it somewhere just out of reach. It’s not like I could forget you, Joe. You were a part of my life,” You admit. “No matter how bad, you can’t forget something like that.”

And that’s all you need to say. No goodbye, no farewell greeting. You turn and walk away.

And I let you, Y/N.

For the first time in my life, I watch someone walk away from me, and that’s it. Out of everyone, I hate that it’s you leaving yet I’m happy that we ended it like this. I watch your wrist swing slightly as you walk, the stringy ends of the bracelet swinging along with it. I think of what you said, about remembering, and I know there’s some truth there. I’ve felt it before, the need to remember Candace and Beck long after I had thought they were gone. For them -- and for me.

But as you turned the corner for the final time, something in me pulls at my senses, telling me what I already know is true. Your words ring in my mind one final time, but I know you’re wrong this once.

Sometimes, Y/N, it’s better not to remember, but to forget.

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my-little-dumpster-fire · 5 years

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Let it Burn. 3/?

Catch Up Here

P A R T T H R E E

A week after your first date, if you could call it that, an unknown number rang over and over again until you could no longer fight the urge to answer it.

“Hey, it’s Billy. Russo. Billy Russo. From dinner.” Is it that hard to admit you have a soulmate, Russo?

You never asked Billy how he got your phone number, never had the desire to. You met up again, trying for lunch this time and again it decent. Some of the magic had worn off the second Billy thrust you into a cab, effectively ending the first non-date, and now it felt like catching up between two old friends, despite the fact it was only your second time intentionally meeting up.

He’d been spending his days meeting with more investors, all of which seemed to have gone successfully, signing the deed to his first warehouse, as he assured you Anvil would quickly outgrow the shell he purchased, working odd jobs about which he never went into detail, glossing over your skeptical looks with extra charm, and working night and day to connect with his chosen team, the backs upon which Anvil’s reputation would be built. Part of you wanted to tell Billy that he was working too hard, but it would have fallen on willingly deafened ears. He was a hungry dog, who’d caught his scent and could practically taste the reality that he was building for himself. His determination was admirable, his work ethic was enviable, his focus and enthusiasm when talking about the project was unwavering. Just like the Corps had been before, Anvil was Billy’s life. You were just his soulmate, a nonessential on his journey to becoming the Billy Russo he wanted to see in his mirror. The Billy Russo that would be known, respected, and powerful.

Everything about Billy Russo was sinful. His new wealth. His looks. The way violence seemed to follow him. The Machiavellian way his ends always justified his means. His cavalier attitudes toward life and love. You often found yourself wondering how someone without the hint of a soul at all could be the other half of your own, but the connection was undeniable. It was as intoxicating as they said it would be and it was infuriating to admit, so you simply didn’t. When your friends asked what it was like to be paired with someone well on their way to becoming New York’s most eligible bachelor, you shrugged. Despite your souls supposedly being made for one another, you found quickly that you simply did not fit into Billy Russo’s life style or his now incredibly active schedule. Between planning and pushing for the start up security company he was slaving over and Billy’s insatiable need to occupy himself with the flavor of the week, there was very little time left for a soulmate.

Though you could see the loneliness in his eyes, you didn’t press him on the subject. Hadn’t anybody told him about the benefits of quality over quantity? Still, the two of you met up whenever he had time, his schedule the more demanding of the two, his mood the more fickle. You shared space, shared meals, shared more and more of yourself as the days went by and the rhythm you fell into was incredibly comfortable. You started to understand this self proclaimed mystery man and while his gratitude was mostly silent, you felt it in his willingness to share words with you that you assumed would not otherwise see the light of day or reach another’s ears.

The locations for your non dates changed dramatically after the first, but you never objected. The new places that Billy dragged you were much more your speed and honestly, seemed more like his. The kind of haunts that he actually enjoyed, not the stuffy dining room with the gold matchbooks that seemed so out of character for a man like Billy, even with his exciting new business prospects. The restaurants, bars, and cafes you sat in now made you feel like you were actually seeing Billy, not the Billy that someone else told him he should be.

One such meal, after an unnecessarily thorough explanation of why women were good for a couple weeks before he became a ghost, evaporating into thin air while his phone lit up with all sorts of unsavory names and ill wishes, Billy leaned back in his chair with a damn near devilish smirk on his face. The candle on the table between you danced in the reflection of his black eyes, while his lips curled subtly in the corner and his arms crossed in front of his chest. One elbow propped against his other arm to support the weight of his chin in his hand while a single long finger rested straight up next to his nose and drew your attention to the furrow in his brow but also the subtle birthmark just below his eye. He was easily the most beautiful man you’d ever had the pleasure of sharing a meal with, but the heated look in his eye was not for you, at least not at first. He was testing you. The meal neared it’s end and the bottle of wine he ordered was only half spent, but nowadays honesty flowed without the assistance of the spirit and for that you were thankful. He eyed you mercilessly, waiting for the soulmate to comment on his newly honed ability to live extravagantly or his disinterest in ceasing his other intimate activities just because of your existence. God made him that way for a reason and it was merely his duty to share the wealth, he’d insist while gesturing down at himself with a smile that offered life and death in equal measure.

In the weeks you’d known Billy, you learned that no reaction was better than an over reaction, especially in those moments when he was testing you, waiting for you to slip and reveal that you were just like all the others. So you leaned back, matching his posture, and said, “It’s your life, Billy. I wouldn’t ask you to change anything about it.” You took a deep breath and met his dark, but wavering gaze. “I’m here now and I’ll still be here when you...I don’t know, I’ll just still be here, okay?” You weren’t sure what you were trying to say or if it was even the right thing to say, but you hoped that Billy heard the sincerity in it.

His genuine surprise at your response told you all you needed to know. Other women, women not meant for him, would try to change him and maybe they already had. You imagined that eventually they made it clear that they expected more from him, expected dedication and monogamy from him, made careless ultimatums that only served to end whatever brief tryst they engaged in. Other women pushed Billy away in their desperate attempts to draw him close, apparently unaware or purposefully ignorant to what you saw in his eyes.

Billy Russo was like a flame, useful, comforting, a shining light in the darkest places merely to illuminate not to correct. He and the flames was everything you needed, but if you got to close, you’d get burned. Or worse yet, if you attempted to caged him in, the lack of oxygen would snuff him out completely until all that was left was a tendril of smoke, a ghost of the flame you once tried to capture. Fire cannot be owned and neither could Billy. Though you suspected that his appetite for survival never let anyone get close enough to think they could cage him in. On one hand, you respected it and would never ask Billy to be someone he wasn’t. One the other, you pitied it and wished deep down that one day he wouldn’t view you as another potential cage, but maybe as the kindling to keep the fire alive.

Much to your surprise, and your unspoken delight, the meals you two shared increased in frequency. Perhaps he saw something in you that he desired more of, though you were certain it wasn’t what you originally hoped. But to be desired at all by Billy Russo was enough to keep you accepting his invitations. He was the kind of man that you felt you needed to thank for his eyes falling on you, rather than the other way around. So most of your meals together went like that. Sitting across from each other, not touching, while Billy tried to scare you, prove his own theories that even a soulmate would not be able to handle the shadowy recesses he knew resided within. There were few things in the world he loved as much as being right.

In only a couple weeks time, you knew more about Billy Russo than anyone and to some extent you knew that it scared him. He’d never admit to the fear, especially of a woman like you, but you saw the practically physical discomfort as he realized how much of himself he trusted -no, not trust- as he realized how much of himself you willingly carried with you, without judgment and without expectation. He’d done the work of squashing any expectation you held for the relationship as early as your first meeting, but you kept coming back. It was too much for him sometimes, most times really, and he’d abandon ship in the middle of a sentence, eyes searching yours for any trace of a future betrayal, but finding none, he’d pull his phone from his pocket. With the screen still obviously dark, he’d say he needed to accept a call and wander off to do so. Mere minutes later, some woman would make a show of being led out of the restaurant by the handsome Billy Russo, proudly putting herself on display. While his face revealed only the desire to slip away into the shadows, his perfect posture and guiding hand on her lower back as he strut alongside her told the rest of the restaurant a very different story. You’d ask for the check, only to find that it was already taken care of, sometimes a dessert already boxed and on its way over to you, as you watched your soulmate’s eyes fall on you one last time before disappearing into the night with someone else.

You expected the invitations for meals to stop eventually, but they never did. They’d pause for a couple days at most, before Billy’s voice was back in your ear, confident, flirtatious, informing you that he had room to fit you in over a long lunch. You hated yourself for how quickly you accepted, hated the idea of being at his beck and call, but it was painfully obvious that your innocent rejection of a meal or day out with Billy would never be perceived as innocent. Key word, painfully. It seemed that after every walk out, you started from ground zero all over again. His accent would be thick, his smile sardonic, his posturing cocky, seated practically sideways in a metal chair outside one of his favorite lunch spots, ankle perched on one knee while the other knee rested gently against the metal arm of the chair. He’d draw his water glass to his lips, licking them as he scrutinized you, head to toe. It was rather unsettling the first few times, even still it wound you up in the most confusing yet comforting ways. Most men had not the balls to observe a woman so obviously and so shamelessly, but Billy Russo wasn’t most men. He’d take his time and his efforts to shake you with his glare was only met -perhaps rewarded, even reinforced- by your effort to look your best on days you saw Billy. The more his eyes roamed, the more yours did in the bathroom mirror, forsaking your own shame or girlish embarrassment to make sure he had something nice for his eyes to fall on.

After his subtle acceptance of you, really your appearance, with a grin and a nod, the testing started all over again. He’d share a little about the woman he left with and you hated how thankful you were to be spared the more intimate details. You had no idea what he was waiting for, what he was expecting from you, but apparently you never gave it to him, not that you were aware of. You kept your mouth shut for the most part, listened while he spoke, occasionally catching the fierce look in his eye, practically daring you to hold his gaze as if what looked back at you would send you running. Often you didn’t indulge. The casual snappy banter you two shared would fall away, make space in the air for whatever game he was playing. You stayed focused on your meal, letting your eyes drift casually upwards to settle on the birthmark you loved, but sometimes, on days you felt brave, or maybe the subtle burn in your chest while he described yet another woman was some other affliction that only mimicked bravery, you met his stare head on. Look if you have to, you told him silently with your eyes, you won’t find what your looking for. You didn’t balk, didn’t shy away, and you knew that frustrated Billy to no end. He didn’t like being challenged, didn’t like seeing his own stubbornness thrown across the table at him. He’d shift in his seat, realizing how closely he’d leaned over toward you, and rest again, smirking as if he won, perhaps trying to convince himself that he had. You weren’t so easily fooled and as your eyes dropped away again, you’d look up to watch the relief come over him, like the end of your staring contest had unexpectedly zapped the energy from him.

You imagined it had, but soon enough he’d be back to talking, sharing something about the progress of Anvil or most recently the return of one of his Marine buddies, Frank Castle. There wasn’t an invitation attached to the announcement, there weren’t even details surrounding their friendship, but it was the first person that Billy spoke about with anything other than disdain. Frank was important to him, that was all you knew and for now, that was all you needed to know. By the time you’d resigned to let Frank Castle remain a mystery, Billy had moved on to another topic and the two of you fell back into quiet laughter and eye rolling over differing opinions.

The first time Billy invited you to his apartment, it scared you. He didn’t sound like himself. Normally his phone calls were quick, telling you a time and a place, but that place was always neutral ground. You never expected to be asked to come over, definitely not so late and definitely not when Billy’s voice shook, when he lingered on the line longer than usually, when he told you not to bother knocking. The circumstances were strange and you had no idea what you expected, but it certainly wasn’t what you found.

You entered Billy’s apartment gingerly, taking care to close the door behind and deposit the key that the night guard handed you upon your arrival. It was dark, the living room only barely illuminated by the lights outside, yet as easily as you would have at high noon, your eyes found Billy. He was sitting in a chair and, he wasn’t looking good.

“Have you ever done anything...that you knew....that you knew you’d never be forgiven for?”

Billy’s question came out of nowhere and the gravity, weighing down both his voice and his shoulders, sank like a hot rock in your gut. You stepped forward slowly, watching carefully for any sign of life, but Billy was little more than a statue, sitting with his elbows on his knees and his chin perched on his thumbs. His eyes, surprisingly expressive for as dark as they were, looked through you when you moved to stand in front of him.

“No,” you answered solemnly, but honestly. Billy’s eyes closed, unable to look at you, not that he really had been before. “And neither have you.”

Your strange addition caught Billy off guard. He was visibly shaken before, but it was your bold move to sit in his lap that left Billy almost adorably startled. His body stiffened, not that a woman in his lap was a foreign feeling, but this particular woman had never seated herself across his thighs, so close to parts of his body you had to tell yourself not to be concerned with. Your arms rested against his shoulders and reflexively his hands found your waist, stroking your sides with a gentleness you only speculated he could possess, never having witnessed it for yourself. With your fingers pulling through the hair at the back of his neck, you looked down to meet his growing confusion head on.

“Neither have you,” You repeated firmly. Billy ignored the sentiment, shaking his head in vehement denial, but when he opened his mouth to correct you, to prove that once again he knew better, you didn’t let him. “There’s nothing you can do that I wouldn’t forgive, Billy Russo.”

“That was before-“ he started, head still shaking and his eyes still down.

“There’s nothing you can do,” you said again, slower this time and singing the truth into his soul. “That I won’t forgive, Billy. I can’t speak for the rest of the world, but you will always have me.” His eyes were wide and you watched his Adam’s apple jolt heavenward, swallowing your words and clearly struggling to decide if they were believable. This is a bad idea, you warned yourself, but you were already leaning in. For the briefest moment, Billy’s face tilted up in expectation, just a reflex, you told yourself as you gripped the hair on the back of his neck to hold his face still. Your lips met his forehead and rested there as his body went from stock still, to nervously squirming, to completely at ease. You couldn’t even imagine how his face was responding below your eye-line as you felt his brow furrow before fluttering into relaxation under your lips. You pulled back slightly and Billy leaned in again as if chasing the sensation. Just a reflex, you reminded yourself as you willingly complied, kissing his face again.

You hadn’t even noticed that his hands were gripping your sides with opposing hands. His arms wound and crossed behind your back until you two were locked in a much more meaningful embrace than you originally had planned. Though every embrace was more meaningful with Billy and fighting that seemed a futile attempt at this point. A muted gasp felt warm against your chest, reminding you what brought you to his apartment and to this position. Billy had done something, something that very well could be unforgivable, and yet you assured him that you would. Not that you were naive enough to believe that he’d ever tell you what it was. His face was pressed against your chest and you silently promised him that you’d never bring up the tear you felt sliding against your skin. He would never thank you for mentioning it, nor would he thank you for not mentioning it. All the same, it was your secret to bear, burning a wet trail between your breasts until it disappeared. Long moments passed, silence wrapped around you two like a heavy blanket, protecting the moment from the cold air of your previous expectations. A single moment couldn’t replace the delicate relationship you two had built. It was a veritable house of cards that a single ill timed hiccup could tear down, let alone a moment of intimacy that shouldn’t have existed between you two.

“A lesser man would use this moment to point out that your chest makes an amazing pillow,” he said suddenly. There he is, you smiled.

“And a lesser woman would point out the depth of mommy issues that are hidden in that statement,” you countered, holding the back of his neck as his laughter vibrated against you. Billy leaned back first, looking up at you, eyes lit up with something so close to affection you suddenly found it difficult to breathe. Aside from the slight movement to seek your face, he made no attempts to pull away from you, so you continued running your fingers through his hair, daring to capture the surprisingly silky feel for a few moments longer.

“Guess I should be glad we’re us then,” he offered with a smirk. Us. Can we even call ourselves an us?

“Yeah,” you returned casually, removing yourself from his lap. There was a moment of resistance, a moment of brief hesitation, where you felt Billy’s fingers dig into your skin to hold you in place. You felt his palms flatten against you as if he needed more of him to feel more of you, but so gentle you could feel his unwillingness to cross that line. You felt the muscles of his arms tense, becoming a cage you wouldn’t be able to release yourself from. Not that you’d want to. As quickly as the moment came, it was gone and you were walking toward the kitchen again, back turned to Billy as you told yourself you’d imagined his reluctance to let you go, even if it was just for a second.

One glorious second where you felt your desire returned.

@something-tofightfor @actuallyazriel @cerezahowl @littlemermaidprobz

#billy russo #billy russo x reader #billy russo x reader imagine #billy x reader imagine #billy russo x reader fanfiction #let it burn #billy russo soulmates au #soulmate tattoo

43 notes · View notes

a-secondhand-sorrow · 5 years

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Chapter 4: haven’t we been here before?

Chapter 4 of sweet words! we’re back to Zoe’s perspective this time.

chapter title from ‘FRIENDS’ by anne-marie and marshmello

prologue | chapter 1 | chapter 2 | chapter 3 | read on ao3

***

Emails.

Now there were emails.

Sure, Evan had mentioned them at dinner. But it was very different hearing about hundreds or thousands of little messages, little windows into Connor’s real life, then to have some of them printed out. In her hands.

Evan had offered to give them full range if the emails he had in his inbox, but Cynthia had turned it down, opting instead to get them piece by piece. Zoe couldn’t fully understand why. To maintain some illusion of privacy for her son?

Doesn’t matter now, she felt like saying. He offed himself before you could give him that chance.

(As she thought it, that little cynical voice in the back of her head the main perpetrator, she winced, inwardly. It was still hard to acknowledge that he was gone, despite her proclamations she was better off.

She tried not to think about that too much.)

Her mother was holding the pages in a similar way to how she’d held the note; with feather-light touches, eyes hungrily grabbing up words but turning pages slowly, deliberately. This was a bright contrast to Larry, who looked restless; he seemed a million miles away, like he’d rather be doing anything than holding the emails of his dead son.

Cynthia glanced up as soon as Zoe slammed the front door shut and entered the living room.

“How was your first day back at school?” She asked, a hint of longing in her voice.

The tone stopped her thoughts dead in their tracks.

That was her Connor Voice. The voice she use when she tried desperately to connect to Connor, to make sure he was okay.

Zoe never got the Connor Voice.

(“Zoe, that is not constructive.”)

Any trace of pleasantness she’d maintained after her shit day disappeared. “Great. Everyone wants to be my friend. You know, since I’m the dead kid’s sister.”

(In reality, it was a little more nuanced than that; there were the people who seemed to angelize Connor, and wanted to be closer to anyone who knew him; there were very few whose bullying and demonizing had continued into Connor’s death; there were some who seemed to want to get in on the tragedy of the whole situation; others still seemed like they wanted to make sure that Everything Is Okay and Zoe Is Doing Well and Does Not Want to Kill Herself-which is a whole other story-and somehow, each was worst than the last.

Alana Beck had come on particularly strong; Zoe had yet to figure out where she fit.)

“I’m sure they mean well,” Larry said, staring pointedly at the page.

It was... unnerving, really, to have Cynthia’s full attention. “How was band today? I bet they were glad to have you back.”

(“How was school, hun? Bet they’re glad to have you back,” she’d said one evening, when Connor came back from rehab. He’d said nothing.)

Swallowing down her memories, Zoe spat out “you really don’t have to do this, okay?” She’d turned away, making her way towards the stairs.

Cynthia seemed taken aback, dropping the emails into her lap. “Do what?”

Zoe stopped, turning back to Cynthia, her hands grabbing at the straps of her backpack. An uncharacteristic anger boiled up in her; something she’d almost never felt before, but had to constantly fight since school had started. “Just because Connor isn’t here, trying to punch through my door, screaming at the top of his lungs that he’s going to kill me for no reason-that doesn’t mean that all of the sudden we’re the fucking Brady Bunch.”

She’d stopped crying so much. Zoe wasn’t quite sure when-for the first week, that seemed to be the only thing Cynthia could do. But at some point, she’d stopped crying, and she’d started-

Well, maybe living was too strong of a word. But she was...better.

As opposed to Zoe, who seemed to get worse and worse with each passing day.

(Like Connor did, that little voice whispered, giving voice to many a thought she’d had.

That was something else she didn’t like thinking about.)

Zoe blinked, and Cynthia was standing in front of her. She was more clear eyed then Zoe could remember seeing her. There was something peaceful, almost, about the set of her shoulders, how her muscles relaxed on her face. “Here,” she thrust some of the pages towards Zoe, an air of piousness to the gesture. “Please. Read these. When you’re ready.”

As she grabbed the emails, it was like a switch had flipped inside of her. They’d rooted her to the ground and frozen her in place, left her to stand there, staring, as they stared back up at her. Her mother moved around her, with a sympathetic glance, and mounted the stairs, more emails in hand. Larry was nowhere to be found; she’d missed his near-silent exit.

And she was left with Connor.

Even though she didn’t want to, she found herself moving toward the couch. Her backpack dropped to the floor at her feet, and she perched on the edge of the armrest, poised for flight. It was only then she began reading.

(She’d sat like that a lot, actually. It had become a reflex; she wouldn’t let herself become too comfortable in the living room. One or two times when Connor was at rehab she’d sat on the couch, jumping when she’d heard Larry’s footsteps in the hall.

Maybe it was because she was reading his words, his life poured on the page, but she couldn’t find it in her to let her guard down now.)

It was...uneventful. It was a normal friendly conversation; she’d seen enough of those in her life.

It was uneventful, except for the fact she’d never thought Connor could do that. Be civil. Be relaxed around someone.

He certainly never was to her.

So when she saw her name in the fifth email she read, under Connor’s email pseudonym, her heart stopped and started again.

It was casual, almost, thrown in at the last second-Zoe has a jazz band concert tonight, so no weed and doctor who for me, followed by a concerned Evan discouraging Connor from getting high-but it took over all other thought, mostly just he was capable of thinking about me in a neutral way? The thought seemed laughable, as she perched on the armrest of the couch in her own living room, spooked by a ghost, by words on a page.

And then she kept reading.

It wasn’t really a conscious thought, but when she happened upon another ‘Zoe,’ and another, she snapped back to her senses and yanked her eyes up from the page. She could hear some commotion above her-maybe Larry and Cynthia in one of their arguments-but they suddenly went silent, and she was left with her thoughts.

(If she strained, she could remember when Connor was her partner in crime for when they fought. It seemed like it was so far away, especially compared to everything else at the forefront of her mind. Bursting into her room, screaming at her for nothing, lashing out, pushing her away, raising his hand in fights, doing so much-whether he knew it or not-to drive her to where she was right then, unable to believe her brother had been anything but critical of her, unable to relax in her own living room because of some deep-ingrained lesson.)

(How dare he. How dare he come back like this, to haunt her, to fill her every waking thought, to fill her lungs with his name when she had nothing else there, to fill her blood with adrenaline as she played through her memories.)

(How dare he make it clear, after he killed himself, that he loved her all along, even when he’d pushed her love away.)

No, it couldn’t be true. It was another trick, another game. She’d wake up, filled to the brim with nostalgia, knowing for sure Connor had hated her. He’d hated her. He’d given her no choice but to hate him.

She hated him.

She hated him-

(The words were watching her, from the page, shining out. ‘Zoe was great last night.’ So normal. So out of place.)

She couldn’t, she couldn’t, she couldn’t-

She blinked, clearing her eyes. She hadn’t realized they’d watered.

A crunch filled her ears belatedly, like thunder after lighting, and she looked down at her clenched fist, Connor’s emails crushed inside.

She didn’t blink away the tears when they came.

Zoe slowly shifted her body over the arm of the couch, ignoring every no stop bad idea in her brain and bending over her curled hand as she forced herself to relax into the couch cushions.

Silently, carefully, without breathing, she unfurled her fist and smoothed out the paper in her hand.

Visions blurred by tears, she read.

#dear evan hansen #deh #evan hansen #my fanfic #my love #zoe murphy #zoevan #when the sweet words and fevers all leave us right here in the cold #my fic #my fanfiction #deh fanfic #deh fanfiction #dear evan hansen fanfic #dear evan hansen fanfiction #deh au #cynthia murphy #larry murphy

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