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you-didnt-see-that-cuming · 4 years

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Shy Glances | George Weasley x Reader

Summary: George Weasley was quite possibly the most perfect man to ever exist. He’s smart, funny, charming, and incredibly handsome. Pansy Parkinson has known about her roommate and best friend, Y/N’s crush on George for while, watching her do nothing about it. Pansy decides that it’s time for her to take matters into her own hands and quite literally pushes the two of them together with the help of Fred Weasley. All they really did was speed fate up a little bit.

Warnings: Smut towards the end

Word Count: 8.1k

A/N: This took me a while to finish, it was a request from an anon so I’m hoping that I did their vision justice! This ended up being over 28 pages so it’s a nice long one for you guys!

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Ever since Umbridge had taken over teaching Defense Against the Dark Arts, spirits at Hogwarts were not exactly high. The only things that managed to put a smile on anyone’s face were the Weasley twins’ ridiculous pranks and the weekend trips to Hogsmeade. Occasionally, a loud explosion would go off in a nearby hallway, followed closely by the shrieking of Umbridge and the smiles of students who had witnessed whatever had happened.

Despite the twins being identical, Y/N had always had a crush on George. Fred always seemed to be the one to start the chaos that followed them around, but there was something different about George, he was more compassionate, he genuinely cared about other people. The Hogsmeade weekend before the beginning of the Christmas holidays was the subject of almost everyone’s conversations. It had snowed for almost two days straight and Christmas decorations were already being erected around the castle, only adding to the general feeling of excitement.

Y/N was feeling excited for a whole other reason. The Hogsmeade trips were some of the only chances she had to see George. Being in different houses and years complicated things, and staring throughout mealtimes wasn’t exactly subtle.

The morning of the trip to Hogsmeade, Y/N and Pansy were woken up abruptly to the sound of feet running down the hallway towards the common room.

“Damn! What time is it?” Pansy grumbled. She wasn’t exactly a morning person and interrupting her sleep was not a good way to get on her good side. She stretched her hand out to the bedside table and blindly felt around for her watch. Bringing it up to her eyes, Pansy suddenly turned her face into her pillow and screamed in frustration.

Y/N tried to blink the sleep from her eyes, staring up at the velvet green canopy above the bed. It was dark in the room, the heavy curtains that had been drawn the night before, blocking out the sunlight from the windows at the top of the high ceiling. The only light currently in the room came from the crackling fireplace in the corner across from their beds and the strings of fairy lights that they had taken from the Great Hall to liven the place up. Rolling onto her side to face Pansy, who had now waved her wand to light some of the lamps that were scattered around the room, Y/N yawned loudly and stretched her arms over her head.

“It is absolutely disgusting that we have to be awake this early, absolutely no respect for other people,” Pansy continued grumbling about her disturbed sleep as she swept the covers dramatically to the side.

The fire began glowing a little brighter once Pansy’s feet touched the rug covered floor. Y/N soon swung her legs off the bed before sliding out from under the heavy comforter. Pansy flicked her wand and the curtains swished open. It was snowing heavily, and by the looks of it, it had been snowing through the night. There was already a substantial layer of snow on the bottom of the window sill.

“C’mon, we better get going before everyone leaves without us.” Pansy had already pulled on a pair of jeans and was sliding a black turtleneck over her head. Y/N walked over to her trunk and began pulling items out.

“What should I wear? I was thinking a sweater, I want to stay warm.” Y/N held up a cream fisherman’s sweater for Pansy to look at.

“Ooh, you need to wear that one, you always look pretty in it. George is going to love it on you.” Pansy smirked at that last bit, dodging a rogue pillow that Y/N threw at her head.

“We don’t even know if he’ll be at Hogsmeade today,” Y/N looked down and began fiddling with the hem of the sweater she was holding. “Besides, I heard that he was interested in Alicia Spinnet, they’re always at Quidditch practice together.”

“Just get dressed will you? You’re being ridiculous. I’m going to brush my teeth, I’ll wait for you in the common room.” Pansy pulled a sherpa jacket around her shoulders and a knit hat before she swept out of the room leaving Y/N to herself.

Y/N sighed and pulled the sweater over her head. Pansy was right, she did always look good in that sweater, especially when she wore it with something green to make her eyes pop.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Pansy was waiting at the bottom of the stairs when Y/N finally walked into the common room.

“Agh! It’s about time! Let’s go, the last group is leaving in a few minutes.”

The two girls hurried out of the common room and up through the stairs of the dungeons. Once they had reached the courtyard where the last Hogsmeade group was congregating, Pansy pulled Y/N close to her side and whispered into her ear.

“Listen, I spoke to some people and they said that George is definitely going to Hogsmeade today. This is your chance to actually say something to him!”

Y/N opened her mouth to respond to Pansy when her eyes fell on George Weasley jogging into the courtyard next to Harry Potter and his brother Ron. He was laughing at something Harry had said as he ran his fingers through his hair, pushing it back carelessly. He was in a maroon sweatshirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, his wand loosely grasped in his left hand. He began twirling them across his fingers before Y/N forced herself to turn around.

“You alright? You look like you’re about to be sick,” Pansy asked. She hadn’t seen George walk into the courtyard yet.

Y/N shook her head and straightened her back. She put a smile on her face and turned to Pansy.

“I am absolutely fine!”

Pansy had a frown on her face as she studied Y/N’s reaction. Once she had seen George over Y/N’s shoulder, her face dawned in realization.

“You absolute idiot, I thought you were dying for a second, what’s wrong with you?” Pansy lightly punched Y/N’s shoulder.

Y/N began making excuses when Professor McGonagall’s voice rang out around the courtyard.

“Could I have everyone’s attention? Now, this is the last trip to Hogsmeade before the winter recess and I expect everyone to be on their best behavior. I don’t want to have to send an owl to anyone’s parents after today so let’s not ruin a nice holiday,” She gave a pointed look towards George, who only smiled brightly in response. “Alright, remember to be back at the castle by 6 o’clock, promptly!”

People began filing out of the courtyard and walking down the path to get to the main road that led into Hogsmeade. Pansy looped her arm around Y/N’s, pulling her close into her side.

“I want to stay warm, I wasn’t built for cold weather.” Pansy was shivering, even through the heavy jacket she was wearing. She looked down at Y/N’s outfit with a hint of jealousy. “Ugh, I wish I had thought of wearing corduroy trousers, my legs are freezing. I like that color on you though, house pride and all that.”

Y/N was wearing some green corduroy pants, the cream sweater she had pulled from her trunk, and one of her Slytherin scarfs that her mother had knit for her a few years before. She unwrapped the scarf from her neck and placed it around Pansy’s shoulders.

“Here, wear this if you’re so cold then.”

Pansy smiled and squinted her eyes shut.

“Ooh, thank youuuuu! You know I love you right? This is why we’re best friends.”

“Why, because I give you my clothes when you’re cold?” Y/N asked, laughing a little.

“Yes, was that not clear from the moment we met?” Pansy’s serious tone didn’t match her smiling face. Hogsmeade was slowly coming into sight down the hill.

“C’mon, I want to get some Fizzing Whizbees and Chocolate Frogs, we can go get a butterbeer to warm up a little after that,” Pansy started running down the hill, pulling Y/N along as they ran past the rest of the group and made a bee-line to Honeydukes.

Honeydukes was one of the best places to visit in Hogsmeade. There was no better sweets shop in all of England, the entire place was filled to the brim with different assortments of candies and chocolates. For Christmas, the entire place was decorated in red, white, and green decorations and the air smelled like gingerbread and caramel. Needless to say, it was difficult to not be in the Christmas spirit once you walked into the shop.

Y/N was looking through the different flavors of licorice ropes when Pansy began drawing her attention to the two different types of chocolate frogs they had that she was pretending to be interested in.

Pansy’s eyes glittered in the way they usually did whenever she was planning something mischievous, but before Y/N could say anything, Pansy’s hands collided with her shoulders and shoved her backwards.

Y/N stumbled back a few steps before she crashed up against someone.

“Oof!” Y/N felt as though the wind had been knocked out of her. “Oh my god, I am so so sorr-” Y/N stopped apologizing as she turned around and looked up to see whose chest it was that she had just slammed into. To her surprise, she was soon staring into the eyes of George Weasley.

George had a surprised look on his face before a mischievous smile took its place. Now that Y/N was this close to him, she could smell his cologne. It was intoxicating. Notes of evergreen and birch smoke wafted across his chest and Y/N felt her knees go weak.

“Oh you don’t have to apologize, I should have been watching where I was going,” George’s eyes narrowed a little, the smile still present on his face. “I don’t think I know your name. I’m George, it’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“Uh, my name is Y/N, it’s a pleasure to meet you as well.”

It was quiet for a few seconds as the two stared at one another before Pansy suddenly appeared next to Y/N.

“Hey, are you ready to go? I want a butterbeer.”

“Um, what?” Y/N asked, a little dazed. She didn’t get an answer to her question before Pansy was dragging her by the arm towards the door. Y/N looked back at George, only to find him staring back at her, a confused smile on his face. The two made eye contact for a second before the door slammed shut and he disappeared from view.

“Oh my god! What the bloody hell was that?! I shove you into him, hoping you’ll take that moment and seduce him with those bedroom eyes you make at him all the time, but no! Instead, you stare at him and become fucking Bambi!”

Y/N gaped at Pansy who was still dragging her down the street.

“Wha- I do not make bedroom eyes at him!”

Pansy gave her an exasperated look.

“Now I really do need a butterbeer, and you’re paying.” Pansy sighed before they walked into the Three Broomsticks.

After Pansy had gotten two steaming mugs of butterbeer, the two of them sat down at an empty table in the middle of the tavern. Madam Rosmerta had obviously spared no expense with the decorations and had put up evergreen garlands and red bows across the walls and beams. It was easy to feel comfortable and at home in the Three Broomsticks.

The two girls were chatting aimlessly to distract themselves as they sipped on their butterbeers until the entrance to the tavern blew open. Their eyes were drawn to the door as the Weasley twins walked in, followed closely by Ginny Weasley and Hermione Granger. They were shaking snow off of their heads and stomping their boots when Y/N felt Pansy’s hand squish her cheeks and turn her head towards her.

“Hey! You need to keep it together this time, alright?” Pansy let go of Y/N’s cheeks and went back to her butterbeer as if nothing happened. Y/N was rubbing her cheek when someone cleared their throat.

Standing next to their table, was George, who was towering over the two of them with a kind smile on his face.

“Hey,” His voice was soft and reminded Y/N of melted caramel and velvet. “I didn’t get a chance to say goodbye back in Honeydukes. I think I’ve seen you around Hogwarts, you’re in my brother’s year, right?”

“Oh! Yeah, I am, we’re in the same Potions class together I’m pretty sure. He’s really nice.”

The two of them stared at one another for a few seconds before Pansy finally broke the silence.

“So! Y/N here was actually just telling me about how much she liked your most recent prank on Umbridge with the firecrackers in her office.”

Seemingly out of nowhere, Fred Weasley appeared right next to George.

“Does she now? Well, I can tell you for a fact, that George was the brains behind that one.”

Fred and Pansy shared a knowing look with one another while Y/N and George both shyly made eye contact.

“Um, yeah, I thought it was really clever of you guys, I heard that Umbridge was trying to get rid of the smell of it for weeks. She still smells like smoke sometimes in Defense Against the Dark Arts.”

The twins smiled and laughed a little at your response.

“Yeah, apparently Umbridge spent four hours trying to get rid of it before she gave up,” George said, a little bashfully.

Fred and George pulled two chairs up to their table and the four continued talking, especially George and Y/N. By the time it was almost time to head back, the two were heavily invested in listening to the other’s voice. The entire walk back to the castle, George and Y/N both fell into a comfortable conversation that ended far too quickly.

They were talking about their favorite books when they reached the entrance to the Great Hall.

“Unfortunately, this is where I have to leave you, Ms. L/N,” George said in a solemn, posh voice. Y/N smiled.

“I suppose so Mr. Weasley. Until we meet again.” Y/N gave a shy little curtsy in response. George grabbed Y/N’s hand and swept into a deep bow before kissing the top of her hand.

The two then parted ways, heading to their respective house tables where they continued to sneak glances and stares at one another through the rest of the night.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A week later, Y/N was still thinking about George. Occasionally, their eyes would meet from across the room in the Great Hall or as they passed by one another in the hallways. It was difficult to think about anything but George.

However, on the last few days remaining before the winter holidays started, George stopped showing up around school. In fact, all of the Weasleys seemed to have disappeared from Hogwarts.

By the time the Hogwarts Express came to take everyone back home for the holidays, Y/N had given up on looking for him. Pansy was good at distracting Y/N by coming up with different plans to see each other before school resumed. This distracting continued up until they reached Platform 9 ¾.

The first three days of the break were peaceful and relaxing, a much-needed change from the O.W.L exams preparation the professors at school had them doing. On the fourth day, Y/N received a large barn owl carrying a letter. It had crashed into one of the closed kitchen windows during breakfast, completely missing the open one right next to it. After making sure that the owl was uninjured and able to stand back up on its feet, Y/N looked at the letter that the owl had been carrying.

The front of the envelope was addressed to Y/N in a messy scrawl of blue ink. Once she had opened the letter and scanned to the bottom of the page to see who it was from, her eyes widened.

“Sorry, I’ll be right back, this is important.” Y/N quickly excused herself from the table and ran to her room where she leaped onto her bed in order to read the letter thoroughly.

Dear Y/N,

I hope your holiday is going well! I know I had to leave pretty suddenly before the break and I didn’t get a chance to say goodbye or even spend a lot of time with you. Maybe we could spend a Hogsmeade trip together when we get back?

- George Weasley

Once Y/N had read through the letter another three times, just to make sure she had actually read it correctly, she turned and screamed into her pillow.

After laying there for a few seconds, contemplating what to do next, she quickly ran over to her desk and pulled a piece of parchment and a quill from the drawer. Dipping the quill into the open inkwell that was sitting in front of her, she began writing a letter to Pansy.

Dear Pansy,

I have just received a letter from George Weasley! He has asked me to spend a Hogsmeade trip with him once we get back to school. How do I respond?! What do I say?

-Y/N

Y/N blew on the page to dry the ink and quickly folded the letter into thirds before shoving it into an envelope and closing it with a wax seal. In green ink, she wrote Pansy’s name and address before rushing back into the kitchen. She would need to send the letter by the family owl, Athena.

“Mum, I’m going to borrow Athena, I have a letter I need to send to Pansy.” Y/N didn’t wait for a response before she opened Athena’s cage and let her hop onto her wrist. She held out the envelope and the owl took it in its beak.

“Take this to Pansy, alright? Make sure she writes back immediately.”

With a muffled hoot, Athena flapped her wings before taking off and soaring out through the window and over the treeline.

Only a few hours later, Y/N received a response from Pansy.

Dear Y/N,

I was going to send a Howler with Owlexander, but Mum said I couldn’t. Apparently, Owlexander would get too spooked if the Howler went off mid-flight. SAY YES!! Tell him that you would love to spend a Hogsmeade trip with him and that you are looking forward to it. Also, ask about how he is doing and stuff like that if you want to keep receiving letters from him during the holiday.

-Pansy

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Once it was time to return to Hogwarts, Y/N was filled with dread and excitement. On one hand, she would be seeing George for the first time since they had started writing letters to one another. On the other, Umbridge and the other professors would be piling on the homework and O.W.L.s preparation to the point that Y/N probably wouldn’t even be able to enjoy spending time with George.

Y/N didn’t see George until they were disembarking from the train once they had arrived at Hogsmeade station. He was standing with the rest of his siblings, as well as Hermione and Harry. When the two had finally made eye contact, Y/N gave a shy wave to George. However, once George raised his hand to wave back, Ron’s voice spoke loudly.

“Is that the Slytherin girl you fancy, George?”

Y/N had to stifle a giggle as George’s face went red and he quickly elbowed Ron in the stomach. Y/N felt Pansy’s hand close around hers, pulling her off towards the carriages that were waiting to take the students back up to the castle. Once they had arrived at an available carriage, Y/N began looking around for a familiar glimpse of copper hair but was quickly yanked in. Pansy was yet again ill-prepared for the cold winter weather and was shivering so hard that the seat was almost vibrating.

“Close the door, I want to keep as much of the warm air in.” Pansy’s sock-clad feet were pushed up against the small metal furnace in the middle of the floor. She gave a smirk as she leaned back against the cushioned seats. “You can invite Weasley to join us if he happens to ‘walk’ by.”

Y/N continued looking out the window, hoping for even the smallest sign of George, but the fogging of the windows only made it more difficult to see anything through the crowd of black robes.

Soon enough, the carriage was filled with some girls from Ravenclaw who had managed to get a last-minute seat before the carriages began up the path.

Pansy noticed Y/N’s defeated look and lightly poked her leg.

“Hey, don’t worry about it, you’ll see each other in only a few minutes, then you guys can stare at each other all through dinner.”

Throughout the feast, Y/N and George made eye contact several times which was closely followed by fierce blushes. Their glances couldn’t have been more obvious, and by the time Professor Dumbledore had cleared their plates and dismissed them from the Great Hall, both Pansy and Fred were shoving Y/N and George towards one another so that they could finally talk.

Their paths finally crossed when they walked through the large wooden doors that guarded the entrance to the Great Hall. George pulled Y/N aside and leaned down to whisper in her ear.

“Can I walk you back to your dormitory?”

Together, they took the long way down to the dungeons, talking quietly.

“How was your holiday?” Y/N asked once they had started the descent into the dungeons.

George gave a strained smile in response.

“It was alright, I’m sure you must have heard about my dad and everything.”

Y/N felt a surge of sympathy, her parents had come home from working at the Ministry with the news of what had happened to Mr. Weasley.

“Yeah, I’m really sorry that you all had to go through that. I’m glad he’s alright now, Mum and Dad said that St. Mungos had discharged him.”

“Yeah, we were all really relieved to hear that he was going to be okay. But what about you, how was your holiday?”

“It was alright, nice and relaxing, you know? But it could have been better.”

George had a confused smile on his face at her last comment.

“Oh? How so?”

They had finally reached the entrance to the Slytherin common room when Y/N turned to answer him.

“It would have been better if I had been able to see you.” Y/N then entered the common room and left George with his mouth hanging open slightly in surprise and a vibrant flush across his cheeks.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Sitting in the Astronomy Tower late at night was one of Y/N’s favorite ways to distract herself from the stress of assignments and exams. On nights when Astronomy classes weren’t being held, Y/N would lie on her back and watch the night sky through the enchanted ceiling. Focusing on finding constellations in the silence and stillness was meditative.

It was crisp in the tower, and Y/N choice of sleep shorts and one of Pansy’s silk pajama tops didn’t do much to fend off the cold breeze. Y/N was lost in thought when a sudden knocking on the side of the door alerted her to another person’s presence. She turned to see George leaning against the doorframe, his arms crossed across his chest. He was wearing some plaid pajama pants and a loose, black t-shirt. He looked really good in casual clothes like this. The corner of his mouth was turned up slightly in a reassuring smile.

“Hey,” Y/N said in a soft voice.

“You don’t mind if I join you, do you?” George asked, taking a few steps into the room.

Y/N smiled and shook her head.

“Not at all.”

A comfortable silence surrounded them for a brief moment.

“So what brings you up here this late at night?” George asked, now leaning against one of the window sills.

“I like to come up and watch the stars, it’s a nice way to relax after a long day.” Y/N looked at him quizzically. “I could ask you the same question, what are you doing up here?”

George laughed quietly before pulling out a piece of parchment from his pajama bottom’s pockets.

“I received an owl at my window with this letter.”

George unfolded the parchment and read aloud.

“Y/N is up in the Astronomy Tower by herself. Go for it.”

Y/N turned to hide the blush that was forming across her face. There was no doubt in her mind that Pansy had sent that letter, she was the only one who knew where Y/N had gone to.

“You know, I wanted to ask you to Hogsmeade earlier, before we left for the holidays.” George was looking at his feet, his hands shoved in his pockets. “I was too scared to ask you when we were in Hogsmeade, I didn’t think you would say yes.”

Y/N studied George’s posture closely. His shoulders were curled in, he seemed to be trying to make himself look as small as possible without being too conspicuous.

“Well now you know that there is nothing to be scared about,” Y/N hesitated before pushing herself away from the wall she was leaning on. “Come and help me get some blankets from the closet, I’m pretty sure Professor Sinistra keeps some extras in there.”

George had a bemused expression on his face, but followed Y/N to a small closet door. Inside the closet were scrolls of parchment, planetary charts, and astrological drawings for Professor Sinistra’s classes, some dusty telescopes, and rolls of blankets that were used for cold nights.

Spreading the blankets on the floor, they laid down next to one another, staring at the sky above them. There wasn’t a cloud in sight and the stars were bright, the perfect night for stargazing. They watched the sky silently before Y/N broke the silence.

“That constellation over there is Perseus,” Y/N was pointing to a cluster of stars above them, “I always loved hearing his story in class.”

“Why’s that?”

There was a beat of silence.

“He was one of the only Greek heroes who actually had a happy ending. That’s all any of us really want, a happy ending.”

“Well, what was Perseus’ happy ending?”

Y/N smiled to herself.

“He got the girl and married a princess.”

George was quiet for a moment before he responded.

“Yeah, that does sound like a happy ending.”

Y/N felt George’s fingers brush against the back of her hand. She opened her palm and felt George’s hand clasp hers, their fingers intertwining together.

“You know, if you had asked me during that first Hogsmeade trip, I would have said yes.” Y/N spoke softly. It was quiet between them once again and Y/N turned her head to the side.

George had turned onto his side to look at Y/N. The usual mischievous smirk was gone, replaced instead by a look of relief and a gentle smile resting on his lips.

Y/N’s eyes flitted down to his mouth before looking into his eyes once again.

George’s other hand came up to her face, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear before stroking her cheek. His thumb traced down her cheek and around the outline of her lips, parting them slightly.

Y/N softly bit down on his thumb, a smile behind her eyes. George withdrew his hand a little before gently tilting her chin towards him. Y/N raised her hand to caress his cheek and pulled him into a soft kiss.

His lips were soft and warm, and she felt herself melt into his embrace. The kiss felt sweet and comforting, almost like warm honey running down her throat. She hadn’t realized how pliant she had become in his grasp until he moved his hand to the small of her back and around her waist, pulling her closer to his body. Y/N could feel the warmth of his chest pressing against her own, fending off the crisp coolness that had filled the tower.

Her hand that was resting on his cheek moved to the back of his neck and she tangled her fingers through his hair. A low moan resonated from his throat and he gripped her waist, pulling her even closer to him.

Her heart was racing and she felt a spark in the pit of her stomach that was growing more ravenous by the second. George pulled back a little, breaking the kiss before he started kissing down her neck, slowly tracing a line to her collarbone.

Euphoria couldn’t even begin to describe what Y/N was feeling as George’s hands slid underneath her shirt, his hands warm and comforting.

With a sudden burst of bravery, Y/N took their still clasped hands and guided them to her sleep shorts. George froze for a second before slowly drawing back.

“Are you sure? I don’t want to rush you into anything you don’t want to do.” His face had a nervous expression painted across it.

“I’m sure. Are you?” Y/N studied his face, his mouth twitching into a smile.

“Yeah, yeah I’m sure.”

George pulled the sleep shorts down Y/N’s legs, who kicked them off carelessly to a corner of the tower. Y/N felt a shiver course down her body once her legs were fully exposed to the night’s air.

George pushed himself up, his legs straddling Y/N’s waist, and pulled his shirt over his head in one, seamless movement. His body was toned, no doubt from the hours of Quidditch practice, and the way the silver light coming through the open windows glanced off his body made it look like moonlight was made just for him.

George’s head was cocked to the side, as if he was considering what to do next. His eyes looked heavy and dark, a stark contrast to their usual bright and lively expression.

“Why don’t you take that off for me?”

He nodded to the sleep shirt that Y/N was still wearing. Y/N’s hands moved slowly, undoing the buttons carefully. After the shirt had been completely undone, George brushed the fabric off her shoulders. He paused for a moment, looking at Y/N, before he cupped the back of her head and pulled her into another kiss. There was something different about him now though, this kiss felt more passionate and heated. Y/N’s hands were embracing George’s cheek and the back of his head, once again tangling themselves in his soft hair.

George’s hips were slowly grinding down into Y/N’s, setting off sparks deep within her stomach. Her reaction to his touch made her reflect for a moment, no one else had ever had this kind of effect on her before, no one else made her swoon just by looking her way, and certainly no one had made her fall apart under their touch.

Y/N’s hand traced down George’s neck, down his chest, and down to the waistband of his pants. He seemed to understand what she was asking and wordlessly pushed the elastic band down, kicking the pants somewhere haphazardly. The sparks Y/N had felt in the pit of her stomach earlier were coming back in full force.

George pushed Y/N’s legs apart and slotted himself in between them, pulling her hips closer to his face. There was a smile behind his eyes as he pressed a kiss to each of her hip bones, never breaking eye contact.

“You know, I have been wanting to do this for ages,” George began kissing up the inside of her thigh. Y/N threw her head back, her eyes closed as she reveled in his touch.

Y/N didn’t have time to respond as George’s thumb found and slowly circled her clit. A low moan escaped from her and Y/N threaded her fingers through the fringe on his head. Y/N could feel his smile against her thigh.

“But don’t worry, I’m about to make it up to the both of us.”

His thumb drew back suddenly, and Y/N was about to groan in protest until she felt his tongue take its place. Her grip on his hair tightened between her fingers. Y/N’s breaths were shallow now as she tried to keep her voice down. But with each passing moment, she found it more difficult to keep the sounds at bay.

George’s tongue expertly moved, making Y/N fall apart with each passing moment. It was almost as if time didn’t exist, all that mattered was the pleasure that Y/N was experiencing and that George was the one making her feel this way.

Y/N felt the pressure in her stomach begin to rise and grow in intensity. Each breath was now a gasp for air as George became more fervent with his movements. His hands were tightly gripping her thighs and waist, pushing them down so that she could not writhe around. Her leg began to shake and Y/N had to bite down on her hand to stop the loud moans that were threatening to escape from her.

“I-I’m going to-” Y/N couldn’t finish her sentence, but George seemed to understand. He increased his relentless pace, not giving Y/N a moment to fall from the high she was about to experience.

Her vision went white and her back arched as the feeling of euphoria became all-consuming. With one final gasp, Y/N’s orgasm faded into a muted throb in the core of her stomach once again. Her grip loosened on George’s hair, her hand sliding down to his cheek.

The mischievous knowing smirk was on his face again, his tongue resting between his teeth.

“That was-,” Y/N took a deep breath.

“Amazing? Wondrous? Phenomenal?” George had a proud tone to his voice.

“Aren’t you smug? I was going to say mind-blowing but you don’t seem to need an ego boost.”

Her hand dropped from his cheek and rested on her stomach, which was rising and falling with every deep breath she took.

George pushed himself up onto his arms and moved so that his face was only inches from Y/N’s. Her hands came up to his bare waist, where they then slowly moved up his back, tracing over the lines of muscle, and finally to his shoulder and the back of his neck. Her fingers threaded through the short hairs at the nape of his neck, tracing light patterns that sent shutters down George’s spine.

“You,” George leaned down and kissed the tip of Y/N’s nose, “are so,” a kiss on her left cheek, “incredibly,” a kiss on her right cheek “beautiful,” and finally, a kiss on her awaiting lips.

“Are you ready?” George’s voice was soft, a vague expression of concern on his face.

“Yeah, I am.” Y/N pulled his waist closer to hers, giving George the permission he needed to continue.

George slowly entered Y/N, moving carefully as to not make any sudden movements. Once his hips were flush with Y/N’s, he paused, giving her a moment to adjust to the sudden pressure. Y/N let out a content sigh, which George took as a sign to move, and he slowly began pulling out.

His hips began to find an easy rhythm and Y/N pulled him down into a heady and meaningful kiss. Every movement was slow and deep, Y/N’s hips raising to meet George’s with each thrust. The cold breeze that was washing over them went unnoticed, the heat from their bodies shielding and keeping them warm. Y/N could feel George’s muscles flex with the rise and fall of his chest and the rolling of his hips which only added to the electric feeling in her core.

Y/N’s back arched as George drove into the very spot that made her fall apart, soft moans falling from her parted lips in concurrence with George’s quiet grunts. With each thrust forward, George kissed along the line of Y/N’s neck and down to her chest, his lips grazing over her collarbones.

“D-don’t stop,” Y/N gasped, tensing as his cock somehow drove deeper into her than it had before. Her request elicited a breathy laugh from George’s mouth.

“Does that feel good sweetheart?” his voice had a teasing tone to it, she could hear his smile in his words.

“Yes, yes it feels so good,” she moaned loudly, not caring anymore about keeping quiet. George pushed himself up in response, his hand tightly gripping onto her waist as he drove into her, pulling her down onto his cock with force.

‘Oh my god, right there,” Y/N continued babbling praise, her mind going blank. Each breath was a gasp for air, her legs were trembling violently as she began to approach her high once again. Once George’s calloused fingers came down to her clit, she felt her orgasm crash over her once again, loud moans falling from her mouth.

Y/N felt herself tense around George and his hips began to stutter, the steady rhythm losing its pattern as he began chasing his high after Y/N’s. It only took a few more stroked before his orgasm finally washed over his body, his toned arms supporting his upper body as he fell forward.

They were both panting, trying to catch their breaths in the wake of their climaxes. George carefully pulled out and laid down beside Y/N, his arms trembling slightly. Y/N turned to face George and rested her head against his chest, which was rising and falling rapidly. The only sound within the tower was their heavy breathing as they took a few moments to recover.

George’s fingertips brushed the tops of her thighs, following the curves and dips of her waist and hips. His hand finally came to rest on her lower back, where he began tracing aimless patterns. The light patterns sent exhilarated shivers down Y/N’s spine, keeping her in a state of bliss. If heaven was anything but this, she didn’t want it.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

After they had magically cleaned up after themselves and put the blankets back into the closet, they walked down the spiraling staircase from the Astronomy Tower, hand in hand. They were surrounded by a comfortable silence, the only sounds being their footsteps on the stone steps and the occasional whisper from the portraits on the walls.

George noticed the hint of a smile that was resting on Y/N face. When they had turned the corner to an empty hallway, George nudged her shoulder, pulling her out of her thoughts.

“What are you smiling about?”

She shook her head, smiling.

“I’m just really happy right now.”

“Me too,” he responded, squeezing her hand reassuringly. A smirk suddenly appeared on his face, “how long did you actually like me then?”

Y/N felt her cheeks flush with heat.

“Well I’ve always liked your pranks and I’ve always thought you were attractive, but I think it was the Yule Ball where I realized that I liked you. I don’t know if you remember this, but you asked me to dance. No one had ever asked me to dance before,” she glanced up at George’s face, which was now dawning in realization.

“Oh yeah! I remember that, Fred dared me to ask the prettiest girl in the room for a dance. I asked McGonagall but she said no, so I asked you instead,” a teasing smile was on his face now, “Have you really liked me for all that time?”

“Yeah, I think Pansy became so fed up that she had to start intervening.”

“Is that why she shoved you into me that day in Hogsmeade?” George laughed, “I think Fred was getting fed up as well, he’s practically been shoving me towards the Slytherin table every day.”

They crossed through the entrance hall towards the grand staircase, where they would descend down to the entrance to the dungeons. A gust of cold air blew down through the halls from the Quad, sending a shiver down Y/N’s spine. George pulled her close into his side and they continued, his arm wrapped securely around her shoulders.

They descended the steps to the dungeons and past the Potions classrooms and down one final set of stairs to the entrance to the Slytherin common room. Most of the time, the cold and wet feeling of the dungeons before walking into the warm and cozy common room was unsettling for Y/N, but she didn’t mind it as much when she was standing next to George.

“I had a really nice time tonight. I’m glad you came up to the tower,” Y/N said, turning to say her goodbyes to George.

“I had a nice time too,” his voice was quiet, barely above a whisper. Y/N looked up to the hair that was falling across his forehead and tucked it away from his face.

“I’ll see you tomorrow then? At breakfast?” she tried not to sound too hopeful, but it was difficult to not look forward to the next time they saw one another.

“Yeah, I will. And then maybe I can take you out on a real date?”

“I would love that.”

They both leaned forward for one final kiss goodbye, then Y/N turned to the stone wall and uttered the password. The wall dissolved away and she walked through, looking back at George. As they brought their hands up to wave goodbye, the wall reformed and became solid between them once again.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The common room was pretty much empty, with the occasional cat stretching out on the plush velvet couches, and the fire in the fireplace now a pile of crackling logs. Different patterns of light were dancing around the room, shining through the transparent ceiling beneath the Black Lake. The only thing that could be seen through the inky darkness was the rippling moon, which was hanging brightly in the sky. Even the lake seemed to be asleep at this hour.

Y/N quietly tiptoed up the winding stone staircase to the girls’ dormitories where she shared a room with Pansy. She attempted to silently slide the door open, trying not to wake anyone, but her efforts were abandoned as soon as Pansy crashed into her, a barrage of questions pouring from her mouth.

“Was he there? What happened? Why were you up there so long, I thought Filch had caught you for sure!” Pansy was pulling Y/N by the arm to her bed, insisting that she answer every question that was thrown her way.

Once Y/N was situated on the bed, she began to tell Pansy about everything that had happened in the tower. Once she had gotten to the part where they kissed, Pansy let out a gasp and her hand flew over her mouth in shock.

“So he admitted that he liked you and he kissed you under the stars?” her voice was a whisper this time, her eyes rounding in shock.

“Mmhmm, but wait, it gets better,” Y/N giggled, leaning forward to continue her story in hushed tones. Pansy swooned at all the right moments and gasped encouragingly whenever a new detail of Y/N’s night with George was brought up.

It was almost sunrise by the time they had finished talking about George and sleep was pulling at their eyes.

“We better get some sleep now before we have to go down to breakfast,” Pansy yawned loudly, stretching her legs out before walking over to her bed. She looked at her watch as she crawled under the covers, “we should be able to get a few hours in before those damn first years wake us up again.”

Y/N pulled the covers back and slid between the cool sheets, thinking about the next time she would see George and what she would say to him. The fairy lights above their heads dimmed slightly and the fire in the fireplace slowed to a soft crackle.

“I’ll see you in the morning then. Good night,” Y/N began to draw the velvet curtains around her bed closed. There was a smirk on Pansy’s face as she began to close her curtains as well.

“Oh, you definitely had a good night,” Pansy ducked, laughing loudly as a hairbrush was thrown her way, narrowly missing her head.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Once they had gotten a few good hours of sleep, the two of them walked down to the Great Hall for breakfast. Y/N was fiddling with the hem of her sleeve nervously as they entered the entrance hall.

“Oh my god, will you stop futzing with it? Just act normal, you’ll be fine,” Pansy whispered, hooking her arm around Y/N’s. They finally walked through the large doors that entered into the Great Hall and were greeted by the loud chatter and clattering of silverware against plates. The hum only grew louder when Slytherin’s Quidditch team walked into the Great Hall wearing their emerald green Quidditch robes.

“I completely forgot, there’s Quidditch today!” Y/N remarked to Pansy as they sat down. Pansy was already filling her plate with some bacon and scrambled eggs.

“What do you mean ‘you forgot’? They’re playing Gryffindor, I would have thought you’d have the Gryffindor Quidditch schedule memorized.”

It wasn’t until a few minutes later when Y/N finally caught a glimpse of fiery hair walking through the entrance and over to the Gryffindor table. George and the rest of the Gryffindor team strode into the Great Hall to cheers and applause from the Gryffindor table. They were wearing their scarlet Quidditch robes, a stark contrast to the black school robes everyone else was wearing. George was carrying a brown paper parcel wrapped in twine in his hands which he slipped underneath his robes.

It was nearing the end of breakfast when George stood up and walked over to the Slytherin table, stopping in front of Y/N.

“Can I speak to you for a moment?”

Y/N nodded her head slightly.

“Yeah,” Y/N’s voice was quiet, almost a whisper. She stood from the bench and followed George out into the entrance hall. Y/N could feel people’s eyes on her as she trailed behind George, it wasn’t every day that a Gryffindor walked up to the Slytherin table to talk to someone, let alone pull them aside for a private conversation.

George pulled her behind a pillar so that her back was against the stone wall. He pulled the wrapped parcel up and held it out for her to take.

“I was hoping you would wear it at the match today,” George said as Y/N carefully untied the twine holding the brown paper together. The paper fell away to reveal a red and gold scarf.

“I know we’re playing Slytherin and all, you don’t have to wear it if you don’t want to.”

Y/N brought it up to her nose and breathed in, the scent seemed to envelop her senses. She glanced up at George’s face, a smile resting on her lips.

“I would love to,” Y/N wrapped the scarf around her neck, tossing one end over her shoulder, “how do I look?”

George cupped her cheeks and pressed a kiss to her forehead.

“Wonderful. Really wonderful”

Y/N walked back into the Great Hall still wearing the scarf. She sat down next to Pansy again and casually grabbed a croissant from Pansy’s plate, the corners of her mouth upturned slightly. Pansy leaned forward, her elbow leaning on the table and an amazed look on her face.

“Are you going to tell me what that was about?” a smile was growing on Pansy’s face as she stole a few glances at the scarf.

“Oh nothing,” Y/N paused for a moment, the croissant inches from her mouth. She had a look on her face like she was contemplating something amusing before she spoke again, “I’m just really excited for Quidditch today.”

#george weasley #george weasley x reader #george weasley fluff #george weasley smut #Harry Potter #pansy parkinson x reader #pansy parkinson x friend!reader #wingman!pansy parkinson #mutual pining

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beautifulletdownfics · 4 years

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The Nearness of You - A Harry Styles One Shot

A friends to lovers one shot feat. birthdays, pining and stolen purses.

Hello, please enjoy this fever dream fic that came to me a week ago and is now somehow 13.5k and gracing your eyeballs. I’ve never written a one-shot of this nature before and it was quite a refreshing distraction from my usual, long-form fics. Thank you to Anne @oh-honey-styles for the encouragement (bullying) and for posting the pic that inspired it all. To everyone else, read on x katey *Because this is quite lengthy, I’d recommend opening in a browser because the Tumblr app can be glitchy*

My masterlist Chat to me here

“When you're in my arms And I feel you so close to me All my wildest dreams came true” The Nearness of You, Ella Fitzgerald & Louis Armstrong

You love the cold.

London in February isn't everybody's cup of tea, but you feel positively giddy walking down the icy Soho street in your new & Other Stories snow boots. The hard, black leather is already making your toes ache, and they're rubbing against the heel of your left foot, but they'll stretch to size, and you can tell these are going to be Your Signature Boots. The wind whips against your cheeks, red flushing them as you cross the laneway and push open the door to the chic little restaurant you've followed on Instagram for years but never had an excuse to try. Figures Harry chose it for tonight. Sometimes you wondered if the coincidences were a little too … Coincidental.

"Hi," you smile brightly to the maître d', "I'm uh … I'm here for the birthday? For Harry?"

Do I need to say his surname? You think to yourself.

"Can I have your name, please?" The suited man pulls a piece of paper out of the reservations book and waits for you to identify yourself. Your chest is rattling from the cold and the flurry of nerves you're all too familiar with ignoring.

"Y/N," you say your full name, taking in the dark floor of the restaurant, the flickering candles on the tables and lining the bar that takes up the entire left side of the room. The whole place is beautiful, just like you've double-tapped online; all deep reds and burgundies, vintage posters, and mismatched, dark wooden furniture. A jazz record plays just loudly enough to fuse the conversations at all the tables into one comfortable sound. It would make for a sexy place for a date, you decide, stolen touches under the table would feel thrilling and seductive.

The maître d' nods, you're on the list, "Back in the private dining room," he says, "Follow me this way."

You push your evening bag further up your shoulder and walk half the length of the bar, your eyes adjusting to the darkness. You catch the bartender watching you as you go, he's cute, and you give him an awkward little wave before calling out ahead of you.

"Sorry, excuse me," you get the attention of the man leading you through, "Can you point me to where I need to go? I'm going to get a drink to take in first if that's okay?"

"Just there," he points to the doorway at the back, next to the kitchen pass, "The curtain on the right."

Thanking him, you watch as he walks back to his station by the front door. You turn to the bar and rest your hands on the cool wood. They've stuck the pages together of old Little Golden Books for the drink menus, but you'll be ordering what you always get on birthdays, so don't take in the beverage options as you flip through The Tawny Scrawny Lion. You remember it from when you were a kid.

The bartender moves to stand in front of you, a gleam in his eyes and flirtatious smirk on his face, "Pretty good read, that one. You have to order a drink though, this isn't a library."

You laugh, he's laying it on a bit thick but probably just after the tip, "I was more a The Poky Little Puppy sort of girl."

He gives you a grin of approval, flipping a napkin up onto the bar in front of you, "What can I make for you?"

"I'll have two Old Fashioneds, please," you lean forward onto your elbows to give your feet a rest as he pulls up a second napkin and then two crystal, lowball glasses. "They're pretty," you comment without thinking.

"It's all about the glass," he confirms quickly, dropping brown sugar cubes into each one and then shaking bitters on top. Your eyes focus on the way the squares dissolve and fall in on themselves as he speaks again, "I'm Jack."

"Y/N," you give your name for the second time, throwing a brief smile his way, "I've never actually watched someone make these before."

Jack pauses and gives you a teasing look, "Do you want me to stop so you can get something to write this all down?"

You laugh and roll your eyes at him as he goes back to making the drinks. You're stalling. You know when you go through the curtain in the back there'll be a dozen people who're all dressed nicer than you, with more impressive jobs than you, who have funnier, more outrageous stories about the birthday boy than you. You'll need to stand awkwardly in the doorway for a few moments too long before Harry notices you, and then your greeting will be watched by all his cool, London friends.

You know better than to let any of that dull your shine—you really do—but you've had a rough few months, and if you're honest, you'd like your first time seeing Harry since the summer to be a little more low-key than this. So that's why you're wearing the new boots that hurt and might not suit the dress code because they're new and you feel good wearing them with this outfit. It feels a little special to be out celebrating Harry's (belated) birthday in a semi-new ensemble. You managed to fluke getting your hair and makeup just right, and yes, your legs do look pretty fantastic in these tights with the short, roll neck, knit dress, thank you very much.

"Here you go," Jack brings your attention back to him, you can smell the citrus twist in front of you, and the crystal glass deflects the light from the candles, "Can I put this on a tab for you? You're with the birthday?"

"I'll pay," you tell him, already digging for your card and holding it out to him.

"Oi!" You hear a very familiar voice call out from the far end of the bar, the hairs on the back of your neck stand up and you shiver, "What're you payin' for? What's she—don't take her money!"

You keep your arm out steadily to Jack and raise your eyebrows at him, "Take it," you urge him quickly, feeling him pluck it from your fingers just as you turn towards the voice you know so well.

That familiar Tom Ford cologne hits your nose just as Harry hurries up and deposits himself heavily against the bar, right up in your personal space. His broad frame blocks out the room to you, and he's lit softly in the dim light and looking radiant from within, as per usual. He's got his crazy eyes out—accusing you—and his eyebrows are pinched together slightly, but he looks good. Happy. Rested. Pleased to see you.

Harry's always pleased to see everyone, you tell yourself, Hold it together.

He pulls you into his chest for a hug. Your cheek presses just below his pecs, and you feel the way he's grown more defined since you last saw him. The material of his t-shirt is soft and smells clean. It's a tight squeeze he gives you, one that you resist reading into. Was it healthy for there to be so much comfort in a simple hug? Was your whole body allowed to tingle and fizz from the embrace of a friend? Was it pathetic to have been carrying around in your ribcage the same crush from when you were thirteen?

Affirmative. Without a doubt. Yes.

You haven't seen Harry since mid-September, the last time he was in London. Well, the last time he was in London and had time to see you. You're sure there were probably business trips, Christmas definitely. And going off Instagram, you think he might've flown into Manchester and spent a long weekend with Anne back in October, but if it was any of your business, it would've been your business. You needed to be grateful simply for what you got; intermittent texts about books he'd read or maybe a happy drunk voicemail if he thought of you at the right time. He sent an email at Christmas with a charitable contribution in your name instead of a gift.

"It's so good to see you," Harry says as he pulls away, all crinkled eyes and broad smiles. You don't know your grin has launched his heart into space and that despite having just gone to the bathroom, Harry feels due for a nervous wee. He thinks you look fucking gorgeous tonight. Knowing you've done your hair, and eyeliner, and picked that dress to come out and celebrate his birthday … It sends a jolt of desire straight to his groin—beauty blooms in front of his eyes in you.

Tell her, you idiot. Twenty-seven could be the year.

"Hi," you chirp at him happily and pick up one of the glasses in front of you, "I got you a drink."

Harry watches you fondly and then dramatically looks off to the side, lets out a little huff, "Typical Y/N, buying her own drink … You really think I wouldn't have one here for you?"

Nevertheless, he says a quiet thank you, takes the glass from you and deliberately sniffs it as if he's not sure what's inside or if he'll like it. You smack his arm lightly at the show and pick up your own glass, chinking it to the side of his and watching him over the rim as you both take your first sips. The familiar taste and view fill your tummy with gurgling happiness that sits high in your chest. He's dressed almost exactly how you expected him to be—smart, high-waisted dress pants and a printed t-shirt. You're glad you didn't go too formal, the restaurant is nice, but it's not Hatted or anything, not like the place he took you in LA that time, where you felt like the biggest idiot in the world for not realising beforehand, was properly fancy.

"Fuckin' delicious," he rumbles slowly, bringing you back to the cocktail, "A classic."

"Happy birthday," you tell Harry sweetly, thankful for what's likely to be your only quiet moment with him all night, "Sorry I couldn't make it to the LA party."

"Ah," Harry waves you off, "Your job's much too important here."

He means it. Harry's beyond proud of you. He's always telling people you work for the NHS, saving lives and keeping the country going. The party in LA was thrown together by some people at the last minute, and even though most of the friends he left in the backroom when he went to find the bathrooms a few moments ago were able to fly across for it, Harry's not the least bit put out by you not being able to. Would've been a big trip for you to do on your own and he knew there's no way you'd miss his London celebration. And you sent over a gift, which shouldn't have surprised him. His actual birthday was spent in LA, and that morning a parcel arrived from you—two new notebooks and a novel Harry read the back of and instantly knew he would love. It's what he read on the flight home to the UK.

Trust you to want him to have the gift on his birthday—go to all that trouble of packaging it and sending it over—when you were going to see him in London ten days later anyway. Harry could do worse than a friend like you.

"I just need a bit more notice than four da—

—Please," Harry's shaking his head at you, hating watching you apologise for something he really doesn't care about. "I'm glad you're here tonight," he tells you genuinely, fingers reaching out to brush your bangs away from your eyebrow briefly and—did the room just spin around you?—get a glimpse of the bronze sheen over your eyelids, "I haven't seen your new hair in person, looks lovely."

Lovely? he scolds himself, Lovely is a nice jam scone, lovely is a hug from mum …

"Oh," you coo, automatically sending your own fingers up to where Harry's had just been to reposition your newish bangs, "Thanks, still getting used to it, wanted to do it forever but wasn't brave enough to I guess."

"I like your natural hair colour, too," he continues slowly, eyes running over your whole head, "I mean, I loved how it used to be … But I like this a lot."

Shit, Harry's already failing to adhere to the strict series of pep talks he's given himself over the last couple of days. He's babbling, and he's probably just made you think he's not liked how you've had your hair for the previous twelve years. Is he buzzed from the cocktail or from the way your cheeks have gone a little pink since he touched you? His compliment made you squirm, and Harry wants to do it again and again until what he's feeling makes sense.

"Just, you know, feels like a throwback to the old days," he mumbles through another sip of the cocktail you both love, a glint appears in his eyes as he continues, "When you had Barbie overalls and would spend half a day plaiting your whole head in those tiny little rat tails."

Your mouth opens into a horrified O, and you let out a single laugh, "Rat tails? They were cool. And I was eleven when we met, I'd definitely already outgrown the Barbie overalls."

"Whatever you say," Harry smirks at you, signature dimples appearing on his cheeks, "I just remember those little beads from the ends of them ending up all over the bottom of the pool."

You smile at the memory. You remember duck diving with Gemma to collect all the beads so they could be put back into your hair the next day. Nearly drowning from laughing so hard at Harry and the other boys trying to stand on your backs in the water. Summers with Harry were always spent laughing. The local pool and skate park saw all your adventures. When Harry's dad moved in next door to your family after his parent's divorce, you and your brother hung off the fence, peering into the backyard to see if any toys or a trampoline might appear signally new kids next door. They didn't, and it wasn't until the summer when Harry and Gemma arrived for their holidays that you jumped the fence with ice lollies and offered yourself up as a new friend.

"Simpler times," you muse to yourself, looking up and catching the perplexed look Harry was giving you, "Spaced out a bit, sorry."

"I've missed my little weirdo," he grins at you affectionately, angling a little closer and levelling his head down to yours as he bit his lip and frowned, "Are you doing alright though?"

You let out a little sigh and avert your eyes to where Jack, the bartender, is busy making trays of drinks for different tables. Harry observes you carefully, a twinge of guilt forms for causing the sad look that's come over your face, but also for not having asked the question weeks ago. Gemma told him at Christmas, an off-handed comment about you being newly single. When he heard the evil gremlin in him was fucking relieved, just like he always was.

"I'm fine," you try a smile out and pull your lips up higher when you don't think Harry buys it, "Better. Had my crisis haircut and drank myself to tears with my work friends. Just a normal break up, really. M'getting used to them at this point."

A small, white lie.

Each breakup bruises you deeply. Talking about it afterwards fills you with a shame that makes you feel naked, like everyone else can see what's wrong with you but you. As though it's obvious why nobody's picked you yet. You don't ever want to talk about it afterwards, (especially not with Harry) don't want to draw attention to it. Prefer to let the disappointment and loneliness pool in your tummy and sit there heavily, weighing you down, waiting for the One Day someone spectacular might come along and be buoyant enough to float away with you.

You're looking for your forever. You want the cheesy romance, and the love, and marriage, and kids, and the whole stupid thing. You want to be wanted and loved and cherished. That's what you're ready for. You just can't find anyone who's ready for that with you. So, you date, have mediocre boyfriends who rarely make it to the first anniversary, then pick up the pieces and try again.

Wash, rinse, repeat.

"Well," Harry swallows, reaches out for your arm to make sure you look at him, "You look beautiful tonight. And it's his loss, he's clearly a monumental idiot."

You give Harry a noncommittal hum in response. Just as you're about to say something you shouldn't—get into details you bet Harry really isn't that interested in knowing—you catch the movement of someone appearing from the doorway behind Harry and then approaching you both.

"Harry, mate," you don't know the guy who's recognised Harry's back and is calling out for his attention now, "Thought you might've fallen in."

Harry snaps around quickly to the voice, blocking your view. You take another sip of your drink and pull in a deep breath. Not fitting into any of Harry' groups socially has its downfalls. If his sister wasn't around, you tended to have to make friends at anything Harry invites you to. You're not part of his Holmes Chapel crew or his LA friends, and you definitely don't fit into the London group. Over the years there have been faces you've come to find familiar, but you're still the singular, hanger-on friend from Harry's second childhood home.

Peering around Harry's shoulder, you catch the end of a look between the two guys you think alludes to this new friend gauging whether Harry needs rescuing from you. You briefly wish the ground would open and swallow you whole. You know that look well.

"Aiden, this is Y/N," Harry raises his arm and angles to pull you around in front of him.

You hold up your drink, awkwardly, "Hi."

Aiden gives you a hesitant smile, "Hello," then he raises his eyebrows at Harry, "Harry, you coming back in, mate?"

Harry bites his lip and chuckles, reading the look on his friend's face, "You're a prick, I don't need saving. Known Y/N since I was twelve, we were just catching up."

You feel yourself go bright red, and you're thankful for the forgiving lighting. This isn't the first time this exact scenario has happened to you. You've been on the receiving end of that uneasy look before—his friends checking if the girl who isn't there with anyone else is supposed to be there at all. Backstage at the O2, a member of Harry's security once hauled you to the tour manager's office to check your VIP credentials were legitimate. You'll take that story with you to the grave.

Aiden deflates slightly and waves a hand your way, "Shit, sorry, thought he'd been cornered by a fan again … I mean, a pretty fan to say the least but …" he coughs into his hand when Harry gives him a glare you don't see, "Great to meet you."

"No worries," you wave it off like it's nothing. The truth is your brain has short-circuited at Harry's palm resting on the small of your back, he's not moved it from when he first brought you forward. Friendly touches weren't strange between you, but this lingering, comforting hand is burning a hole in you tonight. You haven't been out and had anyone touch you since your breakup, and Harry is setting off all you nerve endings. You tilt your weight onto your other foot to pull back from him slightly, but Harry's hand travels with you. "We should go back, I might use the loo first though, is it that way?"

Harry watches you point in the direction of the bathroom, you're flustered and he really wishes he could tell Aiden to buzz off so he could just take another few minutes with you. Brief you on who was in the room you were about to go into. You wouldn't know any of them, and Harry always appreciated that you came to things on your own, particularly when you wouldn't know anyone aside from him once you got there. He should have invited his sister so you'd have a buddy. Or told you to bring a friend. Not a boyfriend, though.

He watches you take the final drag from your drink and put the glass down on top of the bar, "Thanks Jack, t' was dee-lish," you catch the attention of the bartender, throwing him a beaming grin. And Harry watches the way the guy's features light up at being called on by you. Envy rumbles in Harry's gut, he recognises the dumb smile and dopey nod of Barman Jack's head. Has felt it a hundred times himself when he's been on the receiving end of your quirky humour.

You walk away, and Harry feels Aiden watching him, "She's fit," he comments, trying to get a rise out of Harry, reading the room perfectly.

"Fuck you," Harry grunts at him.

Harry sits opposite you at the long table in the private dining room.

You nurse a glass of rosé and eat the food slowly, savouring it. You deliberated over the menu for a long time before settling on what to order, you've seen photos of most of the dishes online, but there were several new ones too. Harry goes off your recommendations but spends a lot of the dinner talking to the people sitting beside him. He knows if he tried talking to you right now, he'd just get lost in you, which is both rude for a birthday party and bound to be too conspicuous.

You insert yourself into a conversation with the girls sitting next to you and pretend you're good at making friends. They spend most of the meal talking about something that was on the telly the night before. You were on shift so missed it, but pretend to be interested or like you might've seen it—anything to not stick out like a sore thumb.

Harry watches you out the corner of his eye the whole time. You've shrugged off your jacket, and he recognises the gold necklace you've got around the collar of your dress, sitting over the black fabric on your chest. He's pretty sure it was a gift from Gemma a few years ago, you wear it all the time. Harry makes a note to get you something that compliments it for your birthday coming up. You're chatting to one of his mate's girlfriends and Lisa who's been on his publicity team for years. Those would've been the two he'd have introduced you to first as well. He can't stop watching the way your lips turn up every time something funny is said, or one of the girls makes eye contact with you. Watching you try with his other friends always makes Harry feel warm and giddy for some reason.

Fuck, he's missed you. And he berates himself for the fact he never seems to remember that until he sees you again. (It's strategic usually, his heart doesn't take your company well when he knows you're going home to someone else) You're so engaging and kind and unintentionally charming, and you always have time for him. Harry knows he's not an easy human to be friends with; he constantly ducks in and out and is never around for the big things, let alone being available to call on a random day to just hang out with. The friendship is always on his terms, and he knows it makes him a selfish prick. You definitely could've done with a call a couple of months back when you had your heart broken. Like always, he missed it, and by the time he was sending you a message about an episode of Midsomer Murders, he felt as though the moment to console you had passed, and Harry didn't want to draw attention to the fact he wasn't around for it.

"Harry?"

"Hmm?" His head snaps back around to the person next to him, thoughts still on you across the table. He agrees with whatever was said and does his best to catch up.

Harry's got to stop thinking about how you're single at the moment. He really does.

A few hours later, it's the girl sitting to your left, Lisa, who first mentions the idea of kicking on.

It's after dessert—after everyone sang happy birthday to Harry over a round of espresso martinis—and you're starting to think that if you leave now, you'll be home before midnight, which means the tube won't be too deserted to feel safe. You're also at a comfortable place to wake up without a hangover in the morning. Two cocktails and a glass of wine over dinner, because any more and you're scared you could say something stupid to the wrong (right) person.

Harry's face lights up, and he looks around the room, eager at the idea of going to a bar or two for more drinks. He's not been out in London for the longest time, and he's happily buzzed enough to not be too worried about running into people. Feels like this group of friends have gelled well together. How often does he get to have a night like this in London? Hardly ever.

"Yeah, let me sort out the tab and then we're good to go," Harry says, pushing his seat back from the table and standing up, his hands hunting his pockets for his wallet and phone, "I'll be right back."

When he goes, you decide now's as good a time as any to split. You pull your coat on and say goodbye to the friends you made over the meal. Lisa gives you her business cards as if speaking to you had been part of her job, you slip it straight into your coat pocket and can already picture it at the bottom of the garbage in your kitchen. You revisit the bathrooms, and when you come back out into the main restaurant area, Harry's still leaning against the front desk, chatting to the maître d' from earlier.

He feels your small hand land on his back and jolts upright at the contact, your gentle voice calling his name softly, "Harry, I'm going to head home."

He spins around, and you catch the fall of his face, "What? No … No. You're the one I want to hang out with the most," his bottom lip juts out and his brows furrow. "Y/N."

"Thanks a fuckin' lot, mate," you hear a male voice laugh at your back, they slip behind you and out into the chilly air, and Harry flips them the bird. You were pushed closer into his chest as they jostled past and he steadied you with his arms latched onto your forearms. Still watching outside, you see a cigarette lighter flare-up on the footpath and the end of an orange butt glow spectacularly in the night. When you glance back at Harry, he's not looking happy.

"Don't pout," you tell him lightly, you reach up and press the skin taut between his eyes smooth again, "Can't wrinkle that rockstar face of yours."

His face lights up, and his skin heats where you made contact, "You can't go yet."

"Harry," your features tangle into something like a grimace, "You'll have a better time without me. Everyone seems to be pretty tight—"

—Y/N," he gives you a final, pleading look, "Please come."

You make out like you're stomping your foot in defiance, "Fine."

"Score!" Harry cheers under his breath, shrugging his jacket up over his shoulders and saying a final round of thank yous to the staff. When you're out on the street at Harry's side somebody mentions the name of the next place and points the direction of it, Harry places a hand on your shoulder as you start to walk and leans down to your ear, "I just have one condition for you coming."

You pull back and look at him, "I don't think you get conditions when you've begged me to be here."

"A birthday condition then," he edits, pressing his lips together and smiling at you with his eyes, "You have to promise to do what I say before I ask it."

You narrow your eyes at him, "I suppose you only turn twenty-seven once. You can have a single wish from me."

Harry laughs and slips his fingers under the strap of your evening bag, "Give me this."

You think briefly he means to carry it for you, which is a strange thing for Harry to request. But then he unzips it in front of you and starts rifling around inside it, slipping your phone under his arm so he can move around the lipstick and tissues and emergency Galaxy bar to eventually pull out your small purse.

"Harry! What are you—

—Ah, ah!" He holds it all away from you and reminds you of the promise. "This is mine for the night," he says, slipping your purse into his coat pocket. "Otherwise you'll end up buying too many rounds."

You try to sneak your hand into the pocket after your wallet, "Don't be stupid. It's your birthday, I'll buy every round if I need to."

"Exactly my point," he steps away from you down the street, and you skip to be back at his side. He's stolen your money and your chocolate bar.

"Harry, give it back."

"Nope," he pops the 'p' and hands you back the bag, the Galaxy bar hanging from between his teeth, still in the packet, "You promised. Now hurry up and walk, and I might give you a bite of this. 'm freezing my balls off, we are not in LA anymore."

So that's how you end up in the next bar, your handbag a little lighter, squished into Harry's side with a pleasantly sour cocktail he paid for between your fingers. The booth is so far into the back wall you're not even really sure which direction the front door is anymore. Somehow, you've managed to sit ten people around a booth probably designed for six, but nobody seems to be bothered.

Your whole right side is on fire, though.

You can feel Harry from the top of your shoulder all the way to your ankle. His hip sits neatly next to yours, Harry's left elbow rests just above your right thigh, and your knees press together every time he gets excited when he speaks and unintentionally opens his legs up. If Harry's bothered by it there's no way you'd know, he's hardly looked at you since you all sat down, much less uttered a word of discomfort about the seating arrangements. Makes no sense really, when he seemed so desperate for you to stay out with them.

(Next to you Harry's felt like he was high most of the time, he's flashing in and out of the conversations around him. Because he can smell your perfume—Stella by Stella McCartney, he'd know that fragrance anywhere, you've been wearing it since you were seventeen—and you're warm and snug beside him. He feels completely insane. But he also feels inflated with a heart-crushing joy at having you so close. He's trying his best not to draw attention to it or to you because what he's always liked most about your friendship is that you're just his. God, he needs to do better at seeing you more often, talking more, being more. Each breath as he's touching you is like a crack of electricity through his chest that aches beautifully. Nobody else feels like this. Even when he's dated, what he's felt with them can't hold a candle to his boyhood crush on you.)

You sip your drink and laugh at the embarrassing story that's being told about Harry, oblivious to his torment. Oblivious to how Harry feels your forearm brush his leg and has the overwhelming desire to deposit his palm on your thigh and keep it there, probably forever.

It strikes you that the last time you saw Harry was before the current anecdote about him in Italy happened, and at the table, it's being spoken about as though it was ancient history. You wonder what historic classification your memory of thirteen-year-old Harry would get, that time he attempted to bleach his hair with lemon juice. He ended up with second-degree burns on his forehead from the acid reacting with the sun.

Or the time Gemma stayed in Holmes Chapel for the summer because she had her first boyfriend, and so you spent six weeks learning that maybe you'd been wrong about who your favourite Styles child was. Maybe the boy who, when you were eleven, didn't impress you much, suddenly at thirteen, demanded all your attention. Made that summer become the first where you considered your outfits and whether your mum sending you next door with homemade snacks made you look lame.

"… And of course, Harry can't walk away from a dance floor when he's on the tequila …" everyone around the table laughs. Harry peeks at you to make sure you are too, but he's not very good at it because you notice, a smile flares on your lips.

You're used to long periods of not seeing each other, it's how it's always been. Harry and Gemma spent the summers with their dad and then returned to Holmes Chapel for real life. Sometimes that's what it still felt like, as though each time you saw either of them you were acutely aware there was a foreign Real Life they would go back to without you.

Harry in particular. You were used to not seeing him for months on end, usually the whole school year. Just a few messages over MySpace and birthday cards, and then, when you were out of school, invites to parties Harry couldn't come to anymore—'I'm in Australia, how insane is that? Sorry, I'll miss your 18th …' or 'I can only stay until the 8th, could you maybe graduate a week earlier? ;)'—and emails every other month with a new mobile number for you to overwrite his contact in your phone with. You're not saying you feel hard done by in your friendship, you don't. It's just always very take-what-you-can-get with Harry.

"You've got your thinky eyes on," he's pivoted his whole body towards you, hips twisted in an entirely uncomfortable looking position. Harry's got his resting elbow on the table right next to where your hand holds your drink, and he's looking down at you with careful eyes, "Where are you?"

"The pool a dozen summers ago," you answer easily, pursing your lips together and running a knuckle along your hairline, "Thinking about your ah, burn incident."

Harry's face explodes in a grin, and his eyes roll up to the ceiling and then capture yours again, "For fuck's sake, you're never going to stop bringing that up, are you?"

"You were a horrible blonde," you remark quickly, "If you ever so much as blink in the direction of a packet of bleach you have to call me, okay? I'll have no issue telling you, categorically, you should never dye your hair."

"Categorically," Harry mimics you childishly, "Alright, I get it, you went to uni. No need to use words with fifty syllables to make me feel stupid."

You bring your glass up to your lips, "Come off it, Harry, you're ten times smarter than me."

His forehead raises, "You're the cleverest person I know. Don't make me call Gem to confirm it."

"Don't bring your sister into this, Harry," you deadpan.

He goes to reply but holds back, something unnamable travelling across his eyes as he watches you lick your lips after taking another sip of your drink. Harry's leaning a little closer than he might usually, and despite the fact he's a few drinks in he still smells only of Tom Ford and clean clothes. He's just about to ask you what you're doing the next day when he gets hit in the side of the head with a coaster.

"Hey," he cries out, pulling back from you and frowning around at the group trying to figure out who the culprit is," 'M the fucking birthday boy, watch it."

Lisa is the girl directly across from Harry and yourself, and she's is the one who threw it. She's giving Harry a coy smile and holds up her empty glass to him, a not so subtle request makes the drink in your hand feel like a concrete brick. Something dirty you don't like having. She's got captivating blue eyes and straight blonde hair—exactly Harry's usual type. Your heart sinks as he slides out of the booth next to you, laughing at her flirtatious request and taking a tally of who else wants a new drink.

"Y/N?" Your name is delicate on his lips, and it makes you want to cry. Why is it so easy for you to make things feel like they mean more with him?

You direct your smile his way, "I'm good, thanks."

His head tilts to one side, "You sure?"

"Positive," you nod, feeling your cheeks burn as everyone watches the exchange.

"Okay," Harry taps the table with the corner of his phone, "I'll be right back."

After a few moments, you sneak off to the bathroom, happy to see Harry's beaten you back from the bar when you return. He's sitting in your spot, deep in conversation with the person beside him who you recognise from the radio. Tentatively, you slip in next to him, careful not to touch him this time. Harry's got his hand casually resting on the table, turning your glass forty-five degrees one way and then back the other way as he speaks. You think about reaching over and pulling it out of his hand gently (you're losing your buzz, and Little Miss Bombshell across the table has made you feel silly and juvenile) but it looks to be an almost serious conversation, so you don't. With a smile plastered on your face, you look around the table, resisting the urge to pull out your phone to check if either of your flatmates has text you to meet up with them somewhere.

It's a delicious whiff of your perfume behind him that turns Harry's head. You're back from the bathroom, although nobody was able to confirm that's where you went when he got back from the bar and asked after you. Harry pushes your drink over and gives you a smile, taking note of the fresh layer of lipstick and messy oomph to your hair that perfectly shows off the new style and bangs.

Golden, he thinks, As always,

"Your new hair really does look beautiful," Harry tells you, the bar stilling around you as his face becomes all the world is for you at that moment, "Next time, don't wait for a dickhead to break your heart before doing something to make yourself feel good."

You swallow down the thickness in your throat, "Thanks, Harry."

Walking to the next bar, Harry can't stop himself from asking.

"What happened?"

You kick your foot out as you wait at a set of traffic lights, half the group ran to cross, but you, Harry and a couple of others were too slow, "What happened with what?"

Harry watches his breath fan out in front of his face, "With your ex, with …"

"Tim."

"Tim, yeah," he turns to look down at you, hands tucked into his coat pockets, "What happened with Tim?"

"Nothing really," you start strong, then shrug one shoulder as you think about it. It's safe to cross so you wait until you're stepping up over the gutter and onto the opposite footpath before you continue, "Probably a lot of little things but … Always felt like he thought I was asking for a bit too much. I guess in the end he just didn't like me all that much."

The way your voice drops kills Harry, he's not detecting self-deprecation but something far worse. He's detecting acceptance or acknowledgement or like you're confessing some truth that should have been obvious.

"Y/N," he stops walking and halts you as well, lets Adrian and Lisa walk around and out in front of you, "If he didn't like you very much then he's got some kind of chemical imbalance. I mean it, this guy's not worth a second of your heartache."

It's not like Harry's a dickhead about it, not like he thinks you should date people with more money or status or who are more impressive. A person isn't their job or what car they drive, he knows that. Harry's not about judging anyone, but you really do seem to date guys not worthy of you. He hasn't met many of them, but Harry knows this to be true because if they were worthy, you simply wouldn't be single right now. If you dated someone half-decent, there wouldn't be a chance in hell they'd let you go. You're beautiful and thoughtful and intelligent and funny—so funny—which means Harry knows without a doubt that this Tim guy was an absolute fuckwit.

"It's not necessarily about the guy," you start and Harry can hear the thick emotion in your voice, "Is it? It's about the idea. The disappointment is more about not getting the fairytale, not finding my person. Not getting the whole package everyone else seems to have found. I know Tim wasn't right—truth be told I didn't end up liking him very much either—doesn't stop me from being sad that I still haven't found it."

"'It'… That's what you're looking for?" Harry asks, eyes out front where the rest of the group are all stopped waiting at another set of traffic lights.

They're laughing and chatting loudly to other people on nights out, and hanging off street poles to get funny pictures. He doesn't want to catch up to them, not when the two of you are in the middle of this conversation that's making his heart race and his hands sweat. He starts taking smaller steps.

"Yeah," you breathe out, almost sounding ashamed of yourself, "Don't seem to be looking in the right places."

Look over here, Harry thinks.

"But I mean, each breakup I end up getting something out of it," you've flicked your positivity switch, "This time I got these boots and bangs," you kick out your foot and watch Harry take note of your footwear, "Last break up I got four houseplants and a new watch … It's not all bad. What about you?" you turn it back on Harry, "Are you seeing anyone at the moment?"

It's hard to tell with Harry. You either find out from his sister or sometimes, social media. Although that's all usually trash. Generally, when Harry's seeing someone, you'll hear it confirmed from Gemma, and the next time you see Harry, it'll be something you're assumed to know. You haven't seen Gemma since Christmas time though, for your annual festive get together, and she didn't mention anything. Tim had ended things with you a few days before, so that was the main topic of conversation.

"No," Harry confirms what you'd already deduced—and hoped—in your head, "Not for a while now."

"Got your eye on anyone?" You quiz faux cheekily, your smile a little too wide.

Yes, you, he says to himself as he looks at the side of your face.

You hope he's not got some girl in LA he's into. Just like you'd hoped his answer to the previous question. But the hope was silly, something that bloomed in your chest each time you saw him and died again before you were home in your bed, alone.

"I'll let you know," he says aloud.

You think you see something else there in his expression, but you know you can't have. Your mind is swirling, and you're feeling a tingling sensation all over that you know you shouldn't. It'll only leave you disappointed when you part ways tonight and don't see him for another few months. The tiny bits of maybe mores and perhaps are dangerous to things to cling on to now, they'll all turn into Nothings very quickly.

Someone steals his attention away from you when you get to the next street corner. Most of the group are gathered there, and you're not sure whether to believe it when Lisa says they missed the green man to cross the road because they were talking. She sides up to Harry and starts waving her hands around in an animated story about something or other. Harry crosses the street with her, and you give him up for the night.

But he's acutely aware of what's happened. Harry's not stupid—he's emotionally intelligent, and spent enough time with Lisa on nights out before—and he can see that she's deliberately pulled him aside. He likes her, quite a bit, but she doesn't make his insides flip, or his toes curl. She's firmly Just A Friend. Harry hasn't spent countless hours over the years thinking about her, lying to himself about how he's completely fine when she starts dating someone new. He's never thought about an alternative life, one where he stayed at school and went to uni and got a regular job and maybe (definitely) ended up with her.

He's imagined that life with you—more than once. More than a dozen times, if he's honest. For years now, Harry's bitten his tongue and smiled through the pain of not being able to have you. And sure, most of the time it's a dull ache, deep in the recess of his mind, that needs to be called on or conjured to really be felt, but it's always been there. He's always had an (Astronomical) Soft Spot For You. Ever since that summer you broke your arm falling off the back of the ramp at the skate park, and he first saw you cry. At fifteen he didn't know what the hollow but sharp pain through his heart was as he rushed to your side, but now he knows that was the first sign he didn't see you as just a mate. Would never again see you as just a mate.

And now, hearing you use the word 'it'. You say you're out there dating idiots trying to find it and Harry's just unwaveringly sure he that could be him. He wants to be it for you.

You've pulled out your phone and fallen behind, face pulled down as you type away furiously. Harry watches you out of the corner of his eye, half just to watch you and half to make sure you don't get separated entirely from the safety of the group.

"Y/N," he calls out, unable to keep up with Lisa's story and unwilling to try to tune back into it. She stops short, and annoyance flits across her face, but Harry still turns to you, still crosses his arms over his chest and gives you his best scolding look, "It's the oldest trick in the book," he goads you. Lisa sighs behind him, and he ignores it.

Your head slowly comes up and takes in Harry (and Lisa sulking behind him), "What is?"

"Fallin' behind so you can peek at my bum."

You point at the long coat Harry's wearing that goes to his knees, "Can't see half of you under that thing."

"Ah, ha!" He calls out, his pointer finger floating in the air right in front of your face, "So you've tried."

You shove his shoulder and step around him, trying like anything to act neutrally. You're aware Lisa is still watching on, and you're not used to your friendship with Harry being quite so carefully observed. You know your face has gone red and you're really not going to involve yourself in a pissing contest with her. It's not classy and certainly not your vibe.

As you walk away, boots clip up behind you, and Harry heavily drapes his arm right across your shoulders, pulls you into his side, "Was just teasin', love."

"I know," you respond quietly, not upset, not really.

"Though I might've made you sad," Harry continues solemnly, "Know you get embarrassed in front of people."

Your face cracks into a smile, "Opposite of you, hey, you're practically an exhibitionist."

He should flirt because you've led him to a pretty easy window into a dirty joke, but something has Harry hanging onto his regret, "I mean it, shouldn't tease you …Should be old enough to use my words, tell you what I think."

You've got no idea what he's on about, "Harry, the teasing was fine. Where's this bloody bar though?"

Up ahead, everyone's standing on the footpath in a clump. Harry can feel the next words on his lips but has to hold them in when his mates turn and see he's finally caught up. They're waiting a few minutes for a table, someone explains, then they'll be able to go in. Harry thinks how little he feels like another drink at another bar. A few people walk away from the group to share cigarettes. You're standing a little bit away, under the sign for the butcher next-door and kick your foot back against the wall like the slight movement might warm you up.

As he steps up to you, Harry watches you get distracted by the group of people spilling out of the bar you're all about to go into. He doesn't want to take advantage of knowing you're newly single also doesn't want to let this opportunity pass. You're always dating someone, or he is, or there's some other reason not to. There's always a reason to hold back from you and Harry refuses to believe it's the drinks he's had nudging him into this. Neither of you is drunk, he wouldn't even say he's tipsy anymore. Just warm and contemplative and less inhibited than usual.

"C' mere," he calls softly, the tips of his boots landing right in front of yours, your bodies a hands' width apart. He wants you closer.

"Harry—

He opens up his coat to you and when you don't move—your brain is busy short-circuiting—he acts for you and winds his arm around your shoulder to encase you in the warmth, "Get in," Harry says, "You're shivering."

You're shocked by the contact, at him being so close and inviting you in and then just taking you in his jacket. He's wrapped the lapels around both your bodies and forced you against his chest. He hums against you, but you're feeling incredibly awkward with your arms hitched up against your chest and pressed rigidly into his shoulders. You've not been in a hold like this before and certainly not with Harry.

He pulls back and digs around for your wrists, "You've gotta put them around me," he stretches his arms behind his back, taking yours with them and instructing you to really settle against him. "There, that's better," he wraps the jacket back around you, and the two of you stand like that—hearts pressed together, scents converging and your whole frame shaking against his—for what seems like far too long for it mean nothing. Right? Your thoughts ricocheted around inside his jacket and go nowhere, solve nothing in your mind.

Over your shoulder, he sees the rest of the group have gone into the bar. He's not surprised none of them called out, Harry's angled you both away from the door and with his head ducked down against yours they probably (hopefully) missed you both there.

It's Harry's twenty-seventh birthday, and maybe that's made him sullen or introspective. Made him think about the passage of time and how another year has passed him by, yet here he stands in the same place as ever—wanting you. Wishing for more, or waiting for a moment that feels right, or hoping something will happen. With growing older comes a sense of regret and an acceptance that twenty-six has happened and anything he wanted to achieve by that age but didn't he never will. There's only the future. Only the things he can do. And the mix of all that with the cocktails has Harry feeling as though he has to act on this. Every birthday he thinks maybe by the next one the Somethings or the Maybes might have happened, and you won't be standing in front of him as just his friend.

"Always had a thing for you," Harry says, his chin resting against the crown of your head while his arms link around low on your back, holding you against him, "I've always liked you more than I should."

Oh god, you think, your chest freezing in place, I'm hallucinating.

"What?" Now your heart is really racing. Or maybe it's completely stopped, seized up and fallen out of your chest onto the salt-covered footpath.

His voice comes out evenly as he repeats himself, "Feels bigger than a crush, but I guess that's what it is … Since we were kids."

(Oh, how those words have been his best-kept secret for all these years but now, in less than two seconds, he's let go of them more easily than almost anything else he's ever done)

"Y/N?"

Harry thought he'd be scared. Thought this would be a moment of panic. Every time he's imagined this he's thought 'and I'd be absolutely shitting myself because what if she doesn't feel the same way?' but now that he's said it he's almost completely calm. The only reason he's worried is that he can feel how hard your heart is beating—even through the layers of clothing—and surely that quickly can't be good for your health.

You're speechless, and he leans back so he can see your face and, oh your eyes. Why on earth didn't he say it to your face, so he could be looking in your eyes? Watch his words project across your expression and settle into your mind.

You look worried, and Harry's transported back to that time he had you on FaceTime when he was somewhere on tour with One Direction. He was telling you about how management was going to let them fly friends out on tour, bring a little bit of home along and give the boys some needed space from each other. You were nodding along and so excited for him but sure Harry was talking about someone else, that this was just news and he'd called up to tell you how he was inviting the boys he went to school with in Cheshire or people he met through X-Factor. Of course I'm bringing out you and Gem, you idiot, he'd told you when you were surprised to get an invite, Who else did you think I was talking about?

He kind of loves watching the look on your face right now, the cogs turning in your head and wheels spinning, furiously trying to figure out what Harry means.

Why isn't he terrified of what you're about to say?

"Why … but you've… and I've…"

Your hands have moved to his hips so you can see him properly, and Harry's encouraged by the fact you haven't pulled away or pushed him off you. You're watching him with a puzzled look on your face and a burning heat across your cheeks.

He brings his forearms up to rest on your shoulders and smiles at you, "I wasn't brave enough to act on it … Guess I didn't want to fuck it up. Didn't want it to not work out. Couldn't stand you becoming an ex."

"Oh."

"Yeah."

"Right." You don't seem capable of more than one word at a time.

"You feel bad for yelling at me about the chocolate bar now, don't you?" Harry's narrowed his eyes playfully.

That does it.

Your eyes snap back up to his face from being fixated on staring at his neck, "Chocolate bar … No, what the fuck, Harry."

He laughs. A real laugh that comes from the base of his tummy and squeezes his eyes shut and crinkles his nose. His head falls back, and it's a deep, uninhibited laugh, "Don't stomp your new boots at me," he eventually says, crooking his head down to be almost pressing his forehead against yours. "You've been my favourite girl for years, I've always been a pansy idiot who didn't want to wreck the friendship."

"Oh, and now you don't mind wrecking it?" You bark back sarcastically, unsure why you're angry at him but you are.

"No," Harry says softly, moving through your emotional responses seamlessly, "I don't think it's going to wreck it, do you? Think twenty-seven has finally given me the balls to pursue it. To tell you how I feel. How I've always felt."

Your eyes instantly ball with hot tears you weren't prepared for, "You're an idiot."

"I am," he agrees readily, fingers playing with the ends of your hair.

"Why have you told me this now," your voice is small, unsure.

Harry frowns, now he's starting to panic, "Do you … Do you not feel the same? Or do you not think maybe you could?"

Oh, if only he could have been in your head every time you saw him these last few years. Heard you talk yourself down and away from anything more than platonic, from any thoughts that might elevate you in his eyes. You've spent all this time trying to convince yourself to believe you were nothing more than a friend to him, and now this.

"Harry, are you sure you—

—I'm sure," he insists quickly.

"I just—

—I'm sure."

You're suddenly very embarrassed by the conversation the two of you had earlier about your ex. The conversation where you basically told Harry you're incredibly desperate to settle down and find The One. He's so achingly cool, and you feel like a little tinned tomato, thin-skinned and persistently flustered.

Tinned tomato? Really? You berate yourself, Case in bloody point.

"Y/N"

You scratch roughly at your forehead and grimace at whatever thoughts are going through your mind, "I'm just …"

Harry brings one hand up to fix your bangs, carefully sweeping the hair back across your forehead evenly, letting the pads of his fingers dust over your skin, "I think if you didn't feel the same you'd have said No by now."

His words steal the air from your lungs, "Harry, you've just always …"

"I've always?"

"I never thought …"

The smile comes up over his face gently, "It's me, Y/N, please finish a sentence. I'd really like to kiss you, but you haven't yet said anything to imply you'd be open to that …"

You pull your lips together like a reflex you can't help, you've rarely let yourself fall that deep into imaging things with Harry, but your body reacts to his words in an instant, "Promise you're not kidding …"

"I promise I'm not kidding," Harry said sincerely. "I'd never kid around about this, Y/N."

You believe him, and ten seconds of bravery comes over you, "I was thirteen."

His eyes narrow slightly, trying to figure out what you mean, "Thirteen?"

"My thing for you," you continue quietly, heart racing as adrenaline swamps your legs, "Started the summer I turned thirteen."

Harry hears the slight shaking to your voice and almost misses what you've said. Then it hits him.

"Oh yeah?" He squints at you and pulls up his nose with a smile, a secret little smile that will never belong to anyone but the two of you. The Smile that happened just before Harry leant down and kissed you for the first time, pressed his warm lips against your cold ones and really breathed you in.

He holds it like that for a moment, your lips touching but not moving. Then his hands come up to cup your face, and Harry moves his mouth to one side, just a touch. You open up to him, and he has the brief thought that this is probably the Most Important Kiss Of His Life. His insides curl in on themselves as he gets completely lost in you. Completely lost in how perfect this moment feels and how much finally kissing you feels like a relief.

You can't believe this is happening. You're still tucked into Harry's coat—warm and safe—but now you're joined at the mouth, and Harry's a really really good kisser. He's got his thumbs pressed into your cheeks and his fingers laced through the hair around your ears. When his tongue first licks your bottom lip and then goes searching for yours, you don't think you've felt yourself flicker On so quickly. A soft moan escapes your lips, and Harry's kiss somehow becomes harder, his nose bumping yours where he'd been good at keeping things smooth until then. As quickly as it intensifies, Harry takes a slight step back and drags his mouth away from yours.

"Y/N," he breaths out your name, sealing your lips with one of his thumbs as he pulls back. Harry's taking stock of your face (hopefully) getting used to being this close to you. Noting the way your eyelashes kink out at an odd angle right at the corner of your eye, and the freckle that's so close to the edge of your mouth he's never noticed it before. Harry's can feel your heart has slowed down, and the expression on your face right now is content, but curious. He's also sure he can see fear under it all.

"Well," your voice shakes, because Harry's looking at you like you've only dreamed and now that you're here you're not really sure what happens next. You kissed Harry.

He clears his throat lightly and his hands both fall to hold either side of your neck, "There's no way I'm going back to not being able to do that whenever I want."

Then, he kisses you again. You feel yourself melt against him as Harry's chest presses back against yours. You link your arms around his waist, clutching the back of his shirt between your fingers as Harry leads the kiss with a hand on your neck and the other holding your chin carefully. You've picked up right where the last one let off, hungry and exploring and a little bit desperate (perhaps a lot desperate) to have more of each other.

But then his phone rings in his trousers pocket, right against your hip, and you jump away in surprise.

"Shit," Harry mutters, pulling the stupid machine out, cursing the universe, "Sorry … It's Aiden," he tells you with an eye-roll.

And then you're back to reality. Your drinks have all worn off, your feet ache, your ears are freezing, and you've just made out with one of your oldest, best friends. Shit.

"Oh," you take a hearty step back, hands slipping out from Harry's coat and your body bracing the full brunt of the cold night, "Yeah … That's—

—Aiden," Harry barks the name of his mate down the phone while at the same time hooking his free arm around the back of your neck and pulling you close again. He's not giving up touching you that easily, and he doesn't care, quite frankly, about giving you any room to start internalising or retreating from him, "No, we've gone to get some food … I'll see you during the week sometime. Tell everyone thanks for—Yes, I'm serious … I don't care, saw all you lot last week … I'm hanging up now. Bye."

You listened in on the conversation because it was really all you could do. Aiden was obviously inside the bar, and they were all wondering where Harry got to. We've gone to get some food, Harry told him, so they'd know he was with you. (You supposed he was hardly going to say, 'oh yeah we've been out the front making out') Bits and pieces of the other end of the conversation, you were able to pick up on, but not enough to truly know what was said. By the end of the call, Harry was smiling though, you could hear it in his voice.

His nose found the shell of your ear and Harry leant into you, "Come back to mine, or we can go to yours … Watch a movie, play Scrabble, anything … Just wanna be with you."

"It's two o'clock in the morning, Harry," you murmur, your mind struggling to make sense of what's just happened. You're outside a club in Soho held against Harry's chest with lips that know what he tastes like and a body that's on fire.

"I'm not tired," he shoots back, "Are you?"

"Well, no but—

—Great," Harry turns towards the road, takes a few steps to the curb (you trot along with him under his arm), as he flags down a black cab. "Mine or yours?"

His question is simple, he prompts you to answer by calling your name as he opens the door for you and gestures for you to hurry up and get in.

"Yours," you say.

Harry doesn't speak much in the cab, you figure it's about privacy. You hope it's about privacy. The thirty-minute drive out of the city and to his place feels much longer. Halfway through he reaches over for your hand and gives you a reassuring smile across the back seat. You thought the journey might make you sleepy, the sitting down in a warm car would bring the haze over your eyes and bring the long day to a close in your mind. But you could never feel sleepy with Harry's fingers playing with yours, or when he leans over and kisses your cheek for no reason at all.

At his house, Harry tells you to make yourself at home while he turns on the kettle for a cuppa. You kick your boots off in the hallway, and your feet start throbbing in relief as you follow his retreating form. It's certainly not the lusty, hurried entry you imagined you might have. Which only plants doubts in your mind about what's actually going on between the two of you.

"I'm just going to use the bathroom," you call out ahead of you, turning back to the stairs and taking yourself up to Harry's second storey.

Upstairs you don't take long. You're looking a little worse for wear—who wouldn't at 3am—but you're not really in the mood to try to fix yourself. Even if you did Harry would notice, and that felt like something you wanted to avoid. As you walk back to the landing, you wriggle your toes in your socks and happen to look back down the upstairs hallway. You've been in this house dozens of times before but this time feels different. It feels quiet and intimate somehow. Just as you're about to go down the first step, you see Harry's bedroom door is open on the opposite side of the stairs to the bathroom, and you notice something that makes you stop.

The book you got him for Christmas is sitting on his bedside table.

You're standing over it before you realise that your legs have started moving, looking at a picture of Anne, Gemma and Harry, a bottle of water and the book. You pick it up, the cover a little bent and the spine cracked to where he's read. Harry's using the birthday card you send along with the gift as a bookmark. The top of the familiar design sticking out the top of the pages, you can't even really remember what you wrote inside. Something generic probably. Platonic.

Happy birthday, old man! Have a wonderful day, sorry I can't be there in person. Love, Y/N.

The floorboard at the top of the stairs creaks and you turn around to Harry looking surprised to see you standing over his bed. He's got two cups of tea and a family-sized Dairy Milk bar under his arm. Something churns inside you, this was Harry as you'd always known him. Except now you looked at his lips and wondered why the hell you weren't kissing him.

"Oh, yeah, I've been reading that," Harry sees the book in your hands and walks towards you, "It's excellent, unsurprisingly."

A smile starts on your face, "You doubted my selection ability?"

"Never," he returns quickly and then raises his eyebrows at you, "Looking for anything else?"

You feel your cheeks heat and you drop the book back into its place, "No, sorry, I was coming down the stairs and saw … I'm sorry."

Harry passes you a tea, "It was really kind of you to send something over. Was fun having something to unwrap on the day."

"I'm glad," you smile and take a sip of the tea. It's sweet, and you screw up your face, "This is yours."

Harry watches you with a strange expression on his face as the two of you swap mugs. He's worrying his bottom lip, obviously weighing something up in his mind. You see it when he decides what he' going to do about it.

"I've got something I want to show you," he tells you finally, tilting his head back to the door. "Wanna come see?"

"What is it?" You ask automatically, but Harry's already walking out the door, and you have to hurry to catch up.

He leads you into his study, and you hover in the doorway as Harry sets his tea and the chocolate down on the desk. He pulls Bananagrams out of the draw and places it next to the mug.

"We're actually going to play Bananagrams?" You ask.

He looks back at you, "You'd prefer actual Scrabble?"

"I didn't know what you meant by—I guess I …"

Realisation dawns on his face, and he widens his eyes, "Oh, you thought it was a euphemism."

"No!" You snap back quickly, feeling the heat rising to your cheeks (for the record, yes, you thought 'a movie or Scrabble' was a thinly veiled way of Harry suggesting … something else), "No, I just … I just don't think I'll be able to spell words right now."

"I didn't think you were still tipsy" Harry states, shit-stirring.

"I'm not!" You squawk at him. "I'm… I' m—You kissed me!"

He grins, loving the fact he's driven you a little crazy, "Yeah. Want me to do it again?"

Harry's playing with you. He's teasing. And you know it but what you don't know is how he's so confidently jumped to it. Not when you feel like you've been left on the street outside the bar trying to figure out what the hell this means, and what's going to happen tomorrow when he stops looking at you like that. You don't like to think this whole night could've been him playing with you, you don't know Harry to be that cruel. But there's a tripwire in your mind you keep getting snared on.

It's Harry.

"C' mere," he reaches his hand down across the room between you both, "C' mere and kiss me again. You don't seem to be getting it."

"Getting it?" You're cut off by Harry taking two big steps toward you and then planting his lips on yours again.

His palms find your hips, and you hold him in the same spot. It takes a moment for the two of you to find a rhythm, and even then, you're too in your head. You're struggling to remember what little Harry's said about this whole thing. You know he said he had a crush on you and you've gotten the distinct impression he wasn't too fond of your ex. But for all you know Harry's been kissing his mates like this for years but just never gotten around to kissing you. You might've been next on the list. He's a friendly guy. Maybe a crush isn't what it used to be. Or maybe—

He pulls back from your lips with a huffy expression on his face, "Y/N," he says quietly, "I'm a man with an incredibly fragile ego, whatever you're worrying about is really getting in the way of kissing you."

"I'm just—

—Let me show you what I brought you in here for," he interrupts you, takes your hand and tugs you towards the window. Then, he puts a hand on each of your shoulders and directs your attention to the wall.

It's lined with record sale plaques for singles and albums over the years—double Platinums and Gold-Somethings. Harry watches you eyes run over them all, a proud but unsure look in your eye. You're not sure why he's showing them to you, he knows that. He hopes you're not intimidated by them, he's certainly not showing you to try to score any points. There's a sweeter gesture behind it. He points to one leaning against the wall, not hanging. He's got it resting on the bubble wrap it was sent over in.

Stepping up closer behind you, Harry rests his chin on your shoulder, "That one's for you."

"What?"

"I want you to have it, been saving it for you … If I ever got brave enough."

The question falls from your lips before you really think about it, "Why would you want me to have it …"

Harry waits to see if you'll let on you've figured it out, he thought it was pretty obvious really, but you've never been one to elevate yourself or assume, and Harry knows that about you. So, when you don't keep talking, he confirms it for you, "That song is about you."

You just blink, eyes on the framed plaque taking in the name of the song and hearing it in your head.

It's about me? You think you want to hear it, you need to Google the lyrics and make sure you have them right in your head. Harry wrote a song about you. Harry wrote that song about you.

"When … When did you write it?"

"You mean why?" Harry raises his head and steps to stand next to you, he observes your face carefully.

"No, I mean when." You're starring at it like the plaque might answer the question, "When did you write it?"

Harry runs a hand over his head as he thinks, "A few years back, after that time you came out to LA … Didn't record it until this year though …"

Harry watches your face expand in surprise and then crumple back down to confusion. You really don't get it. He's not sure how to make you in one night. He supposes he can't. So he trails his hand up the back of your arm and then around your back, tilting his head down and waiting to see if you'll pull away. When you don't, he kisses the corner of your mouth and then opens his wider to take you lips in his properly.

It's different to the kisses outside the bar, now that you're both out of your outer layers Harry can feel your body against his in ways he's only dreamed, and it's sending everything straight between his legs. Harry's hands explore your back and the curve of your hips, thumbs almost reaching the underside of your breasts but not quite. It's a little awkward when he senses you've felt him hardening between you. Usually, lust clouds that moment, and Harry doesn't mind intimate partners being acutely aware of how they're affecting him. But with you he's a little hesitant, he senses the awkwardness on your side. Friends don't feel those body parts on each other, friends don't… He almost groans when your mouth leaves his without warning.

You think he'll probably change his mind about all this.

"Have you changed your mind?" You ask, not able to stop it.

Confusion colours his features, and his lips smack together, like he's savouring tasting you, "Wha—

"About wanting to be kissing me," you clarify.

"What? No." Harry's eyebrows have shot up, and he's shaking his head, "I barely even started! Didn't I just say I wrote that song about you—why the hell would I—want to do more than just kiss you—You think I'm gonna change my mind?"

You shrug, "Maybe. I don't know."

"Well," he stands up straighter and pins you with his stare, "I'm not. I promise I'm not going to change my mind. And I promise I'll never make you feel like you're asking for too much. Ever."

"Now you're trying to make me cry," you say, hearing him repeat back to you the insecurity leftover from your conversation about your ex. You're half kidding with your words but also not. You believe him. You trust him.

Harry grimaces, sways your bodies together gently, "I really hate seeing you cry, could you not? I had other plans."

You sniff through a laugh as Harry wraps his arms around your middle tighter," What plans are those?"

"Well, I literally thought Scrabble," he tells you through a smile, trying his best to make you laugh, "But I'm open to whatever dirty things you were thinking as well."

"You'll win Scrabble."

So, Harry instructs you to bring your tea and your sore feet back into his bedroom. He gets you a fluffy pair of hiking socks and tells you to take yours off, and your tights, and get comfortable on the bed with him and the block of chocolate. You've polished off a family size together before, the sugar going straight to your heads and always leading to a giggly night of reminiscing and Almosts.

This time though, you only get halfway through the tea and Harry pushes the chocolate off the bed onto the floor in favour of you straddling his hips. It started with a stolen kiss against your temple, and then another on your cheek, and one close to your lips, and then you captured his face in your hands and really kissed him. Within a few moments, Harry was dragging you over to him. His hands settle on the swell of your backside as it sits against his thighs and your lips trace the line of his jaw. This was really happening. You'd really let him peel off your dress and flick off your bra. His shirt was somewhere with the forgotten snacks, and you seemed extremely eager to keep feeling his hardness pressed between your legs.

"I swear to god, I never dreamed this would happen," he murmurs, hissing when your hips pressed into his at a different angle, "Was sure I'd be going to your wedding one day, completely miserable and probably end up drunk and causing a scene. Embarrass you so badly you'd never want to see me again, and you'd just run away with your stupid husband."

You pull back and watch Harry ramble, your bare chest rising and falling against his, "You're a real glass half full kinda guy, aren't you?" you smile at him.

"I just," his eyes drop to your chest, nipples puckered for him, and he scrunches them shut then drops his forehead onto your sternum with a big sigh, "This is fucking unreal, and my brain is just struggling to comprehend—you're breathtaking, and I feel like my chest is gonna explode."

"It's also 4am, so there's always the potential your brain is just plain tired," your index finger is drawing circles on the back of his shoulder as Harry leans against you, you pause and run your hand over the back of his head, "Maybe we should sleep for a little … I'll be here when you wake up," you say in response to Harry squeezing his arms around your waist tightly as if you were going to disappear. Or worse, leave.

His indescribable green eyes find yours in the light from the bedroom lamps, "Will you let me hold you while you sleep?"

"Yeah," you nod, although somehow that question seems more intimate than the lack of clothes between you at the moment. You're distinctly less dressed than Harry, who's still got his trousers on, you're only covered by your underwear.

"We don't have to rush this, right? Got all the time in the world now," still, as he speaks his palms trail up your back and then down again, skimming the sides of your breasts, "Just don't wanna miss anything is all."

"I promise I'm incredibly boring in my sleep, won't miss anything," you tease, "Might be the only time you get any peace."

Harry tightens his forearms around your back and finds the soft skin below your ear with his lips—once, twice, three little kisses—"I feel pretty at peace right now, just having you here. Feels like I'm living a dream."

You don't reply for a moment, but you let your body rest against Harry's in a comfortable hug, your voice is quiet, "You really wrote me a song?"

"I did."

"I've always loved that song."

“Well, it's been yours all along."

"Nobody's ever written a song about me."

"I should hope not."

"Are you going to write another one?"

"Without a doubt."

Chat to me here

#OOOO SHIT what have i done #well #1dff #harry styles fic #harry styles fanfic #harry styles X reader #harry styles stories #harry styles imagines #harry fic

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willowbird · 4 years

Note

Congrats!! If you want, how about the first time Ronan sleeps over at St. Agnes? Like the pining!!

Yay! I was SO EXCITED to get a Ronan/Adam ask!! I may have gone a little overboard with the pining, but I hope you still like it <3 <3 This is actually my first Pynch ficlet! I hope you like it! Lemme know if you think I should post it on AO3 ^^; Since it’s my first time actually writing them and I haven’t read the books as many times as I’ve read AFTG I hope it’s okay!

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Ronan bounced the rubber ball against the sloped ceiling from where he lay on Adam’s bed, waiting for the other boy to get out of the shower. He’d been out, just driving around with no discernable purpose or direction, when it came around that time for Parrish to get out of work so he’d swung by and picked him up. There’d been no reason to say no when Adam had asked if he wanted to come up for a while. After all, he and Adam were friends -- no matter how much they seemed to bicker -- and Ronan liked being at St. Agnes. Sometimes, it was honestly more satisfying to be there than it was to be at Monmouth. Nothing beat being at the Barnes, but still -- St. Agness had a particular energy, it always had.

After all, Ronan Lynch was no stranger to St. Agnes. The hours he’d spent in the quiet pews could stack together to build a universe apart from the rest of the world, a separate realm that even the horrors inside his own mind couldn’t touch. And yet, since Adam came to live there, the hallowed halls of that familiar place had developed a completely new,,, feeling that Ronan had no idea how to feel about.

A part of Ronan wanted to be pissed off about it.

A bigger part of Ronan was fascinated in the way that the travelers in his father’s stories had always been fascinated by the glow of will-o’-the-wisps between the branches of the deep woods and frosted bogs. The peace that the church had once given him was spiked with something else now, something that fizzed like pop-rocks under his skin, and as annoying as that was -- he really couldn’t say that he hated it.

Considering he knew that the fizz of... enchantment was most definitely caused by the boy now living in that small, slanted room above the church? No, he really couldn’t say that he hated it at all.

Not to say that Adam I’ll-be-independent-if-it-kills-me Parrish didn’t make him want to punch his fist through a fucking brick wall -- because he absolutely did. But there was also something... undeniably right about the boy taking up residence above the church. After all, the infuriating pest already lived full time inside his head, he might as well sleep in the building that housed Ronan’s soul as well. At least he was fucking consistent.

The shabby door connecting the bedroom to the tiny bathroom creaked open and Ronan caught the ball on its rebound and didn’t throw it again, instead turning his head to look as Adam entered the room.

He did not expect to see Adam walk into the bedroom in nothing but a towel and instantly looked back up at the ceiling, throwing the ball again with a bit more force than necessary. Only his quick reflexes saved him from losing a fucking eye. He tried not to think about the way the other boy’s skin had been flushed pink from the heat of the shower, his hair damp and pushed haphazardly back from his face, exposing cheekbones and eyes that...

Okay, he tried -- that didn’t mean he succeeded.

“Sorry, it’ll just be a minute. I forgot to grab something to change into.” Adam’s voice was soft, lilted with the Henrietta accent in the way that only happened when he was either really emotional or perfectly at ease. Ronan would never tell him how much he loved hearing the edge of gravel and wild country grass around his vowels, not on pain of death, but that didn’t make it any less true.

“Take your time, Parrish. I don’t fucking care.” No one needed to know that the sigh that followed was relief at how nonchalant he had managed to make the words, instead of the dry irritation it sounded like.

Adam huffed a soft laugh and Ronan could feel the eye-roll being directed at him. He didn’t bother to hide his grin, just gave it a bit more teeth as he tossed the ball up and caught it again.

It was only another few minutes before the door creaked open again and Adam came out -- this time fully clothed. Ronan caught the ball and sat up, scooting over so that Adam could come over and sit down, which the other boy did with a flourish and a groan.

“Ugh, I just do not wanna do homework.”

“Then don’t.” Ronan shrugged and bounced the ball on the floor this time, angling it slightly so that when it rebounded it went toward Adam.

Adam caught it easily and bounced it back, timed perfectly with a familiar scoff. “Some of us care about school, you know.” Ronan waited for a beat, but when Adam didn’t follow that up with chastisement or prod for him to start caring about school, he gave a small shrug.

“Sure, but tomorrow is Saturday. It isn’t like you’ve got anything due tomorrow. You just got off work, learn how to fucking relax.” He caught the ball and held it for a moment, tilting his head back as he mimicked a thoughtful expression. “Oh, oh that’s right, you don’t know how to relax.” He gave a deep, mournful sigh and bounced the ball back at him. “Shame, for man so smart to be missing such a vital real-life skill.”

“Ha ha, you’re hilarious,” Adam sniped back, but his words were sharpened more with amusement than irritation.

“Oh, I know. I’m a regular comedy special,” Ronan agreed readily. “But that, actually, was not a joke.” He could press here. He could remind Adam that his whole world didn’t need to be as rigid as he was making it to be. He could tell him that he could afford to take a break every now and then, that he deserved to chill the fuck out. But if he did that he risked sounding too much like Gansey or repeating an argument that neither of them probably felt like jumping into tonight. So instead, he caught the ball and cocked his head, studying the other boy curiously.

Then he asked, “Where would you go? If you could go anywhere in the world with no consequences. What would you do? And not to accomplish anything great or whatever -- I’m talking just for fun.”

Adam held up his hand for the ball and Ronan tossed it to him. His eyes caught on the way he began to roll it between his palms, those long fingers curling around it, bony wrists twisting to pass it from one hand to the other. Ronan had the sudden urge to brush his lips over the prominent bump in each wrist. Not in a kiss -- but just to feel the protrusion against his mouth.

“That’s pretty broad,” Adam said with a hum, oblivious to his distraction. “There’s a lot of places I could go.”

“That’s the point. There’s no consequences, no limits. You could go anywhere.” He dragged his gaze away from those hands but this time they caught on the exposed bit of Adam’s collarbone on the way up to his face. “So pick a place, Parrish. Never known you to be so indecisive.”

Adam’s eyes dropped from where they’d been thoughtfully searching the ceiling, locking onto his as he flashed a sharp smirk. That expression cut him right between the ribs, twisted, and nestled in nice and deep for the winter -- because this, this was the Adam Parrish he couldn’t stop thinking about. Everyone seemed to underestimate him. Everyone thought he was so soft, thought he was so polite and sweet and yeah sure, he was all of those things, but that was only one part of him. It was just the surface setting to the multiverse that was Adam Parrish, and this sharp, biting, cunning side of him was closer to his core. Ronan knew he was one of the only people who knew that side was there, and was probably the only person who truly understood how much a part of him that facet was.

“All right,” he said, his voice smooth and low and Ronan had the distinct certainty that if that sound were a drink it would be a spiked mulled cider, husky and tart in a way that made your head light and your chest warm. “I’ll play. But you go first. Where would you go? Somewhere outside of the States,” he added, before Ronan could say the Barnes -- because he was apparently that predictable.

Ronan rolled his eyes, but shrugged and slipped off the bed, laying on the floor beside the bed and pillowing his hands under his head as he thought. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Adam stretch out on the bed on his stomach, hugging a pillow and using it to prop his head up a bit as he looked down at Ronan. The feel of Adam’s full and undivided attention on him did things to his pulse he didn’t want to think about.

“Probably Ireland,” he finally said after a long moment of thought that was torn up and distributed between flickers of distraction caused by Adam’s silhouette in his peripheral, from the way his damp hair was falling into his eyes now that it was beginning to dry all the way to the slump of his broad shoulders and the sharp jut of his elbows against the cushions. There just really wasn’t any part of Adam Parrish that Ronan didn’t want to look at.

A soft huff of laughter had Ronan turning his head to look at him straight on and the amusement on the other boy’s face told him that he was being predictable again. Ronan frowned -- he didn’t like being predictable.

“Don’t give me that look. Tell me why, Ronan Lynch.” There was a teasing note in Adam’s voice, and if it were anyone else that would have brought Ronan’s back up -- would have made him snap his teeth and snarl. Coming from Adam, he had to give himself a moment so he didn’t trip over his own foolish tongue.

Somehow he managed to avoid that humiliation. Instead, he told Adam about Ireland through his father’s eyes. He told himself he didn’t care about the softening of Adam’s smile, that it did absolutely nothing to him to watch the other boy close his eyes and rest his cheek on the pillow, leaving himself vulnerable as he dipped into his own thoughts. Rather, he focused on the stories he was telling Adam, reliving them as he did his best impression of his father’s cadence and storyteller’s hum. He told him stories about the fair folk, the fey and the night creatures. He told him about the magic of each valley and river and dale. He shared his favorite tales about cheeky brownies and powerful, dangerous sidhe that became captivated by the bright, fleeting magic of a human’s ability to create.

Adam listened to each one, and that smile...? It never faded, not even once.

“It’s your turn,” Ronan finally said, when his heart was full and his lungs tight -- torn between the memories caused by those stories and these newer, more electric feelings caused by the proximity of Adam Parrish’s smile.

“Mm, I think... I think that if I were to go anywhere in the world I’d want to see high mountains. High mountains and dark woods. Deep lakes. Flowers that seem to have their own language between the brightness of their colors and the way they sway toward and away from each other in a wind that affects them and them alone. Butterflies that cast shadows like birds of prey...” As he spoke his words drew further and further apart, his tone drifting as fatigue from the long day dragged him down toward sleep.

Ronan held his breath, almost wanting to prod him for more -- because it was rare to hear Adam talk... well, like a dreamer. Adam was a boy who kept himself grounded so deeply in reality it was sometimes painful for Ronan to be around him. This secret side of him, this side of dreams and hope and wonder... it was a vulnerable side that he knew Adam wouldn’t be indulging in if he weren’t perfectly comfortable and probably way more tired than he’d originally thought he was. It was a side of him that Ronan had always known existed (you couldn’t chase a dead Welsh king without being at least part whimsy, no matter how charismatic Gansey was) but one that Adam kept very close to the chest.

“Mm... Ronan?” Adam’s voice was soft and sleep-slurred, his eyelashes shielding the color of his eyes, he was barely able to keep them open.

“Yeah?” Ronan’s voice was rough, even to his own ears, but Adam didn’t seem to notice.

“Do you think a place like that actually exists?” The question was light, but there was a raw, sweet shard of hope beneath the words that cut Ronan in a tender space below his throat.

“Yes,” Ronan promised with certainty, not even needing to think about it -- not even needing to question it. “I know it does.”

Adam’s eyes dropped all the way closed and he smiled, sighing in relief. That sigh transitioned directly into the deep, slow breaths of sleep.

Ronan knew that he should get up. Sleeping on the floor would give him one hell of a backache, and Adam hadn’t said he could stay over. He should get up and stretch, then drive back to Monmouth, where he should crawl into his own bed for the night -- or maybe stay up longer and bother Gansey, because fuck knew that guy didn’t understand the concept of a regulated sleeping schedule.

Instead, Ronan watched Adam until his own eyes just couldn’t stay open any longer. Then, from the floor of St. Agnes, beside the boy who called to him like a fire-sprite, Ronan dreamed. He dreamed of dark woods and flowers that seemed to have their own language, between their bright colors and the way they swayed in their own self-contained breezes. He dreamed of butterflies that cast shadows like birds of prey. He dreamed of safe places even in the dark woods -- and when Ronan dreamed... well, when Ronan dreamed, reality itself seemed to listen.

#asks #anon #trc #pynch #pynch fic #fanfic #adam parrish #ronan lynch #pining #trc fanfic #adam parrish x ronan lynch #sleepovers!#my writing #100 followers #the raven cycle

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idiopath-fic-smile · 3 years

Text

hey hi I've been trying to write something, anything, and what came out is like 3k of an extremely stupid supervillain/superhero story that I’d been kicking around in some form like over ten years ago. it doesn’t map onto any kind of an AU so I guess it’s original fiction? enjoy?

Cityton Chronicles, part 1

The problem with carrying out an evil scheme, thought Edmund, was the scheme part.

Anyone could nurse a sinister thought or two; it wasn't that hard to shake one's fist at the sky and murmur, “You'll pay for this. With God as my witness, oh, you will pay” and then maybe cackle a little. That much was child's play. (Literal child's play; he had witnessed more than a few dire pronouncements from his classmates at Hawthorne Grimmsbury's Academy for Ominous Boys, especially when recess was threatened.)

Actually going through with a plan was a whole different story. There were logistics to manage. There were people to manipulate, details to babysit, hypotheticals to anticipate. The nitty-gritty, as it were.

Edmund was not destined for the nitty-gritty.

Although, wasn't that what useless people always said? “I'm more of a big-picture person.” Maybe he was useless. Maybe that was the issue. Maybe Edmund Malarkey, heir to Malarkey Industries, was simply not cut out for masterminding.

Case in point, he had a terrible feeling he was about to make a complete hash of the Ritual.

The parameters were clear enough: full moon—check. Chalk for pentagrams—check. One hundred lit candles—check. (Some were scented; the store hadn't had enough plain tapers in stock, but the text of the Ritual had been written well before the notion of pumpkin spice was a cozy twinkle in some godless marketer's eye, and so Edmund figured this would probably not disqualify him.) Thirteen hooded figures, all in black...

This was where things got dicey.

The first sign of the trouble to come was when Carl showed up in navy fucking blue.

Edmund pinched at the bridge of his nose and sighed loudly, breath crystalline in the late November air. The invitations had been so specific.

“It looked pretty dark online,” Carl offered as the wind whipped at them atop the roof of the Cityton Natural History Museum.

“Pretty dark? Pretty dark? Did it look like the blackest black?” said Edmund. “Did it look like Anish Kapur's most haunting nightmare? Did it look like a raven's wing in shadow at the stroke of midnight, Carl?” Carl stuck out his chin. “It's almost black.”

“Yes, and bananas and humans share about sixty percent of their DNA, we're almost cousins,” Edmund told him, dangerously quiet, “but fortunately for you, I'm not going to peel you and eat you in a fruit salad, you buffoonish optimist.”

Edmund should never have relied upon his father's former henchpeople. They were loyal to his father; they looked upon him with bemused tolerance. He should've just gone ahead and recruited all of the necessary twelve people from Craigslist. He'd held off due to a suspicion that anyone he found on the internet would assume the Ritual was fundamentally a weird sex thing, but at least a bunch of kinksters would have probably taken the rules seriously.

He sighed. “Carl, there's a bodega down on the corner. Go buy two black trash bags and make yourself a garbage-robe.” Carl frowned. “Is there time?”

Edmund checked his phone. Eleven fifty-three. “Hurry. And save the receipt.”

Another gust of wind kicked up. Edmund shivered. He'd been smart enough to request a fabric swatch ahead of time from the Etsy store where he'd custom-ordered his own set of hooded black robes. He hadn't stopped to consider how warm—or not—a single layer of said fabric would feel well into autumn, completely unshielded by the elements. Theoretically, he could've crammed a coat under the robes, like a child wearing a Halloween costume in an unseasonably cold October, but no, he hadn't wanted to look bulky.

He checked the candles again, for want of anything better to do.

“Boss,” said a hesitant voice behind him.

“What is it, Stephanie,” said Edmund.

Stephanie had clearly repurposed her teenager's old Hermione costume as her robes, but she had bothered to remove the Hogwarts branding, which was something, at least. Beyond the fact that Edmund didn't feel like giving a repellent transphobe any extra attention, there might have been copyright issues.

“Is that thing about bananas really true?”

“Yeah,” said Edmund. He had read it many years ago, in a book titled 2002 MORE WACKY FACTS TO BLOW YOUR MIND AND AMAZE YOUR FRIENDS, which didn't seem especially pertinent. He did a quick headcount. Even without Carl, they only numbered eleven. “Where's Donna?”

“You should call her,” said Stephanie. “Donna never answers her texts.”

Edmund had been halfway through tapping out a text. Ugh, Boomers. Calling was for emergencies only; everyone knew that. Unfortunately, this qualified. He gritted his teeth and dialed.

Donna answered on the fourth ring. “What?” She sounded groggy.

“Did you,” said Edmund, still through gritted teeth, “forget what night the Ritual was?”

“Oh shit,” mumbled Donna. “Are you sure? I thought it was at noon tomorrow. Carl told me twelve o'clock.”

“At night,” said Edmund. “Twelve o'clock at night, this is a dark incantation to a primordial god, it does not overlap with daytime television.”

Just then, Edmund's phone beeped with another call. “Can you hold, Donna,” he hissed.

“Hey boss,” said Carl, “the bodega only has white or green trash bags, what's my next step?”

“HOLD,” Edmund shouted, switching calls again. “Donna, can you grab an extremely dark-colored robe and be here immediately?”

“Like a bathrobe?” said Donna, sounding lost.

Of course Carl had not bothered to relay the dress code. Of course he hadn't even managed to hand her the painstakingly crafted invitation. Edmund had used the nicest card stock available to him, not that it mattered.

“Uh, boss?” Leroy called over the roar of the wind. Edmund flexed his stiffening fingers.

“One second, Donna,” said Edmund.

“How much longer is this gonna be?” said Leroy. “Because I was gonna catch the late show tonight—”

“Watch it on YouTube the next day like a normal person!” Edmund snapped. “Donna—”

“I can be there by 12:40,” said Donna through the tinny phone speaker. “There's some errands I wanna run first.”

“It's the middle of the night, what errands!” said Edmund. “Donna, hold—” He switched back to Carl. “Listen, are you sure there aren't any black trash bags?”

“White or green only,” Carl affirmed. “Some of them are scented, do you think that would make a difference?”

“Boss,” said Frank from the other side of the roof, “we lost the chalk?”

“Hold on, Carl,” said Edmund. “What?”

“It was here a second ago!” “Did you secure the chalk against the wind?”

“What?” said Frank.

“The chalk, it's cylindrical!” Edmund managed to shout. “Did you do anything so it wouldn't just roll straight off the roof?”

Somewhere above the din of wind came the sound of a half dozen pieces of sidewalk chalk landing on the street five stories below and shattering.

Edmund buried his (cold) face in his (frozen) hands.

“Uh boss,” said Stephanie. “It's 12:01.”

Edmund sighed. The primordial god K'h'gg'ragel might have allowed for some creative interpretations on Ritual-adjacent matters, but everyone knew K'h'gg'ragel was a stickler for punctuality.

“Alright,” said Edmund, pitching his voice to carry. “Pack it in, we'll try again next full moon.”

“Phew,” said Leroy, who was wearing a thick downy jacket over his robes, and a hat with earflaps, and mittens. “It's cold out.”

“I FOUND A BLUE ONE!” Carl shouted from the speaker. “IS THAT ANY BETTER?”

Edmund turned his phone off.

Lighting and strategically placing one hundred candles had been something of an undertaking. Blowing them all out alone and stuffing them back into a series of duffel bags was somehow worse. Edmund was about half-done when he heard a distinct whirring buzz. He looked up.

It was Dragonfly. Of course it was Dragonfly, heading right for him.

Great. Edmund's first-ever showdown was going to be a one-on-one against a superhero armed with a jetpack, one hell of a punch, and electrified darts. Edmund was going to get flattened, and all before he even got the chance to point out that the darts and for that matter the punching didn't fit with the overall insect theme.

“Hey man,” said Dragonfly, dropping effortlessly down to the roof of the museum. “I saw the lights from the sky, thought I'd investigate.”

They weren't fighting yet. Why weren't they fighting? Edmund's whole body fizzed with adrenaline. Also, cold. Either way, he was shaking a little, and bouncing on the balls of his feet.

“And what, strike another heroic blow against the terror that is a bunch of sweater-themed Yankee Candles?” said Edmund.

Dragonfly shrugged. His costume included a bottle-green moto jacket and gloves. It looked warm, in a way that made Edmund feel even colder. “Sweater candles? What, like burning wool?” he said.

Privately, Edmund had wondered about that too. This, he decided obscurely, was another strike against Dragonfly.

“Maybe burning wool smells phenomenal,” said Edmund instead, rocking forward. “There's no way you could possibly know, unless you're here to tell me you've lit a sheep on fire, which seems well outside your whole—” he waved his hands vaguely “—moral compass.”

“Word travels fast,” said Dragonfly gravely. “I am foursquare against sheep-burning. Always have been.”

Edmund squared his shoulders. “So, are we doing this, or what?”

From behind his signature oversized goggles, Dragonfly's brow seemed to furrow slightly. “Doing what?”

“Fighting,” said Edmund. He had to grind his teeth together to keep them from chattering.

“Ah,” said Dragonfly after a pause. “Oh. Um. Okay. Here's the thing?” He steepled his fingers. “You seem unarmed. You're not hurting anyone. You're also not committing any crimes.” Edmund opened his mouth to protest, and Dragonfly continued, “Or, okay, you're trespassing on the museum, I guess, technically, but it's not like you're even trying to sneak into an exhibit without paying.”

“I am here,” said Edmund firmly, “to perform a terrible and arcane Ritual which will summon—”

“Yeah?” said Dragonfly. “Where's your followers? Where's your summoning chalk? It's well past midnight and the only sign of any occult activity I can see is the candles, but for all I know, you were just up here trying to have a little me-time, which, like, on some level I get, you know?”

“So,” said Edmund blankly, “what now?” He had given up on trying to tense his jaw. His upper and lower teeth clacked rhythmically against each other.

“I give you a stern verbal warning about what's probably a minor fire hazard and recommend that you enjoy the museum from the inside, during business hours, with a ticket,” said Dragonfly. “I hear they have a great exhibit on prehistoric mammals. In the meantime, get somewhere warm, okay? Your lips are turning blue.” “Fuck off,” Edmund more or less managed to say through his shivers.

Dragonfly spread his hands, placating. “Fair enough.” He began to walk away. At the edge of the roof, he hesitated. “Uh, do you have a way down?”

“Obviously,” said Edmund.

“Yeah,” said Dragonfly. “Uh, okay.” They regarded each other. “What is it?” said Dragonfly after a few seconds.

Edmund froze. Or well, he was already half-frozen. Edmund stopped moving, was the point.

Apparently interpreting Edmund's silence as helplessness, Dragonfly offered dubiously, “I could carry you down?”

“How,” said Edmund, flat. It was the wrong thing to say, in that it wasn't 'No,' or 'Fuck off' again, something sensible like that, but damn it, he was freezing, and if he gave up the way he'd gotten everyone onto the roof, then this whole fucking evening was going to be a wash. He had tried so hard. It wasn't fair.

Dragonfly took a step closer. “Fireman or bridal?”

Edmund tried and failed to parse this three separate times in his cold-fuzzed brain. “Is that a meme?” he settled on finally.

“Do you,” said Dragonfly, “have a preference on how I carry you.”

“We haven't even established that you're going to,” Edmund said. Clackity clackity clack went his traitorous teeth.

Dragonfly sighed. “I can't leave you up here,” he said. “One, if I let you keep hanging out on the roof of the history museum, then technically I'm kinda aiding and abetting your whole trespassing situation. Two, it is really fucking chilly up here, and if you freeze to death, then that's on me. Which is also not, like, great for my conscience.”

“So I don't have a choice,” Edmund spat.

“You totally have a choice,” said Dragonfly. He tilted his head to the side. “Hell, you could do me a solid and just exit using whatever secret method you entered with, but I have a feeling mum's the word on that particular angle.”

This Dragonfly character was smarter than he looked. Of course, he was a grown man who fought crime dressed as a giant insect. The bar was not particularly high.

“Mum's the word?” Edmund echoed. “What are you, ninety?”

“I'm an old fucking soul, dude,” said Dragonfly. “Point being, you don't trust me not to watch you leave the roof. Which is hurtful, frankly. I'm not sure I trust you not to stay up here out of pure stubbornness. If I give you a quick boost down, then it's problem solved and we can both go about our nights. Crime-fighting for me, and for you hopefully a pile of blankets and whatever warm food rich people eat. Mashed potatoes? With...caviar?”

This clearly did not merit a response. Dragonfly knew who Edmund was, apparently. Most people did.

“What if you drop me?” said Edmund.

Dragonfly laughed. He had a nice laugh. It was yet another point against him, somehow. “Don't you think that might go against my whole—” he gestured with both hands “moral compass?”

Edmund recognized his own words being used against him. On the other hand, the thought of a hot meal and, moreover, central heating beckoned.

“I don't care,” Edmund said at last.

“What?” said Dragonfly.

“Bridal or fireman's carry,” said Edmund. “I don't care.”

Dragonfly nodded sagely. “Let's get this over with, then,” he said. “Hey, d’you want help with your candles?”

Did he? He didn't want to want help with his candles, but that was another question. On the other hand, if Edmund accepted Dragonfly's aid, it would shave off valuable minutes of this excruciating headache. The backs of Edmund's knees were cold. It was absurd.

“Fine,” said Edmund.

“Huh,” said Dragonfly several minutes later. “This one's rain-scented, and this one's Ocean Spray, and yet they smell nothing alike.”

Dragonfly had without fail commented on every single scented candle in the bunch. Edmund looked up from his umpteenth taper candle, momentarily distracted from the knifelike chill.

“Rain and ocean are two completely different things,” said Edmund. “The surrounding environment, the vibe, the salt content.”

“The vibe, I grant you,” said Dragonfly. “But salt, really? Have you ever smelled salt before?”

“The ocean has a smell,” Edmund insisted. His family had summered on the coast every year before—well. Before last year. He mostly remembered the sea as having a whiff of fish about it, which didn't sound promising for a candle, but it was the principle of the thing.

Dragonfly shrugged. “You've got me there,” he said. “Never been.” Cityton was only about an hour's drive from the beach. Edmund wasn't sure he knew anyone who had never visited at least once, for a long weekend at least. Of course, it wasn't like Edmund knew Dragonfly. He didn't even know what Dragonfly's eyes looked like.

Edmund blew out another few tapers.

“This one's just called Singing Carols,” Dragonfly announced. “Guess what it smells like, I dare you.”

And so on.

In the end, Dragonfly carried Edmund off the roof of the Natural History Museum scooped under the armpits, the way you might hold a cat if you were engaging in some light cat-related horseplay. The mechanical dragonfly wings were well-made, Edmund could admit that much; Dragonfly didn't seem to have any issue bearing Edmund's weight or the combined weight of the candles, and their feet gently touched the ground after only a few seconds. It was already slightly warmer—or at least slightly less freezing—on street-level.

Dragonfly let go and stepped back immediately. This close, Edmund could see that his lips were pretty badly chapped. It made sense that someone who donated all their time to—again—flitting around town trying to right every minuscule so-called wrong while dressed like a bug wouldn't be experienced enough with self-care to be acquainted with a good lip balm, but the thought made Edmund weirdly a little sad.

His sense of deeply ingrained politeness warred against the equally powerful urge to be a real bastard about the whole thing. In the end, politeness won out, by the very skin of its mannerly little teeth.

“Thank you for not dropping me to my almost certain death,” Edmund gritted out with extreme reluctance. He stared over Dragonfly's shoulder as he said it.

Nevertheless, for some awful reason, for just that moment, it felt a little like the end of a date.

“Right,” said Dragonfly. “Right. Well then. Happy trails.” He seemed to consider this. “Or you know, if doing crimes is what makes you happy, then for the sake of Cityton, let's say, mediocre trails. Do you wanna borrow my gloves?”

“Why,” said Edmund flatly.

Even though the goggles completely obscured much of the upper half of Dragonfly's face, Edmund had the distinct sense that a disbelieving stare was being leveled at him.

“For your hands? You know, the traditional office of gloves?”

As the scion of Malarkey Industries, Edmund was long accustomed to being hated for who he was. Hated, feared, not-too-secretly envied. And lately: mocked, dismissed, his family name transmuted into a juicy, low-hanging punchline for lazy late night writers.

He wasn't sure he'd ever been pitied before. It did not sit well.

“I'll warm my hands on the fires of hell while I plot your demise, you miserable fool,” growled Edmund.

“Yikes,” said Dragonfly easily. “Well, I'm off.” And with that, he took to the sky.

Edmund curled his fingers into the sleeves of his stupid, summer-weight summoner's robes and started back towards what remained of his home.

#original fiction #cityton chronicles #I'm sure that in some obscure way the fact that I'm thinking about this now is due to mainlining The Untamed #but this is definitely. not that.#warning for an extremely brief mention of transphobia that the main character condemns #also apparently there is a dragonfly-themed superhero in a 2008 superhero spoof movie?#let's say that movie exists in this world too and Dragonfly has taken a lot of shit for it #that sounds about right

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malkumtend · 4 years

Text

I Like Your Laugh (A Crowsquirrel AU) - Chapter 16.

“I still can’t believe we’re doing this.” Tawnypelt drawled quietly.

Crowpaw snorted, “That makes two of us.”

“Well believe it!” Squirrelpaw piped, a tail-length in front of them. Her eyelids dipped into a sneer. “If you’re too scared, why don’t you just turn back?”

“Jabber-mouth.” Tawnypelt mewed quietly, but she was openly amused. Crowpaw scoffed with a roll of his eyes.

“As if we could leave you to do this yourselves.” Crowpaw teased, “With your loudmouth, the tribe would just pounce on you the second you enter.”

Squirrelpaw waved her tail dismissively. But both apprentices jolted when they heard a low snort from the huge tom that followed them from behind. “You say that like that isn’t the most likely outcome.”

Crowpaw’s fur laid flat as he turned towards Talon. They had encountered the cat when they’d taken shelter in a cave which was the territory of him and his fellow outcasts. They had all once been members of the Tribe that the clan cats had escaped, sent out by their Tribe to kill Sharptooth. The wounds that coated their pelts told enough about how that mission had gone.

“The Tribe most likely have not forgiven us for failing to kill that beast.” Talon mused, cracking his large head to the side with a grunt. “It wouldn’t be out of character if they wanted to kill us then and there.”

The truth in his words set into Crowpaw’s chest like thorns. They still didn’t know exactly what the Tribe were capable of, they might have escaped them last time, but that was only because they were distracted by Sharptooth. Crowpaw still felt the sting of what had been left of his fight with Crag.

Tawnypelt growled low in her throat, glaring at the outcasted cat. “Aren’t you about as pleasant as a fox.” She grumbled. It was clear she shared his thoughts though; it had been her who had been most against the idea of returning to the Tribe to kill Sharptooth.

Talon shrugged lazily, “The truth isn’t often pleasant in the mountains.”

“Clearly.” Tawnypelt muttered.

Stormfur’s voice rattled from the front. “We’ll be fine!” He insisted, the break in his pitch giving him away. “They still think I’m the prophesised cat! They won’t try to attack me.”

That doesn’t include the rest of us. Crowpaw mused, but he was smart enough to keep silent this time.

“Aren’t you the prophesised cat?” Talon questioned.

Stormfur’s tail went low as his pelt quivered. “I…I don’t know.” He admitted shamefully. He had told the others about his dream, where his mother had visited him with the message of ‘a question that had many answers’. Stormfur didn’t claim to know what this question was, but he seemed to think it had something to do with the Tribe. Hence, why he wanted to go back. “But they think I am. They won’t want to risk it.”

Talon scoffed with a vicious lash of his tail, but he didn’t say anything else.

Crowpaw scowled at the cat, but his heart still wavered at the clear lack of belief from the former cats. They knew the Tribe from experience, knew exactly what they could and would do. Perhaps they were all being foolhardy in going back.

But Stormfur was determined to go there.

And if Stormfur was going, so was Feathertail.

The rest of them couldn’t leave either of them to take on that group by themselves, to take on that beast alone. They saw what Sharpooth was capable of doing to a whole Tribe. There was no way Crowpaw wouldn’t let either of his friends risk their lives like that.

Even if it did mean going back to face that creature as well.

Crowpaw still grimaced, his pelt prickled, at the thought of that. He remembered the terrible memory of the face of the molly that Sharptooth had taken. The fear. The blood. If he had to see that face again, on any other cat, Crowpaw wasn’t sure he would return sane.

If he saw that face on one of his friends, Crowpaw wasn’t sure he’d be able to return at all.

He stiffened, looking up at the cats around him, the cats he’d hated so passionately when this all began. Know, they were all cats he would gladly have by his side in battle, as friends. He knew they all thought the same.

Some thought more than others, Crowpaw knew. His mouth suddenly went dry as he looked up wearily at Feathertail.

No matter what he truly thought of her, he knew that he could never leave her behind. He wanted to help protect all of them, even if he was an apprentice. He wanted to fight with them even if it took him until his last breath.

He wanted to prove why he was chosen by Deadfoot. He wanted to make sure he went home making his father’s name proud. He wanted to go home proving that he was a true warrior.

Most of all, he would help his friends fight Sharptooth because he wanted to go home with them all beside him.

And now, they had a plan for how to take down the beast.

Well, one of them had had a plan. Crowpaw’s tail curled, as he smirked, his eye darting to his side, admiring the young cat walking with him.

“So,” Crowpaw mewed, “You’re sure about this poison idea?”

Squirrelpaw’s tail waved from side to side, she let out a proud purr. “Of course! You saw what Sharptooth was like; that thing will eat anything it can.” Her eyes narrowed, “It’s sure to go for prey literally left right in front of its fat nose.”

Crowpaw looked back for a moment. One of the former Tribe cats carried a wad of leaves in its mouth, carefully making sure to not spill the contents wrapped inside. Just one taste of the death berries and he wouldn’t taste anything again.

Crowpaw hoped they would work on the lion when they were stuffed inside the prey it was eating.

“What if it can smell the berries?” Crowpaw thought aloud.

Squirrelpaw’s nose wrinkled, “Can you smell them?”

“Well…no, but-”

“Then there shouldn’t be a reason that he could either. Sharptooth may be a monster, but it’s still a cat.”

Crowpaw wasn’t sure if he would call that thing a cat after what they’d seen it do, but he kept that to himself. Squirrelpaw had a point, there wasn’t anything to suggest that Sharptooth was different in its sense of smell. Still, he couldn’t help but be cautious. Her idea was their best chance of killing the thing. If it failed…

“You should have more faith in this wise cat.” Squirrelpaw preened, her nose proudly facing the air as she curled her tail; unwittingly, it ran under Crowpaw’s chin. His cheeks began to burn, his eyes screwing tight into a frown. “You might actually learn to appreciate a good idea when it’s given to you!”

“I’m not saying it isn’t a good idea.” Crowpaw mewed, “It’s the only one we have, after all.” He had to concede to that.

“So, stop whingeing then!”

“Look, I do think your plan will work. I’m just…” He groaned. He couldn’t say it, and he could feel her smirk on his skin.

“Oh Crowpaw, stop worrying. We know what to do.” She meowed, a deciding lash in her voice.

He felt her tail thump against his back, hard, hitting the sore wound from when he’d fought with Crag. He let out a muffled hiss of pain, glaring down at Squirrelpaw. That was a cruel move!

His anger faded as Squirrelpaw looked back at him with wide, apologetic eyes. “Sorry!” She cried, “I didn’t mean to get you there!” Crowpaw braced back a little at the flashing guilt on her face. She pressed her pelt against him with a regretful purr. “I’m really sorry.”

Strangely, Crowpaw felt his own stomach twist, any irritation that was left fading as he felt the cat’s soft, fuzzy pelt stroke his own. He could practically feel her skin against his. Her fleecy Thunderclan pelt was softer than anything Crowpaw had felt in his life.

Soft. That was one word that didn’t sound like it belonged anywhere near Squirrelpaw. Crowpaw was pretty certain if he ever called her that she would use her claws to show him just how soft she was. But that was just her. And Crowpaw found himself chuckling at the idea.

She was a ball of fire, this cat. A small ball of fire, but hot-headed enough to burn those who fanned her flames enough. Once, Crowpaw saw it as abrasive. Now, it was one of the things he loved the most about her. She had a quick mind, and often enough it would make Crowpaw laugh out loud.

Starclan knew, he’d never laughed so much before he met her.

And when she let the hardness drop, when she actually let herself become, well, soft, it never seemed out of place. She was just a kindhearted cat underneath all that fur. Crowpaw simpered as he watched her gaze up at him, still brimming with guilt. The emerald core in her eyes flickered hopefully, sending a shine across her face. When she was this close, Crowpaw could catch the fresh tang of wildflowers that marked her like a gentle wind.

Her eyes sparkled up at him, and Crowpaw felt his tail fur frazzle. He struggled to keep stoic as he processed his own thoughts. He’d never noticed it before, but Squirrelpaw glimmered when he looked at her. The way her bright ginger fur blazed beside the dark ginger stripes that cascaded along her back, the white tufts that ran down her jawline and belly, the emerald sheen of her eyes that glittered like full moonlight.

Alongside her broad nature, it was hard to catch at first glimpse, but this cat was undeniably cute.

A soft rumble echoed in Crowpaw’s throat. His eyes widened and he quickly coughed it away. “I-It’s fine!” He said curtly, pressing his tail against her flank. “It doesn’t even hurt that much anymore!” He added, sucking in his cheeks in order to stop them from burning.

Squirrelpaw let out a soft mew, grateful but biting. “Of course, it doesn’t.” She teased, gently tapping his rump with the tip of her tail.

She didn’t say anything after that, but Crowpaw didn’t notice from how his mind fizzed. He did just about catch her face flicker with realisation as she saw how close she was to him. She took a light step away, but nowhere near far enough to say that there was a problem between them, to Crowpaw’s relief.

Desperate to break the delicate tension, Crowpaw let words form in his throat. They never came out though, as a call from the front made the apprentices look up.

“Crowpaw!”

The grey apprentice looked up. Stormfur met his gaze from the front, he’d slowed down in his pace, obviously waiting. “Could I talk to you for a moment?” His eyes were still misty, a nervous twitch running across his back.

Crowpaw jerked his paw up, scratching a patch on his neck that suddenly tingled. It wasn’t that he didn’t like Stormfur, it was just who he saw when he looked at him. The Windclan cat felt his insides dance at the thought that Stormfur knew what was going on between him and his sister.

Speaking of which, Feathertail was moving back away from her brother, inviting Crowpaw to take her place beside him. Her eyes met his briefly and she gave him a tender smile. “Go on.” She purred.

Had she said something to him? About Crowpaw? The grey tom muttered a low moan. He didn’t like the look of this.

“What are you so scared of?” Squirrelpaw said, raising a brow.

Crowpaw jolted, giving the molly a deadly stare. “I’m not scared!”

“Then get on up there.” She smirked, “You might want to hold your tail between your legs to stop it twitching.”

Crowpaw forced himself to stiffen, his cheeks going dark again. He wasn’t lying. He wasn’t scared, he was just…worried. Crowpaw managed a silent growl. Fox-dung to this!

“Don’t worry, he’s not angry at you or anything.” Feathertail mewed. Crowpaw’s brows raised up as he saw Squirrelpaw’s tail flick in confusion. What was Feathertail doing? Did she want the others to know about how she felt about him?

“I-I know that!” Crowpaw spat out the words like a death berry before it could go down his throat. “Why would he be angry at me? Why would I even care if he was?”

Immediately, he began to regret how loud he was being. He noticed several of Talon’s group exchange confused glances with each other, Squirrelpaw still looked at him as if his fur had turned white, and Feathertail was just chuckling knowingly to herself.

“Just go.” Feathertail mewed lightly, her eyes gleaming with a mischievous spark. “He doesn’t bite…much.”

Crowpaw felt the shiver go down his back again. “H-Ha ha.” He deadpanned.

“Crowpaw, please can you just get up here?” Stormfur’s voice meowed again, his tail waved to him impatiently. “I want to talk to you about something.” Crowpaw shifted uneasily. It was true that Stormfur didn’t sound especially irritable or hostile.

Ah, mouse-fur! He’d just make a bigger scene if he refused.

“Alright.” Crowpaw said, beginning to pad up to the Warrior. He just about managed to ignore the soft snickering of Feathertail and the judging groan of Squirrelpaw. Stormfur kept his eyes on him, gentle and patient, as Crowpaw began to get closer.

The Windclan tom felt something tighten inside him; with every paw step he was noticing just how tall the grey Warrior was. In fact, he towered above him, and Crowpaw knew it wasn’t just the plumy pelt that made Stormfur look as strong as he was.

It was unlikely that the Warrior would pounce on him, but it was still a possibility that made Crowpaw tense. He liked Feathertail, but if this Warrior wanted a fight, Crowpaw wouldn’t hold back.

Crowpaw bit his lip, intending to cause some pain. What was he thinking? By Starclan, Squirrelpaw was right. He needed to stop anticipating the worst.

Still, standing right next to him, knowing that his sister liked him like he did, Crowpaw really didn’t value his chances.

“Hey.” Stormfur said, friendly enough, once Crowpaw was next to him.

Crowpaw tried not to sound like his throat was lodged with frogspawn. “Um, hey. Everything alright?” After what the tom had been through, it was polite enough to ask that.

Stormfur scoffed, albeit without a hint of malice. “You do know where we’re going right?”

“You know what I mean!” Crowpaw snapped, glowering when Stormfur mustered a throaty laugh. Starclan above, being nice was overrated sometimes.

“Easy there.” Stormfur smirked. “You really get riled easily.”

Crowpaw growled.

“I’m just kidding.” Stormfur looked down, his neck fur fuzzing. Crowpaw narrowed his eyes, but he didn’t respond. The Riverclan cat loosened, softening his gaze on the apprentice. “I’m doing as well as I can, considering the circumstances. You?”

Crowpaw shrugged, “I’m fine, I guess.” His eyelids halved across his eyes, “I mean we’re going back to a tribe that held us prisoner and expected you to take down a cat ten times your size, so I suppose I have some concerns.” He couldn’t help it; he was still struggling to grasp just what they were doing.

Stormfur muttered tonelessly, giving his shoulder an embarrassed lick. “Yeah… I can understand that.” It should have been Stormfur who was the most concerned about this, he was the one who was the target of the Tribe’s greed.

Crowpaw felt a slight worry creep over him. “They didn’t attack you, did they?”

“Oh? No, they didn’t. They just kept me in that cave, giving me prey every couple of hours.” Stormfur mewed calmly, “For the most part, they didn’t even talk to me. Except for that Stoneteller cat.” He drawled over the word like it was venom.

Crowpaw’s fur smoothed down, reprieved. He didn’t think the cat looked like he was harmed, but it was good to hear it from him.

“Anyway,” Stormfur sniffed, looking up absently for a moment before looking down cloudily at Crowpaw. “I heard that it was you that stuck by Feathertail while they were keeping me there.”

The chill scratched all over Crowpaw. His paws. His legs. His back. His breath.

“Who told you that?”

“Brambleclaw.” Stormfur said, still not taking off the eyes Crowpaw felt but couldn’t meet. He prided himself on being strong, on having guts that no other apprentice did. But now, he felt small, judged, guilty. He bristled at the name, his eyes sliding to the side where the brown tom trudged ahead with an apprehensive wilt on his whiskers.

Trust him to spill it. Crowpaw sulked. He hadn’t even seen the tom looking at them. “Look, it was nothing bad.” Stormfur said, his tone a curious mix of impatience and soothing. Whatever it was, it didn’t help ease anything.

“What was it then?” Crowpaw’s heart tightened for the worst.

The heavy grey paws softened as they walked on. Stormfur’s muzzle sagged a little. “I was worried about how she’d been, so I asked him.” He paused for a moment. “His exact words were that you stuck by your friends when they needed it. That you were able to stop her crying throughout that awful night.”

Crowpaw’s neck stiffened up.

The blue stare whipped back to the brown tom. Not with bitterness, but with complete surprise.

Was he actually trying to help me?

It was true. Crowpaw had comforted Feathertail, but Brambleclaw had confirmed that? To the cat that if he knew the full story would never trust Crowpaw anywhere near Feathertail?

The tom that he’d hated more than foxes, and had held him in the same regard, had done that.

Crowpaw could only stare ahead. Stunned.

“So?” Stormfur waited.

“Well, yeah. Of course, I did.” Crowpaw held. He’d had to do it; he couldn’t stand seeing her so upset. He’d do it again if he needed to. Feathertail would always be his friend and that meant he would always be there for her when she needed it.

If that was all he could do.

“Did any of them hurt her?” Stormfur asked. Crowpaw was glad to see the growl on the edge of his lips was not directed at him.

“No. They tried to be as hospitable as they could.” Crowpaw drawled mockingly. That stupidly polite tone they’d kept when they were literally holding them all prisoner had aggravated him to no end. “They didn’t attack any of us. Until I leapt at them that is.” Crowpaw used his tail to point out the swelled mark from when Crag had swiped at him the night they’d found out the Tribe’s real intentions.

A small murmur of relief left Stormfur, followed by a light chuckle. “Of course you did.” He shook his head, glimmering with recognition. “But she wasn’t hurt right?”

“No. They never got her.” Crowpaw wasn’t sure he would be alive if they had.

“Good.” Stormfur sighed. The relief in his eyes gave a sense of ease to Crowpaw. It didn’t look like the tom suspected anything. Crowpaw caught notice when Stormfur’s tail went flat and his head dipped down. The fur on his back lowered along with the shine in his eyes. “I should never have trusted them.” Stormfur said quietly.

Crowpaw groaned. Not this stupid moping again! He swatted Stormfur’s front leg with a sheathed paw. “How many times do we have to tell you? It wasn’t your fault.”

Stormfur had kept this gloomy mood ever since they’d gotten him out; muttering constant apologies and self-aimed scolds about how it was his fault for getting so close to the tribe and keeping the group there longer than they’d originally planned.

Perhaps there was a layer of truth to the latter part, Crowpaw considered bitterly. But it wouldn’t have mattered regardless.

“They wouldn’t have let you leave no matter what you thought of them. It’s not your fault they betrayed us.”

“But I wanted to stay.” Stormfur admitted, a shiver in his breath. “I actually wanted to spend more time there when you all wanted to leave.”

“So what?” Crowpaw snapped. “That’s just because they were teaching you their hunting techniques.” Crowpaw muttered to his side with a sneer. “That might be the best thing they ever did actually. Now you can actually hunt properly.”

“Oh, pack it in!” Stormfur meowed, but his upturned lips exposed a small grin.

Crowpaw whipped his tail smoothly. “Look, I don’t want to repeat myself here. It wasn’t your fault, alright? Nobody here thinks it was. Even if you’d wanted to leave after the first night, those cave-scum would have just kept you prisoner. You are their chosen cat after all.” Crowpaw added with a roll of his eyes. Stormfur took note of it, his brow knotting.

“I still could be, you know?”

“And I could lose my mind and jump off the waterfall for a nice swim. Doesn’t mean it’s likely?”

Stormfur’s muzzle creased. “Well, knowing you…”

“Shut it!”

“Seriously though. I don’t think this is just a mistake, Crowpaw.” Stormfur looked as if the thought made him scared. “Silverstream came to me, there has to be something else going on here.”

You said she didn’t tell you what she meant though. Crowpaw thought sceptically. He kept silent, however. He didn’t need the Warrior to start moping again.

“Besides,” Stormfur’s pelt prickled with anxiety, as if he was having trouble processing his own thoughts. “We all saw what Sharptooth did. As much as I hate them for what they did, they don’t deserve that.”

Crowpaw looked up, narrowing his eyes in bemusement. Was he talking about the Tribe? “Are you mouse-brained? They held us all prisoner for Starclan’s sake!” Crowpaw exclaimed, “They practically wanted to sacrifice you to that monster! Why would you feel sorry for them?”

“They did a terrible thing.” Stormfur agreed, but his eyes flickered with a deep pity, and something else. “But they were just desperate for their pain to end. Every clan has been guilty of that at some point.”

“That’s a load of rabbit-dung.” Crowpaw muttered hotly. “They got in the way of our journey. Who cares what happens to them?” He’d seen them fighting the group, he’d felt Crag’s claws over his pelt, he’d seen the marks the Tribe had left on Squirrelpaw. Even if they were desperate for some kind of solution, Crowpaw couldn’t forgive them for what they did.

“They weren’t all bad.”

“Oh why?” Crowpaw scoffed. Was Stormfur really that naïve? “Because they gave you prey? Oh, please. That’s like a mouse thanking us for playing with it for a while before we kill it.”

“Don’t be mouse-brained.” Stormfur said, an edge of hostility to his voice. Crowpaw furrowed his brow, Stormfur’s compliance sending a frustrated quiver along his back.

“All right then!” Crowpaw spat, “Name one cat there who you think deserves our help.”

Shock filled Stormfur’s for a cold moment, and he hesitated. Crowpaw scoffed, thinking he had caught Stormfur out. But bizarrely, there did look to be an answer in Stormfur. He looked to worried to speak the name though.

Finally, he relented. “Brook.” He said quietly.

Crowpaw had to think for a moment to remember the cat, then the pictures came back. Vague images of Stormfur going off on his own, hunting and talking, with a sleek, brown molly. Crowpaw had thought of it as nothing but friendly banter at the time. But now when he looked back on it, he could just about remember the way Stormfur would trill excitedly around her or the way his eyes would glow with joy.

Oh, he had to be kidding him.

“Really?” Crowpaw sighed, Stormfur looked away in embarrassment. It was clear to the both of them what they were talking about now.

“Is that why we’re going back?” Crowpaw’s tail whipped angrily. Was this all some stupid way for Stormfur to prove his love to some she-cat?

“Of course not!” Stormfur declared, his anger flaring. “I’m going back because I believe in what Silverstream said, and I will respect her advice.”

Crowpaw huffed. Likely story. He decided to keep quiet on that though. No matter what reason Stormfur had for going back, Crowpaw couldn’t deny that if Silverstream had visited Stormfur that meant that Starclan had to be intertwined in this someway. Maybe there was a chance that this was part of their journey after all.

Besides, what did he care who Stormfur liked? It was far too late for him to be judging cats for falling in love outside of their clan. Although…

Crowpaw stiffened a little as his blue stare met Stormfur. “I thought you liked Squirrelpaw.” He said, his voice low.

Stormfur convulsed where he stood, his body wracking up and down with a series of humiliated hacks, like he was trying to cough up a frog. He inhaled deeply to compose himself, but the second he found Crowpaw’s bored, knowing stare, his head ducked away again with a fluttering shame.

“Am I wrong?” Crowpaw asked, raising an annoyed brow.

“Y-Yes and no.” Stormfur tried his best to sound solid. He looked down at the apprentice frigidly, his whiskers twitching sheepishly. “I thought I did. But now, I’m not so sure.”

Crowpaw’s lip curled; how couldn’t Stormfur know whether or not he liked… He paused, softening all over.

Stormfur didn’t seem to realise. “I mean, at the time, I definitely liked her.” He said, keeping his voice quiet as he glanced back at the ginger cat fondly. “She’s an amazing cat, no doubt about it, and I hope to see her more when we get back home. But…” Something entirely different came into his eyes. Something made purely of bliss and ecstasy. Crowpaw had seen it before on Feathertail’s face.

“But Brook… she’s different.”

Crowpaw said nothing.

“I know we were only there a few days. But whenever I was around her, I just felt happy.” Whatever he was thinking looked like they made Stormfur the happiest that Crowpaw had ever seen him. “I could talk to her from sunhigh to sunset and not get bored, like we could tell each other everything. It was completely different to what I felt for Squirrelpaw.”

Crowpaw was hearing all this for the first time, and yet somehow he felt he could understand completely where Stormfur was coming from.

Stormfur sighed, “I guess that sounds like a load of frog-dung to you, huh? That’s fine.”

“No.”

Stormfur reared up in surprise. “Wait. Really?”

Crowpaw looked up gingerly, his mind clouded with thought. “So, you just knew that you felt something different then, right? You knew something was up? There was something else you felt.” He kept his tone stony enough but closed in was the edges of hope - or it may have been disappointment.

Stormfur’s eyes lit up. “That’s exactly it! I couldn’t stop thinking about it for a day! You know what it’s like?”

Crowpaw didn’t know if he could answer that. He tried to picture Stormfur’s feelings and twist them in his own memories. They were patchy and disjointed, he tried to grasp on to the conclusion he sought. At times he felt he could understand Stormfur’s emotions, but other times he wondered that he didn’t.

It was a jumbled, frustrating mess.

Stormfur took Crowpaw’s silence in, his face changing. A realisation swept over him, a blend of irritation and acceptance. His yellow eyes dimmed down heavily, and he breathed in like the ocean swallowing the tide.

“Right. Of course, you understand.”

What Stormfur was suggesting was as clear as the mountain’s peak. Crowpaw began to feel bad because he didn’t understand. He knew it wasn’t his fault, but he still felt sympathy for the grey Warrior. Sorry that he couldn’t truly grasp what the Warrior was feeling. Sorry that Stormfur thought his assumptions were the clear truth. Sorry that he didn’t feel how Stormfur expected that he felt.

But he was never one for making that clear.

So, with a dread that was beginning to sting, he kept his mouth shut.

But Stormfur, mollified and flaming with an adverse accession, carried on. “Listen.” His voice was softer than Crowpaw could ever commemorate. He glanced behind them and Crowpaw didn’t need to look to know who he was thinking about. “I just wanted to thank you, for looking out for her while I was gone. I really do appreciate it.”

A hopeful relief came to Crowpaw. The hope that that was the end of it all. He could accept that and move on.

But of course, it wasn’t the end.

“And also,” Stormfur carried on, a weariness muffling him. He coughed and gave Crowpaw a trusting look. “She – She told me that she’s let you know how she feels...about you.”

Crowpaw’s silence was telling.

“I-”

“And, I want you to know that if you decide to carry on with,” He sighed, “This; That I hope you can make each other happy.”

There was such faith in the way Stormfur spoke that Crowpaw thought he was going to be sick.

Through a clenched throat, he just about whispered, regretting how much it sounded like the nervousness that confirmed Stormfur’s acceptance. “You’d be fine with that.”

There was an apprehensive moan in the way he spoke, but his smile was fragile and defeated. He’d given up and taken what he thought with the best he could. “I’d be a real hypocrite if I wasn’t, right?”

He probably would be. But he wasn’t. Because what he suspected wasn’t correct. And Crowpaw wished he knew why. Small parts of him wanted to let Stormfur’s acceptance actually mean something, but he didn’t know if he could.

He wasn’t like Stormfur. He didn’t know what Stormfur felt. He hadn’t changed like that. Maybe he should have felt that he had, but it wasn’t the truth.

But how could he tell him or her that. It wasn’t the time.

Crowpaw managed to drain away from the conversation with some quip at Stormfur’s expense, the kind that was too cryptic and cowardly to be a real explanation. But it worked. It kept them calm before they made their way into a more dangerous situation. Still, Crowpaw knew he’d have to say something to her soon enough.

She deserved an answer.

She didn’t deserve the one that Crowpaw would give.

She was beautiful, no doubt. She was kind, she was loyal, she was brave, she was one of the best friends he could ask for, and he didn’t want to lose any of that.

But he hadn’t been changed like Stormfur.

He did love her. But it wasn’t the way that she loved him.

He didn’t know why it was like that, but it was the way it was. And he felt terrible for it, despite his straight face. He felt like his own intestines were trying to suffocate him as if to punish his decision. He couldn’t even look back because he knew that if he saw her face, the guilty sting would crawl all over him again.

Soon enough he’d have to face it though. She’d been brave enough to come to him, she had earnt the same from him.

And she would get it. But they would focus on this first. He would face her when they had dealt with that thing back at the Tribe. Then once this was all over, when they were ready to continue on their journey, he’d be able to tell her the truth.

He hoped she would forgive him.

We will leave Crowpaw in his grave mood for the moment. Because as he’d walked away to meet the grey Warrior who’d called him over, two she-cats who shared a similar interest in him were watching him head off with his head dipped and his tail between his legs.

Squirrelpaw groaned with barely disguised exasperation. “Honestly, what’s creeping over his pelt?” Crowpaw never let himself look like this, in fact he practically battled to look like the strongest cat every day, so seeing him so rattled was nearly stupid for Squirrelpaw.

Feathertail snickered softly, “He does look pretty shaky, doesn’t he?” If there was a hint of knowing buried in the Warrior’s tone, Squirrelpaw didn’t catch it. Feathertail exhaled, “Still, it isn’t like it isn’t normal. We don’t know how the Tribe will ‘greet’ us after what happened.”

Squirrelpaw frowned. She already had a clear idea how the Tribe would react. Her cheek still stung enough to remind her of their last encounter. “Well, we’ll just have to make sure they know were the only chance they have.”

Feathertail smiled, a glowing purr in her throat. “Don’t you mean your plan’s the only chance they have.”

The apprentice beamed a confident grin, but she still blushed from the praise. “Yep!” She chirped. “With a little help from her merry group!”

The Riverclan cat trilled with amusement, “It will make an excellent story for their kits!”

Even in the realisation of what they were heading towards, the two couldn’t help but laugh. It wouldn’t be too long now, and that was a good thing. The sky was beginning to darken, and in the dirty grey above them, the pale outline of the moon was becoming clearer. Soon the light would be glistening on the waterfall and Sharptooth’s hour would come.

But behind her laughter, and what she’d said to Crowpaw, Squirrelpaw had to feel a little nervous. They would definitely be prisoners rather than ‘guests’ when they inevitably ran into the Tribe guards, and whether their help would be accepted after their escape didn’t look so likely.

Hopefully the Tribe cats had the sense to listen.

Squirrepaw didn’t count on it.

She looked back to where Crowpaw was now openly talking with Stormfur. She gave Feathertail a cautious glance. “How’s he doing?” She asked her friend – that was what she had to focus on, her friend – gently.

Feathertail turned to Squirrelpaw smoothly, a small grateful smile on her muzzle. “Better than I hoped.” She replied, “It doesn’t look like they hurt him. He was shaken up earlier, but he looks like he’s getting better.”

“That’s good.” Squirrelpaw said, her tail gently tapping the Warrior’s back leg. She had been worried that Stormfur had been injured; no one knew what those cats could have done to him. She pressed her pelt against Feathertail’s. “At least he’s back where he belongs.”

“True.” Feathertail said returning the gentle touch. She looked so content that it made Squirrelpaw ache a little. What had she been thinking? Trying to avoid the two of- Ugh. She was glad it didn’t look like Feathertail had suspected anything from it. She didn’t need Squirrelpaw’s problems to be added to her own.

She’d thought giving them time alone would have helped them along. It had just created a needless wedge between the trio. It had been them from the beginning. If it wasn’t for Feathertail, Squirrelpaw would have never made such close friends, would have never given her best friend a chance, would have been left alone with a Warrior who didn’t respect her.

When it came down to everything, all that had been good for Squirrelpaw since the journey began had started due to Feathertail’s kindness.

She really was the greatest Warrior Squirrelpaw had ever met.

She was everything Squirrelpaw could ever wish she could be.

Squirrelpaw tried to pretend swallowing didn’t feel like holding back everything bad.

“Are you okay as well?” The ginger cat said, fighting the stiffness along her jaw.

Feathertail shrugged flimsily, “I’m just glad he’s safe.” She looked to the side, “I am worried about all this though.”

Squirrelpaw nodded, “I don’t blame you. Do you really think your mother told Stormfur that he was the chosen cat?” She asked guardedly, careful to not sound as if she didn’t trust him.

It didn’t look like Feathertail was offended. She did squirm a little though, her lips tightening and her pelt quivering. “I do believe that he saw Silverstream, I’m still not sure if it means he’s the “silver cat” though.”

The nervousness in her voice surprised Squirrelpaw - something lingered in it. “You think Stormfur made a mistake?”

“Not exactly. I do think it has to do with the Tribe.”

Squirrelpaw’s ears perked up, “How come?”

Feathertail’s face twisted. Squirrelpaw was sure she’d seen the Warrior’s face go through all the negative emotions at least one. Anger. Fear. Despair. But what pulled at Feathertail’s expression was something new, something cold, complete stone cut uncertainty and mystery. The silver tail swung in contemplation, before going still as Feathertail’s soft voice came back.

“The night before we left, I heard something.”

“What?” Squirrelpaw just about made sure her voice wasn’t a shout. “What was it?” She asked, her eyes wide. It had to be something important if Feathertail was like this.

Feathertail looked ahead, as if staring into the pull of a whirlpool. “They were quiet.” She said slowly, “But I’m sure I heard voices behind the waterfall.”

“Couldn’t they have just been the Tribe?”

“No. I mean, it was like they were… inside the Waterfall.” Feathertail moaned, realising how foolish it all sounded. Squirrelpaw was taken aback. Inside the waterfall? That didn’t make any sense. Could it have just been the Tribe’s voices echoing around the cave.

Squirrelpaw gingerly tapped Feathertail’s shoulder. “Well, what did they say?”

Feathertail sighed, “It was stuff about the silver cat.”

Squirrelpaw rose a brow. That didn’t really help that much. “Are you sure it wasn’t any of the Tribe cats?”

Feathertail looked at her, Squirrelpaw flinched at the crest-fallen expression. “It didn’t sound like any of them. They were… quieter. Whispery.”

Squirrelpaw felt a chill caress her spine. No matter who they were, it didn’t sound good. “So, what does this mean?”

“I can’t say for certain.” Feathertail meowed honestly, her eyes shimmering. “But doesn’t it seem a little odd that after I heard these voices, Stormfur also gets a visit from Silverstream.” Squirrelpaw’s brows raised up to the point they may have left her forehead. “Maybe… we are meant to deal with the Tribe.”

“So Stormfur’s the silver cat?” Squirrelpaw gaped. If Feathertail was right, who knew what was going on?

“I’m not saying that. I don’t see how any cat could kill that thing on their own.” Feathertail shuffled where she stood, glancing up to the darkening sky. One lone star blinked at her, glinting in the blue ocean of her eyes. “I just think that our run in with the Tribe wasn’t as random as we thought.”

Another tremor crossed the apprentice’s back. Feathertail looked dead serious; did that mean that she thought Starclan was involved? Why would Starclan put them through all this? Would it have not made sense to tell Stormfur about this before they’d begun the journey? They should have told him if he truly was chosen for this.

It sounded way too implausible for Squirrelpaw. Starclan had told all of the chosen cats where they were heading, and then they’d made it. It was Midnight who’d given them the directions back. She couldn’t see why Stormfur wouldn’t have already been told about something as important as this. Still, what was clear was that both the Riverclan siblings had shared some kind of vision about this ‘silver cat’. So maybe it was true that they were meant to kill Sharptooth.

Squirrelpaw huffed to herself. Would have been nice to know that at the beginning.

“I suppose it doesn’t matter.” Feathertail said, breaking the silence. “Whatever these voices or visions mean, I’m not going to leave Stormfur behind to do this alone.” Her tail lashed with a cutting finality.

“None of us are.” Squirrelpaw meowed, her claws unsheathing a little, already picturing the hostility the Tribe would show them. If that Crag wanted anymore scars, Squirrelpaw would be happy to oblige! “We’re in this together.”

Feathertail gave the apprentice an adoring lick on the ear. “I know how grateful he is for all your bravery.”

Squirrelpaw blushed, pulling away with a chuckle. “Make sure to remind him to thank us.” She looked up at the grey Warrior ahead, her smile fading to confusion as she saw him visibly twitching, with what she could only assume was embarrassment, while Crowpaw looked on monotonously at him. “What in Silverpelt are they talking about?”

“Hm?” Feathertail followed her gaze, pausing for a tense moment, before her eyes widened, her pale cheeks darkening. “Oh. Them.”

Squirrelpaw raised a brow, “Crowpaw was acting like a punished kit earlier, now Stormfur looks like he’s stepped in fox-dung? What’s up with them?”

Feathertail looked away, and Squirrelpaw saw that her blush was only darkening. Her tail was tucking down, hiding away like a mouse in its den. Squirrelpaw looked to her, knowing well that Feathetail’s eyes were twitching from side to side nervously. “Feathertail?”

The Warrior slowly turned, giving the Thunderclan cat a long look. There was small, but hard, trust growing on her face. Squirrelpaw gulped, suddenly feeling sick. “I…I think I know.” Feathertail mewed.

Squirrelpaw had guessed that. “Okay…so?”

Feathertail smiled weakly, rubbing closer to the smaller cat. Squirrelpaw felt colder at the touch. “You see, Squirrelpaw,” Feathertail said gently, “I may have told Stormfur about certain…” She hesitated, a shadow falling over her eyes. Then with a sudden bravery, she found Squirrelpaw’s trembling pupils.

And it was all revealed.

In that instant moment, the brief second that she met those blue pools, full and swarming with love and caution, Squirrelpaw knew what they were talking about, she knew what Stormfur was talking about with Crowpaw, and she knew that Feathertail was about to share something life threatening with her.

And despite the fact that she already knew what she was about to say, and that she had known about it for a long, excruciating time. In her mind, she still begged for Feathertail to not say it.

But beside the pleading in her mind, she kept still and maintained her false shock.

“Certain feelings I have… about Crowpaw.” Feathertail’s eyes sank a little as if the mere saying of it wasn’t enough of an explanation.

Squirrelpaw didn’t stop in her tracks as her thoughts were clarified with a burning honesty. She didn’t twitch or fall like she imagined she would days ago. She just carried on walking, as if there wasn’t anything vaguely troubling about it.

“I see.” She said finally. “Does, um, Crowpaw know about it?”

Feathertail nodded frailly, “I told him before we rescued Stormfur.”

He knows. Those two words pounded so hard in Squirrelpaw’s ears, thrashing and crashing until they made themselves settled in her brain. Squirrelpaw respected Feathertail just a little more at that moment. She had been able to come out and say it and was now possibly reaping the rewards.

But then again, she didn’t know or suspect how Squirrelpaw felt. And that was how it was going to stay.

Squirrelpaw could see, just see, how much Feathertail loved the tome when she looked at him. Squirrelpaw understood it well, she had no reason to go against the molly. No good reason, anyway.

“Okay.” Squirrelpaw said.

Feathertail mrrowed with surprise. “Okay? That’s it.”

What else do you want me to say? A little voice at the back of her mind was scratching to be released. Squirrelpaw kept it muzzled. “Is something wrong?”

“N-No, I just thought you’d be more shocked.”

“Well, I’m surprised,” She lied, “But, I mean, you’re both my best friends. I’ve got nothing against it.” That was a half-lie.

“Really?”

“Really.” Not quite.

An incredible relief and grace passed over the Warrior. Her smile gleamed so brightly that Squirrelpaw had to respond with her own. She did realise however that she needed to act more natural than this. Her head cocked up with an amused snort. “Though I can’t for the life of me think why you would want to be with him of all cats.”

That was an impossibly big lie.

And Feathertail countered it, she talked about his bravery, his wit, the kind nature he kept hidden like a pearl behind his prickly exterior, how he had always seemed to be there for her. All were qualities Squirrelpaw understood, very well.

“Okay, okay. Maybe there are a couple of good things about him.” Squirrelpaw chirped. She knew the atmosphere cooled when Feathertail erupted with a delighted mrrow. “So, you told Stormfur then?”

Feathertail looked aside again, “Yes.”

“And?” Squirrelpaw remembered how Stormfur had suspected this all along. She doubted he’d be too pleased to find out he was right. He’d already lost one family member because of a situation like this.

Feathertail found her brother again, wistfully. “He…He didn’t really say anything. He just listened as I explained what happened and, well, now he’s talking to Crowpaw.” She breathed in softly. “It doesn’t look so bad, so far.”

It was true. Stormfur looked more nervous than the apprentice. So it wasn’t like the tom was threatening to rip the younger cat’s ears off.

That was good for Feathertail.

“Just wait. We all know Crowpaw has a way with words.” Squirrelpaw jibed. “He can’t help himself.”

“Oh, don’t say that!” Feathertail moaned.

“It is true.” It was something that made her laugh.

Feathertail groaned, but it was laced with defeat. “I just hope they’ll be fine until after this is done.”

“I was just joking. You know neither of them would start something now. If they’re smart, they’ll save whatever anger they have for Sharptooth.”

Feathertail grinned, “Well, they are toms.”

The laughter burst up again. It made Squirrelpaw tired. She found her eyes on the ground. What she thought, she did not want to say, but she would. It would be the last collision she needed for acceptance.

She breathed in and out, preparing her voice.

It left her like she’d been winded.

She sniffed forcefully, trying again, two more deep cycles of breath.

“Crowpaw likes you too then?” Did that sound as quiet or painful as it did in her head?

For a long moment, Feathertail was quiet, then above her thin smile, her eyes lidded halfway. “I…I don’t know.”

The fact that concern was the first thing to strike Squirrelpaw was bizarre. She expected many things, but the worry that made her jolt up was not one of them. She just couldn’t stop herself, the small pitch of unease in her friend’s throat made her twist. “W-What do you mean?”

Feathertail shrugged, “He said he needed some time to think about it.”

Squirrelpaw hid her internal screaming with an open gape. “He-He what?!”

Feathertail giggled lightly, “It shouldn’t be surprising. Honestly with how close Windclan are known for when it comes to Starclan I expected a simple rejection.”

She made it sound small. How did she do that?

Squirrelpaw’s mind was in a full on breakdown. What the heck?! Time to think?! Could Crowpaw not just get it over with and save them all the trouble. She knew it was silly, but Squirrelpaw could feel a vein throb as her blood began to boil! Her vein splintered eyes whirled to where Crowpaw was, his handsome face making her teeth chatter furiously.

“That mouse-brain!” She seethed in a whisper. Feathertail had had the bravery to do what Squirrelpaw had wanted to do herself, and the tom just didn’t give her an answer! Is that what he would have done if she had told him how she felt?

Feathertail let out a rumble of humour, “Don’t be angry with him. It’s not that hard to imagine. You’ve seen what happens when it comes to… half-clan cats.”

Squirrelpaw thought of Greystripe, his kits, how they could only ever meet at gatherings now. There was truth to Feathertail’s words.

But Crowpaw was the one with the problem. “So that’s what bothers him, is it” A part of Squirrelpaw wanted to storm up to the tom. Squirrelpaw had been writhing for days over this, and this was what they all got. An anti-climax! “By Starclan, he should count himself lucky that someone like you would like a mouse-brain like him!”

That was painful to say as well. But Squirrelpaw’s mouth was ahead of every part of her brain, she was steaming! Feathertail was amazing, how could he throw a chance like that away!

Feathertail rubbed her tail over her friend’s pelt, chuckling. “Thank you, Squirrelpaw. But he has a right to say no.” The lowering in her tone made it clear that wasn’t what Feathertail would like to hear, but she kept up. Squirrelpaw’s anger twisted with marvel. How could this cat be so strong about things that made Squirrelpaw lose her mind? “If he says no, that is.”

It hit Squirrelpaw like an extended branch.

Crowpaw hadn’t denied anything. He still had all the time in the world to say yes. Maybe he was a fool for waiting like this, but she doubted Feathertail would mind if it led to the answer she craved.

Suddenly Squirrelpaw’s anger left, replaced by irritation and a queasiness she could remember well.

No matter what it was, Feathertail still had a chance. Possibly a good chance, Crowpaw certainly wasn’t the cat to think about something unless he was genuinely considering it.

Feathertail coughed, her face caught in a mix between embarrassment and relief. “Honestly, it’s fine. I’m just happy he wants to continue being friends.”

Don’t lie. I know. I know you want to be more.

“I-If he says yes. What are you going to do about the clans?” Squirrelpaw asked, out of pained obligation and self-hating curiosity.

The look on her Feathertail’s face said it all. Her shoulders dipped. “Who knows? I’m really just making it up as I go along.” She joked. “But I’m still hopeful. The clans might be different when we go back.”

“You think Riverclan would accept that?”

Only a flash conveyed the deep-rooted unrest in the Warrior’s heart. “They… accepted me and Stormfur…”

Realisation wounded Squirrelpaw. “I-I didn’t mean…”

“I know.” Feathertail mewed gently. “Look, I don’t know Squirrelpaw. I’m just hoping for the best. I’ve seen enough of Riverclan to know what can happen.” Her tongue slithered a little at that, before radiance glinted in her eyes again. “But I’ve also seen what the best they can do. Though, I can’t lie, I won’t be rushing to tell everyone in Riverclan.”

Squirrelpaw thought long and hard; rejection and acceptance casted shadows and hope in her mind, hope for Feathertail. Yes, the clans could change, her father was proof of that. But the line between Greystripe and his kits was also proof of their deep seeded traditions.

Like everything recently, there would be no answer until they faced it head on.

But then the last sentence came back, making the ginger molly look up incredulously. “If you’re so worried about how cats will react, why are you telling me this?”

Feathertail rose a brow, purring with a puzzled mrrow. “Because I trust you.” She smiled, “I mean you’re not ranting at me right now, so I guess I was right to do so!” She laughed, pressing her pelt against her friend.

Squirrelpaw felt sick.

Feathertail trusted her. Trusted her with something like this. Squirrelpaw trusted her as well. She knew if she said it, Feathertail wouldn’t recoil with disgust, but it wouldn’t be much better. She did trust Feathertail, but she couldn’t tell her that. The risks were there, sharp and crooked.

“Oh.” Squirrelpaw, trying to muster a cheeky laugh. “Well, I guess you should count yourself lucky then.”

“I already do!”

“Well,” Squirrelpaw smiled to pass away the sinking feeling in her gut. “Thanks for telling me! I hope he’s smart enough to make the right decision!” She did hope that. She wanted to go home and see her friends happy. She wanted to see them get past everything and succeed. Even if she wasn’t part of it.

Feathertail gave her a look that could melt ice. “I should be thanking you. I was honestly not too sure about telling you, but… it didn’t feel right. I don’t want to lie to you. After all, I’m sure you’d hear about it sooner or later from one of us.”

Squirrelpaw wondered if Feathertail was naïve or if she was just that lovely.

She cared about her either way.

“You don’t have to worry about anything, Feathertail.” Squirrelpaw said, a lot more calmly than she felt. But that was how they were. “You can tell me anything.”

I’m in love with him as-

No.

She couldn’t do the same.

Feathertail pressed against her again, she was warm and soft, Squirrelpaw could feel everything good about her. “I appreciate that, Squirrelpaw.” She mewed.

This was everything Squirrelpaw knew she should feel. Happiness. Contentment. Friendship. That was how it had started between them all. That was how it should end – for her at least. She wouldn’t be the interfering, nuisance that she was commonly called. She would prove those voices wrong. She would accept this, and take hope for all the best.

A shine of purple caught Squirrelpaw’s eye. Tucked beneath Feathertail’s ear was the flower Crowpaw had given her from the Twoleg garden. The flower given to her by the cat she loved so dearly.

The flower Squirrelpaw had received now seemed like a mockery on her fur.

I’m sorry Feathertail but I love him and I don’t wish I didn’t because everything you love I love as well I don’t blame you for loving him because you deserve to love someone like him and he deserves to love someone like you but it hurts and I know it’s bad and that I shouldn’t but I can’t stop and I know you understand and I’m sorry-

She shut the rest of her mind up. Locked it away like a prisoner.

She focused on her friend beside her, and her happiness.

And to prove that, she didn’t pull away from the touch of her. Not even when they found the Tribe patrol.

…

It had started off well.

The Tribe guards had escorted them back, still limping and ragged from the wounds of their latest attack, Squirrelpaw couldn’t help but give a sneer to Crag as he stared at her with utter hatred. The cat was smart enough to not attack her though. The moon had just begun to rise over the mountain when they found the cave again.

The waterfall reflected the moonlight around the cave, revealing the extent to which Sharptooth had left the Tribe. Every cat looked wounded in some way or another, according to Stoneteller many were either dead or on the verge of dying. They were furious at their ‘saviour’ for abandoning them, and the whole cave seemed to break into discord when their banished Tribemates returned.

Then Stormfur explained what they were doing back, and despite the obvious mistrust, the Tribe had died down. Eventually, Squirrelpaw had been the one to reveal her plan, stuffing the dead hare with the death berries and leaving it at the mouth of the cave entrance.

The Tribe didn’t seem too convinced of the plan, especially when it was told it would need Sharptooth to return to their cave. For a while, Squirrelpaw had tensed herself for a fight. But soon Stoneteller accepted their plan, watching with ill dread when Talon sliced open his paw to leave a trace of blood outside the cave. The trail that would prick Sharptooth’s hunger and lead him back to the cave.

It was by no means a return without risk. But the plan was the best the Tribe had, and they knew that.

Squirrelpaw had just been helping Tawnypelt measure the safety of the distance between the bait and the cave entrance when the terrified cry erupted.

“Sharptooth! He’s here! He’s coming!”

Squirrelpaw’s entire body wracked with horror, turning to the darkness outside. The moon was full and luminous, and the splintering shadow of the predator and the fiery burn of his bloodlust was a terrible shape on the mountain.

Squirrelpaw raced away to hide. It was far too soon for the beast to arrive! The Tribe cats hadn’t even had the time to hide themselves yet. She saw them all begin to race away towards the Cave of Pointed Stones, leaving her and the other clan cats waiting in terror. They all began to sprint towards the cave walls, masking themselves in shadow. Squirrelpaw pressed herself hard against the stone, hoping the creature wouldn’t leave its meal due to the frantic rapture of the environment.

They could only wait as the large, snarling head left the darkness to enter the cave. The beast sniffed around, its eyes pinwheels of savagery, searching for any prey it could catch. Squirrelpaw quivered as the moonlight crashed on its large form, its claws tapping bluntly on the stone floor. Slowly, Sharptooth followed the trail of blood to where the hare lay. It examined the meal for a moment.

Squirrelpaw held her breath.

Then with a twist of its head that might had displayed disgust, the beast swung a large paw to the bait, knocking it far away into the shadows outside. Far from it, and the prey it was clearly scenting.

Hope abandoned Squirrelpaw. “No!” She cried. That had been their chance of killing the creature!

She only realised her mistake when the beasts hungry glare found the shadows she hid in.

Squirrelpaw went stiff with fear. Their plan had failed. Her plan had failed. And now they were stuck in the cave with this impossible enemy.

A brown shape leapt from the wall to face the monster. Squirrelpaw gasped when she realised it was Brambleclaw, his fur spiked with anger. “Get back!” He roared at the beast, not flinching when the beast growled and twisted to him. The Thunderclan Warrior’s voice pleaded out to his friends. “All of you hide!”

Squirrelpaw stared, not believing what she was seeing. Surely Brambleclaw didn’t think he could take on this thing on his own. The brown tom hissed furiously at the monster, before crouching down and leaping at the beast with his claws unsheathed.

Dear Starclan, he was crazy!

But when Brambleclaw twisted his body to dodge the lion’s claws, she saw the frantic worry in his eyes. The worry for all of them. He was doing everything he could to protect them

He was her clanmate. Squirrelpaw had to do the same.

With a surge of abandonment for the danger, Squirrelpaw pounced to where the lion was, sinking her claws into its thick tail and scratching deep into the flesh. The beast screeched, whipping its tail to dislodge her.

She heard Brambleclaw shout, “What in Starclan’s name are you doing?” The fear was stark.

Sensing that the beast would be swift in its attack, and knowing its attention was now on her, Squirrelpaw retreated. “Run!” She screamed at her clanmate. She didn’t look back but she heard the beast lunge forward, roaring in fury. Fear guiding her muscles, Squirrelpaw didn’t stop running until she found the cave wall. Leaping onto the nearest boulder, she grunted as she pulled herself up. She felt a snap behind her and knew Sharptooth had bit empty air as it tried to catch her tail. She didn’t stop climbing the mounds of rock until she had found herself panting and hissing on a jagged ledge of rock on the wall.

As the beast snapped and clawed the wall below her, she saw Stormfur following Feathertail up the opposite wall until they too reached a ledge. Above the cave entrance, Tawnypelt peered over a cleft, yelling obscenely at the creature. Squirrelpaw let out a sigh of relief, noticing as Brambleclaw sloped up to rest on a thicker ledge just below her.

“Stay back or I’ll claw your eyes out!” Her clanmate rumbled, his fur fluffed up in rage. Sharptooth only hissed and clawed at the wall some more, madly reaching for its next kill.

It couldn’t reach them though.

That was the main thing.

Squirrelpaw tried to regain control of her thumping heart, dousing her fear however she could, they were safe up here for now. They just needed some time to think, just think, of someway to get rid of this thing! She cursed the fact that her plan had failed. They were now lost without a means or plan of attack, and who knew how long Sharptooth would keep clawing to reach them

Not very long it seemed. As the beast’s ears twitched and it heavily met the ground, turning away with a hiss. Squirrelpaw cocked her head in confusion, leaning over to see where it was heading.

She found it.

And fear enveloped her all over again.

In a crevice on the ground level, just a tree length from where Sharptooth was slowly advancing, Crowpaw laid flat against the wall trying to hide himself in the cleft. Even from up where she was, Squirrelpaw could see it was too shallow to keep him safe.

The claws and hungry maw were growing closer, and Crowpaw knew it. He hissed wildly at the creature.

Squirrelpaw could see the terror in his eyes.

Almost without realising it, she leapt down onto the cleft below her, her breath quick and heaving. She had to reach him, she had to distract that creature, she couldn’t just sit back and watch. She prepared to leap to the ground floor.

As soon as she jumped, a pull on her scruff held her back to safety.

She knew who it was. “Let me go!” She screamed at Brambleclaw, not facing him as she hopelessly tried to claw her way out of his grasp. She tried to grip the rock, but Brambleclaw pulled her further away, leaving thin scratches from where her claws dragged back.

Squirrelpaw felt a heavy paw on her back, holding her down on her belly as Brambleclaw still held onto her scruff just in case. Squirrelpaw writhed and kicked, “Let me go! Let me go! We can’t just leave him!” Her voice rose into a high, pleading cry. She saw the beast drawing closer, she saw the fear heighten in Crowpaw. Her screams only grew in her throat. She twisted her neck to see Brambleclaw, furiously desperate to roar at him again.

She was taken aback when she saw the pain, the regret in his eyes. It was only there briefly before he screwed them shut, blocking out the incoming horror. “I’m sorry.” His muffled voice sounded out. “I’m so sorry.” He didn’t release his grip; she was his clanmate, he had to protect her like she protected him.

Her anger gone, Squirrelpaw gave in to the despair. She still tried to dislodge herself from the strong grip, whimpers growing in her throat, but by now she knew it was useless. Tears began to stream down her cheeks as she saw the inevitable horror that would soon reach her friend.

She would never see him again.

He wouldn’t come home with her.

She would never tell him…

Her paws collapsing beneath her, Squirrelpaw rose her chin, howling and sobbing.

“CROWPAW!” She screeched.

Then through her tears, she saw movement above the horror.

A silver shape burst onto one of the spiked pillars of stone that pierced down from the cave top. Squirrrelpaw thought she could hear Stormfur shouting. The pillar buckled under the force and broke away, plummeting down with the shape wailing beside it.

Squirrelpaw’s breath caught.

Though she could see the shape through her tears, it was the wail that told Squirrelpaw it was Feathertail.

A yowl made way to her throat, but she didn’t hear it above Sharptooth’s scream. The pillar tore through his body, impaling him to the ground. The rock spilt, sending a haze of dust into the air that shadowed over the twitching, bleeding body.

With a gasp of shock, Brambleclaw released Squirrelpaw and followed her as she jumped down the rocks, back to the cave floor. She searched desperately through the haze for her friends, racing with caution as Sharptooth convulsed in his own blood.

Finally, with an ugly groan, the monster lay still.

But Squirrelpaw had no relief. The dust had cleared. She found Crowpaw’s untouched body. He was standing over Feathertail, his jaw open in a silent scream of anguish.

Feathertail lay still, wet blood pooling from her head.

With a choked whimper, Squirrelpaw ran to her friend’s side. Stormfur was soon there too, his eyes wet with sorrow. The silver molly did not move, not even a twitch.

“Feathertail…” Squirrelpaw’s voice was raw with horror. “No.”

“Wake up.” Crowpaw begged, his voice in a horrible strain that made Squirrelpaw convulse with despair. “Please, Feathertail, wake up.”

“Sh-She’ll be fine.” Stormfur’s voice was quiet, but desperate, “She has a prophecy to fulfil.” He was clearly trying to comfort his own thoughts. The other clan cats made their way over, the two siblings were stiff and rigid, their eyes full of grief. As if Feathertail was already…

No. Squirrelpaw pressed her forehead against Feathertail’s pelt, desperately trying to stir her. It couldn’t be too late. Stormfur was right. She was chosen by Starclan, she had to go home with them, she had to-

Squirrelpaw flicnched back when she felt a small, lingering movement. Stormfur and Crowpaw jolted next to her. She saw Feathertail’s eyes flutter hazily, seeing the cats weeping beside her, but with no direction at all. The beautiful blue in her eyes was beginning to fade.

Feathertail looked at Stormfur, sleepily. “You’ll have to go home without me, Stormfur.” She muttered, her lips twitched and Squirrelpaw thought that would be the end, but soon a small smile found its way there. The smile that had given Squirrelpaw the first light of friendship. “Save the clan.”

Stormfur whimpered, nuzzling worldlessly into his sister’s fur, muttering a stream of pleads.

Then Feathertail’s eyes softly moved to where her two close friends stood, tears pooling down. She breathed raggedly, like she was cold and Squirrelpaw felt desperate to rub close to the cat again.

“Please!” Squirrelpaw begged, inhaling the soft, sweet scent. “Please Feathertail! You-You can’t!”

“I’m sorry.” She muttered. Squirrelpaw felt a soft press against her leg and realised it was the gentle touch of her friends’ tail. “I’m sorry I won’t be there to see you become the Warrior you deserve to be. I promise I’ll be watching over you.”

Squirrelpaw croaked out a sob. “No…no…” She thought of how alone she’d been in the beginning, she thought of all that had come because of that kind invitation. “I-I owe everything to you!”

“No, you don’t. You always repaid me…” Feathertail rasped.

“Feathertail,” Crowpaw’s soft cries made way, “Please, don’t leave me.” He sounded so hollow.

“I’ll always be with you,” Feathertail said, her voice aching with love. Her paw struggled to reach out, but it gingerly brushed against the cat she loved. “I promise.”

Crowpaw started to tremble with his cries, “I-I…” Whatever he was going to say next left his throat as a weeping breath. Squirrelpaw stiffened as she felt the soft breathing of Feathertail stop.

But she heard a soft whisper, “Look after him.” It slowed down until the end.

Slowly looking up, squeaking with pain, Squirrelpaw saw the eyes that held such kindness close and never open again.

Feathertail was gone.

Her smile. Her laugh. Her kindness. All her memories of this journey. All were gone.

Crowpaw was the one that wailed first. His head arched back, tears spilling down his face. Squirrelpaw didn’t try to hide it anymore than him. Her voice was a string of sobs and cries, punctuated by hoarse, dry, rasping breath. Stormfur weeped softly, nuzzling his nose to his sister as if to never lose her scent again. Behind them, Squirrelpaw could hear the muffled crying of Brambleclaw and Tawnypelt as they comforted each other.

Squirrelpaw stared at Feathertail’s body, unable to hold herself up. She buried her face in the fur. This was it. Feathertail would never come home with them. She would never see Riverclan or her father again. They would never meet in secret like they had promised for days.

She would never laugh or smile again. Squirrelpaw realised this all with a stinging, burning clarity.

Squirrelpaw wept.

Around them they heard the cheers of glee from the approaching Tribe cats. “Sharptooth is dead! We are saved!” Squirrelpaw held back her screams, she was too tired, too broken to care anymore. She didn’t care about their stupid prophecy. Their friend was dead! That was all!

Brook broke away from the cheering cats to comfort Stormfur. Beside Squirrelpaw, Crowpaw raised his head to meet the now sole Riverclan cats’ gaze. His eyes glazed with a terrible emptiness. “I-It’s my fault.”

Squirrelpaw rose up, “No!” She shouted.

“Yes, it is.” Crowpaw said monotonously, “I wasn’t quick enough. She died… for me.” His lips sucked in as his fur lined with tears again. “I-I couldn’t even…”

“Don’t say that!” Squirrelpaw said, pressing her head against Crowpaw’s neck. She wouldn’t let him blame himself for this! It was her plan that had… “It wasn’t your fault!”

Crowpaw didn’t say anything, he just bowed his head and didn’t even react to the touch of his friend. She felt his sobs tremble throughout his body. Weakly, he seemed to give in on himself, leaning down to press his nose to Feathertail. Squirrelpaw fell beside him, muzzle rubbing on her lost friend, her body holding her sobbing friends up.

She couldn’t begin to imagine how he felt. It was clear now. Feathertail would have received what she deserved. Crowpaw… He… He…

They all sobbed for what might have been forever.

In the crisp moonlight, a lone beam rested on a lone object that wetly glinted in the pooling crimson. A pale dome which held treasures of golden stalks. The flower illuminated for a moment that no cat truly saw, a ghostly silver sparkling on the purple petals. Then the sparkling stopped, and it was just a flower in a pool of blood once more.

…

The clan cats didn’t leave until morning had risen.

None of them had gotten much sleep. None of them had really tried to rest. They mourned the loss of their friend, gave her all the respect she deserved. The Tribe cats were helpful enough, they helped find a fresh mound of land where they could bury her. They carried her away so gently, and the clan cats followed them the whole way.

It was a beautiful spot. Beside the waterfall where the pool made the ground soft enough to dig. Feathertail would have thought it was beautiful. Squirrelpaw held back her sob as she thought of how the cat had taught her to fish. Once she was buried, they all sat vigil for her, even the Tribe cats who took the time to thank their prophesised saviour once again.

But the truth was, Squirrelpaw knew, that none of them would be able to thank Feathertail enough for what she had sacrificed.

It was sun-high by the time the clan cats knew it was best they leave. They still had a journey to complete. Though two cats did wonder if it would ever truly be completed, ever truly be whole, without a close friend to be there when they returned.

Brambleclaw and Tawnypelt had left first, they knew it was best to give the other three as much time as they needed. Their tears had not even dried.

Squirrelpaw sat there, staring at the freshly buried grave, not wanting to look and know what was there, and not wanting to run away from her friend. So she sat there, nestled against the whimpering Stormfur, trying her best to hold onto whatever memories she could of his sister.

Memories were all they had now.

And then there was Crowpaw.

He didn’t even look like he was there. There was no colour in his eyes. No sign of the scrappy apprentice Squirrelpaw had hated, and no glow of the friend she loved. He was stiff, staring down, full of guilt he didn’t know he didn’t deserve. Squirrelpaw had tried to comfort him, but it was no use, he was cold to touch and did not speak a word back to her.

Honestly, how could Squirrelpaw comfort him? She needed someone to comfort her. But she stayed by the side of her friend, nuzzling into his neck, hoping somehow that one of them could feel something other than the heartache.

Squirrelpaw realised it was Feathertail who did most of their comforting for them.

They didn’t exactly know when it was, but they left. With all their prayers said, not enough thanks or tears could ever be shown. Squirrelpaw rationalised that Feathertail would want them to carry on as best they could.

It wasn’t much comfort.

But it was a thought anyway.

She nuzzled Crowpaw’s neck, gently. “Come on. We have to go.”

Crowpaw didn’t reply, he just stared.

Squirrelpaw inhaled, not hiding how broken she was. “We can’t do anything else, Crowpaw. I’m sorry, but we have to go home now.” She was in sync with him. She didn’t want to leave her behind. But they had to move on, even though they never would.

Hazily, without a word, Crowpaw rose to his feet. The only sound he made was a stutter of breaths. Squirrelpaw turned, using her body to hold him up, leading him away from the grave. In her mind, Squirrelpaw said one last goodbye to her friend. She didn’t turn back, though. Not even for a second. She couldn’t do that.

She just held Crowpaw close to her pelt, padding away to the mocking light where their friends waited.

Through the entrance, a sole ray of sunlight splintered through the cave, resting by the pool where a mound of wet Earth was freshly dug. The light flickered as it found three objects that rested together on top of the grave. Three colours that danced in sunlight glimmer, holding so much in their journey here.

The purple flower had been cleaned of blood. It rested delicately on the grave, nestled between a white flower and a light blue flower; three plants that would rest there together next to the glistening pool and the crisp sheens of light.

…

#Feathertail #crowfeather #squirrelflight #tawnypelt #Stormfur #brambleclaw #Bramblestar #Warriors #Warrior Cats #warrior au #crowsquirrel #squirrelcrow #the new prophecy #Thunderclan #WindClan #Riverclan

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