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flowercrowngods · 5 months

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⚔️ bard!eddie/knight!steve part 2 (~6k)

After the confrontation with Lord Harrington, Eddie is riddled with feelings of anger, guilt, and shame. At a lavish banquet, he finds his world turned on its head once more and he begins to understand just who his love really is.

⚔️ read part 1 here (~4k)

Eddie spends a maudlin few days wallowing in newly found misery and dramatically bemoaning the lack of inspiration and muse, to which his uncle merely instructs him to help him in the smithy, claiming that physical exertion would help with the wretched guilt.

Eddie is loath to let go of his feelings just yet, though, hoping they would turn into self-righteous anger at the Lord after all. But he has no such luck. Night after night of pondering the Lord’s words and the hurt expression Eddie was met with not even a fortnight ago leave not a shred of doubt as to who is at fault. For years, unwittingly or not.

But wit is not what will get him out of this mess, no. It can only be cleared by sincerity and vulnerability — something that Eddie has sworn to never show this town again, only worsening his predicament.

It tears away at him for days upon days, leaving him unable to sing, unable to play, unable even to sleep, cooped up though he is in the room of his childhood. It is a time he longs for with an aching heart, if only to take back his promise to never be vulnerable within these walls again, if only to be sure he doesn’t betray himself more than he betrayed Lord Harrington and both of their hearts.

Time, seemingly done with Eddie’s mental back and forth, eventually pulls the floor from beneath his feet one night when he finds a written invitation from Princess Chrissy to attend her banquet tomorrow night as both highly esteemed bard and dearly welcome guest.

At the banquet, Eddie knows, he will see Lord Harrington again, and there will be no way to avoid him any longer. He imagines there will be more scalding glances, more sharp words from a sharper tongue, and more of his honour questioned.

And the Lord would very well be in his right to do so.

With a deep sigh and an even deeper pit in his stomach, Eddie goes on his pitiful journey to find some rest beneath the sheets.

~*~*~

It is always a lavish affair when Princess Chrissy decides there is something to celebrate, and despite his nerves and a horrible anxiety that has been his steady but unwelcome companion all day, Eddie finds himself smiling at the view of the ballroom.

It occurs to him how far he has come as he takes it all in, his eyes surely wide as saucers at the display of grandeur and opulence before him. Men and women alike dressed in finest fabrics and the brightest of colours, servants bustling about with wine and delicacies for the Princess and her guests.

Years ago, the people of Hawkins took it upon themselves to chase him out of the city, and not even the Princess’s grace and friendship were enough to make him stay where clearly he was not wanted. And now here he is — highly esteemed bard and dearly welcome guest. He cannot help but feel vindicated and proud, having spited Hawkins and her people like this; he has sailed with pirates and travelled with adventurers, learned from master craftsmen and sung for emperors.

All of it to show this city that he is more. That he is better.

And yet, he reminds himself with a heavy heart, he cannot sing today, and Hawkins will be the victor once more.

Eddie reaches for a goblet of wine offered to him by a most curteous girl flashing him a shy but charming smile, and it is almost enough to improve his mood, almost enough yet for him to gain the courage to approach the Princess about his predicament. He follows the servant with his eyes as he brings the wine to his lips, stalling the inevitable just a second longer, when suddenly they fall on a familiar, tragically glorious figure clad in the deep blue colours of his family.

Lord Harrington, tinged in hues of gold more than anything else as the light of the flames dancing along the walls and ceiling alike catches in his hair in a way that Eddie has heard will make kings succumb to madness, is laughing along to the excited gesturing of a woman Eddie cannot seem to recognise. But it is not she who has caught his eye. It is Lord Harrington, standing there with a look so impossibly gentle and a dress so regal that it makes Eddie’s legs weak and his heart ache.

Where is that pompous air that Eddie remembers so well? When was it replaced with elegance and beauty so blinding, accompanied so wonderfully with that smile on his lips? And how can a man who has been wronged so endlessly still smile like this, look like this, hold himself like this? Like the world is but an old friend he likes to carry on his shoulders so it can have a better look at what is ahead.

Like the kindest songs must always have been about him, wittingly or not. Like he is more, so much more than what Eddie thought him to be. Like he is exactly who Eddie needs him to be. Wants him to be. Has dreamed him to be.

And still, despite the fondness in his eyes and the lavish joy displayed by everyone in the opulent room, Lord Harrington has a steady hand on the sword by his hip. It is only for display of his rank as a knight and as a Lord, likely blunt and too light for proper defence, let alone offensive strikes against a sudden enemy.

But Harrington’s hand is woven around the hilt. Clinging to it, as though reassured by its presence. As though anxious were he not to feel it by his side, cold metal and leather resting against his palm.

His words echo in Eddie’s head again. Making a mockery of me, stealing from me every chance to tell my tale in my own voice, in my own tempo. Entire kingdoms will know before I will have had the chance to wake up from a nightmare, and they sing about it, sing about pain they did not have the misfortune to suffer, sing with a smile, with booming voices because you make them. And yet the only one without a voice remains the one who slew the beast.

Stealing a man's right to flee from the horrors he lived through, acquainting every tavern in this kingdom and the next with his horrific and desperate deeds.

Can he not flee? Can he not lay down that feeling of horror even on a night like this? Need he cling to his sword, any sword, like that, even unconsciously? Did he forgt about the sword on his hip before the Knightmærs? Was it Eddie who made him cling, who kept him from forgetting, even for one night, that dangers tend not to lurk in the well-lit corners of a golden ballroom?

The guilt threatens to devour him wholly, and Eddie might just let it if only some of the weight were taken from Lord Harrington’s shoulders. Desperately, Eddie tears his gaze away from the Lord’s hand and back up again, travelling over ocean blue and sunset gold, drinking him in more hungrily than the wine in his hand.

As though summoned by Eddie’s pathetically beating heart, Lord Harrington chooses that exact moment to look up and away from his partner, and by some cruel twist of fate, out of the hundreds of eyes in this room, he meets Eddie’s. The gentleness fades, the smile paling into something tinged with regret, and it takes every ounce of strength Eddie has not to cross the room and fall to his knees to beg forgiveness.

He swallows and lifts the goblet to his lips once more, his breath hitching as Lord Harrington mirrors him, and they both take a slow, excruciating sip, their gazes never once wavering.

I will not sing tonight, Eddie promises, wondering if it is at all possible that Lord Harrington has the gift of clairvoyance and knows exactly what Eddie is thinking. I will do right by you, even if it is too late. Even if it costs everything.

In the end it is Lord Harrington who looks away first, his attention caught once more by his companion, and Eddie withers as he sees the gentleness returning to his gaze. He is not quick enough in tearing away his eyes, however, because Harrington’s companion, another bard, he assumes fom the look of her, turns towards him just a second later — and if looks could kill, Eddie would find himself dead six times over.

Fate does not possess the grace to let him die on the spot, however, the daggers in the bard’s eyes not sharp enough to end his life, but more than sufficient to snuff out any sense of bravery he could have possessed to approach Harrington anytime soon. Eddie finds himself almost grateful for the admittedly rather lame excuse that only comes to prove his cowardice, but he decides not to dwell on it for now.

Or he tries, as he downs the wine in one go and lets his eyes travel in search for familiar, friendly faces, and finding the Princess already approaching him with a smile so bright and warm it alleviates the anxiety thrumming through him.

“Eddie!” she says, smiling even wider when he remembers to bow before her — something they had to practice a lot when they were children and she would sneak away from her lessons and appearances to play with him instead. It feels like a lifetime ago; she is the prettiest person he knows — always has been, but she kept the spark of glee even as an adult. It makes him weak in the knees with happiness, having her friendship so deeply ingrained in his soul even after all this time.

Her eyes travel over his doublet made of silk so deeply red it appears black if the light plays a trick on your eyes. It is one of his finest possessions, and it takes everything within him not to preen in front of her.

“And to think of the way you scoffed so offhandedly when I told you ages ago that silk would suit you. You have grown to be so very handsome, my dearest friend, I can hardly take my eyes off you lest I have to fear your untimely disappearance once more.”

Eddie smiles, feeling the heat rising in his cheeks, entirely aware that he had not yet enough wine to solely blame it on that.

“I am here to stay for the time being, Your Highness, so fret not. If only to show Hawkins how right you were, my dear, for I do look fabulous in silk.”

Chrissy laughs, a joyful sound echoing through the hall and pulling many a pair of eyes toward them, but Eddie pays them no mind even as nervousness makes an eerie reappearance in the forefront of his mind.

“I cannot wait to hear you play tonight,” the Princess continues, unaware of Eddie’s dilemma. There must be something in his face, though, for she reaches out to take hold of his hand. “You will, right? Tell me you will, Eddie. What reason have you to look so filled with gloom?”

Eddie turns his hand to hold onto hers, propriety be damned even as he hears a gasp or two followed by scandalised whispering. For Hawkins, everything he does is scandalous, even merely existing. Holding the Princess’s hand is but another item on the list.

“Forgive me, my Princess, but I cannot play tonight.”

“But—“

“It is the Knightmærs that you long to hear, and it was always a dream to fill these halls with song sprung from my own feather, believe me. But it seems I am a fraud, and I need to do right by someone first before I will ever take to my lute again.” After a moment of silence he adds, “If you should like me to leave, I understand. But I will not sing.”

The Princess looks at him for a long time, reading something that might be written behind his eyes, but she keeps a hold of his hand.

“He sought you out, then.”

Eddie’s heart falls as he grasps the meaning of her words. She knows about Lord Harrington and his involuntary ties to Eddie’s renown. Everyone in this room might know, might have heard of his deeds, might have seen his wounds as he returned from the battlefield that seems to follow his every step, while Eddie was out in the world living a lavish life with the title he earned from another man’s tales of valour and agony.

“He did,” Eddie whispers. “And I need to make things right. He never deserved that.”

She frowns, a crease appearing between her brows that does nothing to hide her gentleness and beauty. “Never deserved that? But Eddie, you made a hero of him! You wove battles he fought out of he goodness of his heart and the bravery in his bones, wove them into tales grand enough to outlast even the passing of time itself! I know many a knight who would kill to be made into that kind of a hero.”

Even as she speaks, Eddie shakes his head, vehement to contradict her and make her see what he himself took so long to understand.

“It is not I who turned that man into a hero, my Princess, that was his own doing. What I did was turn him into a legend, turn him into something untouchable by real emotion when he… seems to be so full of them! I took his story, all of his stories, and made them my own, stole the words out of the deepest dungeons of his heart and wrote epic ballads about pain that is strong enough to bring the bravest man to his knees with sorrow and— I took from him what was only his to give. The right to grieve. The right to be his own person. The right to his story, his pain, his own consequences to come from actions he was forced into.”

Eddie swallows, beginning to understand, really, the scope of his actions as he speaks the words for the first time, and his throat rapidly closes up on him.

“I took all of that and made it my own, and in the end it was only I who gained something. And worst of all, he never complained to me. Never exploded in my face or, or exposed me for the fraud that I am. In fact, it was I who confronted him about disappearing whenever I would sing my Knightmærs, because I found myself with hurt pride and—“

A breath, forced into his lungs to keep the tears welling in his eyes from spilling.

“That man,” Eddie finishes with unsteady voice but iron conviction. “He deserves the world. He deserves better. He is a hero and he deserves to have a choice, but he is too good to make it. So I am making it for him.”

He tears his wandering gaze away from the silhouette that seems to always pull him in, no matter how hard he tries to stray, and lays them on the Princess.

“I am not playing tonight.”

Chrissy, too, has tears in her eyes after his speech, and she reaches up to cradle his face with both of her hands. Warmth floods Eddie where before he was bereft, and it takes everything in his power not to lean into her hold. Not when people are watching them. Gentleness like that is reserved for quiet, dark corners on stormy days long since past.

“Oh, Eddie,” she says, her laugh a little wet. “See how much you have grown. You are the best person I know; always have been. You are forgiven, my dearest, loveliest friend. I shall not make you play, and I shall not stand it if people disapprove of it.”

Relief washes over him, his body still trembling ever so slightly from his passionate outburst and fear of rejection, and he smiles as he casts his eyes down.

“Thank you, Your Highness.”

She hums and wipes at the wetness beneath his eyes before retrieving her hands.

“Anything for you, Eddie. Anything in my power.” She turns to leave and Eddie has not the strength to ask her to stay, not when he knows she has royal etiquette to follow. But before leaving him to his heart still heavy with guilt, she speaks again, “It will be fine. I know it will.”

God, I hope so.

Eddie doesn’t dare to look and see if Lord Harrington and his bard were in earshot just now. Instead, he turns swiftly and retreats to one of the lavish balconies to clear his head with some fresh air. He finds it blissfully empty as he takes a trembling breath.

It will be fine. I know it will.

Eddie breathes, crisp air flooding his lungs that he does not feel all that deserving of, but he is grateful for it nonetheless. He cannot blink away the image of Lord Harrington’s downturned eyes, the smile that adorned his lips but a moment before fading in the face of Eddie’s presence. He cannot keep his heart from racing, hammering away rapidly at his ribcage, mimicking a spooked bird’s fluttering wings. Aiming to get out. Out, out, out, away from its hold and back where it belongs. Back to the man dressed in the blues of his family, the colour of his name, like armour against any sorts of attempts dared by lowly boys who think themselves to be bards of great renown.

It aches, his heart. And with every beat against his chest, the pain only carries further until it reaches his eyes with stinging force. It is a pain of guilt and sorrow, mixing with a longing so deep that it cuts him in half, torn though he is.

Just one more breath and the air will be enough to tear him apart down the middle, right through his heart that is long past saving. The feelings he has been harbouring for years for a love unknown have not disappeared with Lord Harrington’s accusations. Instead, they merely gained a face and a name, turned into something real. Shifted, just so, to make room for the reality of Lord Harrington and every tidbit of information Eddie can learn about him, even when he tries not to listen, even when he tries to let go of misguided emotion for a man whose heart he has broken and abused already.

But everyone talks about him. Now that Eddie knows where to look, he sees the respect for Lord Harrington in everyone’s faces. Sees the gratitude, sees the fondness, sees the reverence.

Eddie closes his eyes against it, but it only serves to make the images more vivid. Lord Harrington positively gleaming in that ballroom, shining as golden as the sun right before she bids the day farewell, looking so fondly upon his friend. His bard. His companion. Looking so regretfully upon Eddie. Looking until he could no longer bear it.

He needs to leave. It is sudden, that urge, filling the cracks of his being and glueing him back together with that all too familiar feeling that he’d thought himself to have moved past on the same day that he left Hawkins all those years ago. But it is back now, getting stronger by the second, urging him to leave, leave, leave.

He will talk to Lord Harrington and beg for his forgiveness later. Tomorrow, surely, or the day after. In a fortnight at the latest, or in a month. But for now, he has to leave. Needs to leave. Must.

On unsteady feet, and with an unsteadier heart yet, Eddie turns abruptly and all but stumbles his way back through the large doors and into the ballroom, which has filled with even more guests and even more servants and even more people who will steal the air from right beneath his nose.

It leaves him frazzled and shaking, and his heart falls anew when he realises that he needs to cross the room to leave.

As if pulled in by string or higher power, Eddie finds Lord Harrington immediately, the man’s broad back turned toward him. His hand still rests on his sword as he watches his friend — the bard with daggers in her eyes — approach the dais, lute in one hand and flute in the other. It’s a thin one, and made not of wood but of some kind of metal, and Eddie feels a flash of jealousy at her blatant display of talent and proficiency in more instruments than one. Even greater jealousy still when Lord Harrington keeps his attention on her — oh, and how well Eddie is acquainted with his attention, heavy and intense and leaving him hungry for more. Starving.

He yearns for it. Longs to approach the stage and join the other bard as she begins to play, if only to be in the vicinity of that attention. That affection. All that gentle intensity.

But he can’t.

So he turns, twisting away from the mirage he so longs to touch, feeling phantom tingles on his palms where he imagines strongly enough. Entangled in the web of guilt, longing and imagination, though, he twists a little too far and nearly falls over his feet in his haste to get away. And then he quite factually runs into a figure he’d hoped to never see again, much less share the same breath as them.

Before Eddie can utter an apology and continue on his way out of the ballroom and back to the safety of his childhood bedroom where the ceiling is a little closer to him and the air won’t feel quite as stuffy, Jason Carver’s voice cuts through the room and his patience alike.

“Munson,” Carver sneers, somehow managing to look down on Eddie even though they are of the same height. “So the rumours are proven true at last! I did not think you possessed the gall to show your face here again. But you seem to be a lot stupider than you let on — and you do let on a lot.”

The throng of people around Carver make themselves known with a vile chuckle at Eddie’s expense, and if he were a stronger man, if he were a more vicious man tonight and not hung up on guilt and longing, he’d have a snide comment on the tip of his tongue.

As it is, though, he stands no chance but to let Carver speak on. He seems to have climbed in rank, moved on from being a simple guardsman to someone wearing white silk and a decorative sword on his hip. It is more imposing than Harrington’s, the hand around the handle more like a threat to Eddie than anything else. Especially accompanied by that sneer. That godawful, entirely too punchable curl of his lips.

“Though the good Princess proves her taste in music and people once more, servicing her people and not letting you play on an occasion such as this. What a shame it would be for all of Hawkins to have your… talent… be showcased like that. What humiliation for you. I’m glad she chose a bard who can sing. And play. And entertain Her Majesty’s guests accordingly.”

Carver’s words cut deep, and there seems to be no end to them. It shows on his face, Eddie knows, but he can’t… Suddenly he’s young again, suddenly he knows no longer who he is, who he wants to be in this world and how we will get there. Suddenly the urge to run away is no longer gluing him together but tearing him apart, tearing him in every possible direction just to get away from Carver and his lackeys, until he will shred himself into a million pieces.

And still he has no words to retort the venom leaving Carver’s lips. He is shaking, fuming, something boiling inside him, and yet he has no words.

Just as Carver opens his mouth to spit yet more lies about Eddie and his craft that leave his ears ringing, something behind Eddie makes Carver’s big mouth snap shut with a loud clack.

Before Eddie can regain control over his mind and body to turn around and see what happened, a familiar voice fills the silence so blatantly left by Jason Carver.

“Such vile words from someone who knows neither talent nor skill himself, and who displays an utter lack of craftsmanship and tact.”

Lord Harrington speaks in such condescending tones with Carver that it makes Eddie freeze all over again, not daring to move lest he pull that condescension toward himself. And still he aches to turn around and drink him in.

He stands so close. Eddie can almost breathe him in, and it’s almost enough.

Before him, Jason flushes an angry red, unprepared to be confronted thusly by Lord Harrington, who outranks him in both title and popularity — and, perchance more importantly, in eloquence and intelligence.

Carver’s mouth remains firmly shut, but Lord Harrington is not done yet, it seems, as he moves from behind Eddie to his side, the hand on his sword so dangerously close to Eddie’s hip. It takes all his might not to sway and lean to the side just briefly, just to feel the warmth of his hand through his clothes.

“You know, Carver, I found myself pondering whether upon the arrival of Eddie the Bard you would find yourself starving for his attention once more, the same way that you did when you and your band chased him away.”

The blood freezes in Eddie’s veins and yet he feels flushed with heat, especially when people turn toward them with curious and scandalised eyes.

Lord Harrington is not perturbed, however. “And here you are indeed, yearning for his words directed at you, aching for his attention, and wishing at least one of his songs were dedicated to you, written in your honour. Unfortunately still, you wouldn’t know honour if it spat you in the face. And you have miscalculated, good man, for you are irrelevant to a muse such as his, and too much of a coward for heroic tales of valour and sacrifice. The only thing you know to sacrifice is my patience. You are of no greater importance to this world, this kingdom, and even this very moment, Jason, than an overgrown roach in a dead man’s kitchen.”

The noise that leaves Eddie’s throat is not as embarrassing as the one Carver makes, and covered, too, by several gasps sounding around them. Lord Harrington has drawn quite the crowd — and for once he doesn’t seem uncomfortable with it, smirking as he is, regarding Carver like he means every last word of what he just said.

It makes Eddie weak in the knees.

And Lord Harrington takes yet another step forwards, placing himself between Eddie and Carver, shielding him not only from the man’s words and presence, but directing the attention of those around them away from Eddie. Pulling it towards his own person and Jason’s form, trembling with anger and humiliation.

Eddie blinks, heart racing again, his mind running faster than a spooked race horse. Why would Harrington come to his rescue? Why would he pull all the attention toward himself when he should be rejoicing in seeing Eddie humiliated and beaten with his own weapon of choice? Why, when all the good Lord should want is to see Eddie fall from grace and from his high horse alike?

Jason is sputtering some kind of response, but Eddie is transfixed by ocean blue and sunset gold so close to him that he could melt into him if only he had the right. So transfixed, indeed, that he doesn’t hear what Jason has to say. It is only when Lord Harrington speaks again that the world returns to him.

“Leave the bard alone, Carver, you humiliate yourself with the way you’re leeching off his attention like a schoolboy with his first bout of attraction.” And then, closing the gap between them and speaking into Carver’s ear, just loud enough for Eddie to hear, Lord Harrington says, “Leave him alone. Speak of him again anything but praise, and I will have you emasculated per royal decree, and I shall see to it myself.”

Where before his face was flushed red, all the colour now leaves Carver’s face as he blanches and swallows heavily. He looks between Harrington and Eddie, confusion and fear so clear on his features that Eddie would grin if he weren’t so shaken by the Lord’s actions and words.

Carver takes flight the very moment Lord Harrington steps back, and suddenly Eddie finds himself alone with him.

And words have not yet returned to him, especially when Harrington turns and lets down the smirking mask of condescension and instead regards him with an expression of worry and gentleness.

“Are you all right?”

Eddie blinks, all but feeling the confusion and wonderment spill out of his big, dumb eyes, unable to hide it from Harrington and his golden skin.

This is the man who has slain the man possessed by the Devil himself and took in his younger sister to live with him and get an education. This is the man who protected the Princess and this whole kingdom so many times, slaying foes and beasts alike and returning home a hero who refused his own celebrations. This is the man who would be King if the world were anything like Eddie wants it to be.

The man who smiles so fondly, so gently, upon the people dear to him. The man who opens his estate in the winter to those whose houses stand no chance against the cold bitterness of the season, and thus defeats both lonesomeness and bleakness in one graceful gesture of kindness and compassion.

And still, this is the man who had his life twisted and glorified in song and poetry, the man who had the floor pulled from beneath his feet when his pain was made into something desirable. The man who stands in a ballroom filled with joyous laughter, wine, and dance, and keeps his hand on the hilt of his sword. The man who was wronged so endlessly by the ingenious bard who claimed to love him.

And yet. He stakes his claim. He stakes his claim on Eddie. Protects him. Rather publicly, too, and now everyone knows of a connection between them that doesn’t exist, a connection that Eddie snuffed out before it had the chance to spark because he was so obsessed with the notion of grandeur and drama and love. A love that would survive it all. A love that would slay beasts and brothers possessed, a love that would be immortalised in song and poem, a love that…

Would look at him the way Lord Harrington does.

But it’s not love. Eddie knows nothing about love. How could he, when he hurt the man so? How could he, when he cannot find even the simplest apology, when he cannot utter a single word with the way his throat is closing up on him so rapidly in the face of that tenderness.

“Eddie,” Harrington gathers him out of his reverie, a hand on his forearm. “Would you step outside with me?”

Another claim staked right through Eddie’s fluttering heart. He cannot bear it. Stands frozen to the ground.

“You need not have done that,” he says at last, his voice no louder than a whisper. It makes the Lord lean in closer, as though he has difficulty to hear Eddie otherwise, though he’d like to imagine that Harrington is just as drawn in by Eddie, and is powerless against it.

The man smiles, though there is no fondness in it, and Eddie wants to recoil.

“Jason wouldn’t know talent if it spat in his face. Which,” he adds as an afterthought, “is not a suggestion.”

Despite himself, Eddie smiles genuinely, feeling a bit of the ever-present tension lift from his shoulders. “Do my ears deceive me, or am I right in my understanding that you think I have talent, milord?”

The smile fades a little, leaving behind some hidden trace of genuineness that weighs so heavy in the air between them even as Harrington inclines his head politely. As though Eddie deserves politeness. As though he were of a higher standing than he is. And higher yet than Lord Harrington himself.

“I would have to call myself both fool and liar to claim otherwise,” he says, his tone shifted to match his posture. Reverent, almost. Eddie wants him to straighten those shoulders and look down on him again, to do everything in his power to stop the wild beating of his heart that still cuts the words right from his tongue. “You have a way with words that is yet to be matched.”

He looks up again when Eddie says nothing, and their eyes meet. Lord Harrington’s beauty is unmatched, and Eddie finds himself willing to look at him forever. Wanting. Longing.

Whatever spell the Lord found himself to be under until just a second ago, it shatters now, dissipates into thin air as his expression shutters. And where before it was Eddie’s words that dealt nothing but damage, now it is his silence, for Lord Harrington steps away from him with a regretful expression and inclines his head once more.

“Forgive me, I overstepped. I am aware of your opinion of me, believe me, I just… I simply… Forgive me. Please. Good night.”

He turns, his hand wrapped around the hilt of his sword as though he were drowning in the ocean blue of his family name and the sword were keeping him afloat. Not a trace of pompous air emanates from him, and Eddie finally feels himself tearing in two as in that gold-sparked moment his knight and Lord Harrington become one right before Eddie’s eyes.

And the bard is helpless when he calls out, “My Lord.” Nothing, as Lord Harrington steps away from him. “Steve.”

He stops.

And so does time.

But Eddie didn’t think this far ahead, knows not what to say, how to make sense of the words trapped inside him that leave his hands trembling and his legs shaking, words that he needs to bring in the right order yet, lest he ruins everything again.

There is only the rapid thump-thump-thump of his heart against his ribcage and the eyes of their unwilling audience turned towards them. The eyes of people who want to see Eddie fail. Who want to see him flail and fall and crawl back into the winter’s night months after his birth, left outside his uncle’s doorstep as his father lost his life over years of debt he had no means to pay off.

“I…”

Words fail him. When he needs them most, when he needs them not as a weapon nor as a caress, they deceive him. And Eddie watches as his time runs out, like sand pouring between his fingers no matter how hard he tries to hold onto it.

He watches, desperately, as Lord Harrington tears himself away. As he weaves through the groups of people, reaching for a goblet of wine as he does, and downs it in one go before he reaches his bard where she is standing off to the side for a short break. He watches as she takes the Lord’s hands in hers and pulls him into a quiet corner and then through a large door onto one of the balconies.

He watches until his vision blurs with tears unshed. He watches until he can no longer stand it, and flees from the ballroom as more of a coward than ever before.

tagging: @itsall-taken @pukner @mugloversonly @devondespresso @hellion-child @fairytalesreality @maya-custodios-dionach @awkwardgravity1 @bubblemixer @paperbackribs @the-redthread @stevesbipanic @gregre369 @chaoticvictorianspirit @cuoredimuschio thank you for reading, i hope this was okay 🤍

#steddie fic #steddie #bard/knight #steve harrington #eddie munson #knight!steve harrington #bardknight #bard!eddie munson #i feel like this is more of a 6k words intermission but hear me out the bard is pathetic and needs to stew a little bit #live with the consequences of his actions and realise just what he has done and how he feels about his knight and lord harrington #skjdfsk i hope this is okay i really really hope so i am so worried that it's gonna disappoint y'all who've been waiting #dio words

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valentine-writes · 8 months

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ur writing is super good!! sorry if i’m piling on with this, but any angst with miguel? i need this man put in a blender

if you need to be mean

「 tws + notes: vv possibly ooc, unedited, spider-person reader, unhealthy dynamic, assorted angst, hurt/comfort ending, reader is cold, miguel doesn't know how to deal with emotions, everyone is a wreck but they're all trying so hard :( </3 」

「 gn!reader, man idek if this is platonic or romantic tbh y'all r just messy here 」

↳ ft. miguel o'hara/spider-man 2099

author's note: THANK U SM!! and i got u!!! i am. so excited 2 practice more for him– anon please don't be upset w/ me,, but,,, (´∩｀。),,, i physically don't think i can write Pure Angst. i wud b no good at it!! :p so! hurt/comfort in the end ๐·°(৹˃̵﹏˂̵৹)°·๐ i CANT JUS,, END IT SAD,, </3 i am so so sorry!! also so so real putting him in tha blender at the Highest Speed ever,,, he iz my milk webkin fr (lovingly) (kinda) some real quick stuff: this was gonna b short but i Overdid It and im still unsure whether i like it or not. and also. i was supposed to have the reader being mildly Messed Up™️ too cuz "hehehehe letz make this more difficult >:))" (also becuz miguel is NOT the only one allowed to have issues + too many angsts i have read where reader jus takes what miguel dishes out passively and i didn't want that) BUT I ENDED UP MAKING IT WORSE AJDHDQWHJE,,, hopefully this is. angst galore. again i am not great w this <( _ _ )> <//3

▸ maintaining a healthy relationship with miguel– in any form– proves to be difficult.

this is especially prevalent in the beginning stages of your developing relationship. you begin to learn that he is terrible with verbally expressing any affection he feels towards you. some days he seems almost so completely distant that there’s valid reason to worry that he just doesn't care about you anymore.

these worries are the furthest thing from the truth– miguel hasn't cared about someone to this extent in a while. still, he finds himself lacking, completely unable to tell you how much you mean to him.

▸ sometimes he grows fearful that he's become too attached to you. he aware he's in too deep at this point, yet conflict rages on in his mind: whether it's better to hold on as tight as he can to keep you in his life, or let you go before something rips you away from him.

part of him is worried it's only a matter of time before something happens.

these thoughts are usually quelled by drowning himself in tasks and missions, using his focus on work as a means of distraction.

when there's nothing left to shut them out, he chooses to avoid you instead of seeking reassurance.

there are times when you don't see him for days straight. he doesn't send you on any missions, doesn't contact you, actively avoids you when you're inside of the HQ– and when you eventually see him again, he avoids speaking of it. you both understand you're meant to pretend like nothing happened.

you're not beyond doing the same to him. miguel is distraught with how similar you two can be, how you reflect him and he reflects you in unique and awful ways– ways that only the two of you can understand.

▸ whenever you choose to be the one to spontaneously ditch, however,,, there are moments where he gets desperate and ends with him seeking you out,, usually by assigning you a mission just so you have a reason to come back

no matter who leaves– whether it's you or miguel– you both end up taking each other back in the end, half-heartedly reaching the unspoken agreement that this is the way you two “reconcile.” you grow accustomed to this back and forth.

you're both wonder who this is hurting more.

▸ never wants to be seen as clingy or needy. wants to convince himself he can make it on his own, that things are somehow better that way. miguel feels a deep frustration in the fact that he can't seem to process his emotions in a proper manner.

he seeks solace in solitude, even if it never fully works. he's willing to settle with feeling "okay" instead of "better." (self isolation moment.)

asking for help on missions is one thing. asking for personal help is another, which means that offering him support on his bad days is always a hit or miss.

most of the time, if someone chooses to extend their hand to him, it's typical that he swats it away and insists he doesn't need anything. he doesn't accept help easily– even when it's from you.

▸ there's always the off chance he lets you stick around. he's silent as you find a place for the two of you to sit down. once he’s comfortable, he leans against your side.

the quiet in the room isn't tense. it isn't scary. you know he just doesn't want to talk about what’s bothering him often. he can't even verbalize how much you mean to him– how is he meant to explain any of his other emotions to you?

"it's okay." you whisper, breaking the silence in the room. "just... take your time."

even though your words are as soft you can manage, it feels like you're yelling in contrast to his complete wordless state. you glance over at him. miguel doesn't meet your gaze.

"i'll be here for you," his expression softens ever so slightly at your words as you reassure him, "i promise."

he only mutters one word in response: "don't."

▸ (next headcanon based off of this art from instagram. slide two specifically.)

you can still remember the first time he ever cried in front of you. it's been a vivid memory in your head ever since it happened– not because of why it happened– but because of how it happened.

"you haven't been around for days, miguel." it's been almost more than a week since you've last seen him. this time, you sought him out– not to bring him back into your life, but to confront him one last time. after deliberating for longer than you cared to mention, you finally decided you were going to make things right or get out of his life for good.

and there he is, standing on his platform. it's lowered to the ground, the orange holographic screens surrounding him empty, displaying nothing. they emit a soft glow in the dark of the room.

"tell me what's wrong." you demand. the tone in your voice is unfamiliar to him. you're not making any effort to conceal how thin your patience has been wearing.

his back is turned to you. he doesn't say a word until you approach the lowered platform he stands on.

"go away."

"what? like you've been doing this entire time?" you retort.

"go away." he repeats more forcefully. his anger doesn't scare you away. nothing ever does.

you stare at him unflinchingly. "not until you tell me what's wrong."

miguel knows you're going to stand firm. you're going to stay until he tells you. as he lifts his head, glancing over his shoulder to speak to you, you brace yourself– you wait for him to yell. to lash out. anything.

he just looked at you. his eyes, stinging with tears, meeting your stare.

you don't remember what was hurting him that day. you can't recall what made him breakdown in front of you. no, this is the part you remember.

miguel's large frame looks so much smaller as he attempts to shrink himself, as if trying to hide from you. he averts his gaze, trying to blink back the tears and fails horribly.

he has nothing left to do. miguel hides his face in his hand, even if it’s only the two of you in the room. he’s humiliated– completely ashamed– that he can’t seem to stop his crying. for a moment, you’re frozen, unsure of what to do.

it's a drastic change from how you know him. standing in front of you, miguel seems more like an inconsolable child, rather than the detached and icy person most knew him as.

"don't look at me." those are the only audible words miguel manages to choke out between stifled sobs. he cries like a little boy.

and you hate it. you hate how hard he makes it hard to stay angry at him. you hate that no matter what you do, you can't stay away.

the tension in your body dissolves slowly, jaw unclenching as you sigh to yourself. you’re caving already.

it takes you a moment, but you know you can't leave him like this.

slowly approaching him, you quietly wrap your arms around him from behind, gentle enough for him to pull away from your touch if he didn't want it. he doesn't protest. you swear you can feel him subconsciously lean in.

"it's okay," you mutter, "i got you."

▸ miguel makes sure to talk to you the next day after you comforted him. to your surprise, it wasn't to tell you to keep that moment between the two of you– he knew you well enough to know you wouldn't say a word.

he was there to say thank you. simple and plain as that. he thanked you for sticking around. thanked you for being there even though he constantly pushed you away.

and you couldn't find the energy to respond. horribly disheartening to miguel, considering this is the most effort he had put in to communicate with you– but understandable. he didn't push you any further.

as awful as it felt to know, you didn't want a thank you. you didn't need his gratitude for your stubbornness.

it was much too late for a thank you to resolve the days he left you without a word, only to return expecting everything to be the same. it was much too late for a thank you to make you feel better about the fact you ended up comforting him even after everything. those words couldn't fix anything.

you wanted a goddamn apology.

▸ it's been almost three weeks since you'd last been seen around the spider society hq.

nobody seemed to be aware of the reason for your sudden disappearance. miguel was worried sick.

his temper is shorter, his patience is waning, and he’s willing to snap if anyone even mildly irritates him. it’s an unpleasant experience for everyone.

he'd tried to find you by tracking your watch, which proved to be useless. you were too clever for that– you'd made yourself undetectable, somehow disabling or destroying it before you left. miguel could’ve hunted you down, searching every place in the multiverse to find you again, once more to see you. but he didn't have to. the moment he had decided to start the search, your watch went active again, allowing him to locate where you were. like you were beckoning him over.

he didn’t hesitate to meet you there, stepping through a portal to get to you. notably, you weren’t in your own universe– but he wasn’t going to scold you for that. not now.

there you were. it was almost dream-like to him, seeing you sitting in the grassy fields in the middle of nowhere, the outline of your frame illuminated by the moonlight. the night air was filled with tension, as you sensed him approach from behind and quietly sit beside you.

he’s the one to break the silence. your name slips from his lips, as he’s about to speak up–

"hey." you greeted flatly, cutting him off. you glance at him with a weak smile, chuckling dryly. "so... you need something?"

"...no." miguel glanced around at the unfamiliar setting. just before he can get anything out, you part your lips to speak again, looking up at the dark sky, glittering above the two of you.

“i forget that new york doesn’t have the best view of the stars.” you murmur. “light pollution and all that shit… so y’know,, this is nice. i missed this type of view.”

he nods in agreement, though the small talk about the stars isn’t what he wanted from you.

you continue with your little ramble, seemingly just saying whatever came to mind. “speaking of cities– how’s your corner of the multiverse been? has nueva york been fine? feels like forever since i’ve been there.”

miguel tries not to be distracted by your casual conversation or your obvious allusions to your absence. he sees the way your shoulders are held tense, the way your gaze flits over at him expectantly– miguel knows you’re just waiting for him to talk about it, anticipating what he’s oing to say next.

"i– look–” he takes in a breath, finding the words he had been planning to say all this time. “i know. i know i messed up, and i messed up a lot. …i just came here to tell you i'm sorry. for everything."

there’s a momentary lapse of silence between the two of you. the tension is immeasurable as he watches you shift your sitting position, facing him entirely.

"you should be. asshole."

miguel sighs. “i… really should’ve expected that.”

“you know, migs? i tried so hard to just leave you alone.” the previous confidence in your voice wavers. there’s no bitterness in your words, no malice. he hears it in your tone: you’re just worn down, utterly emotionally exhausted.

he hears a sniffle, causing him to turn his full attention to you. the tears glisten as they fall from your eyes and drip down your cheeks. you make no attempt to shy away.

“what are we gonna do now?” you ask, looking over at him. your voice is faint. small. “i can’t let you go– and for fuck’s sake, you won’t even let me– so… what now?”

“i… don’t know.” he confesses. his hand makes his way to yours, placed atop it. his other wipes your tears away, trembling as he touches your cheek with all the tenderness there is, like he’s afraid he might hurt you. he whispers your name again, and it is the sweetest sound you’ve heard in a while.

miguel usually thinks he’s no good at comforting others. but in this moment, you would’ve never known that. he doesn’t hesitate to pull you into an embrace, holding you in his arms like you’re the most precious thing in the world. he’s not leaving you to suffer alone. he’s not leaving you like that ever again.

“you don’t have to forgive me.” he whispers to you. miguel knows he can’t repair all the damage he’s done. he knows you might never be able to look at him the same. And for once, he’s fine with that. he just needs to know you’ll be okay. “...just, please. let me do this for you.”

#i haven't decided whether i hate this or not #BUT WOWOWOWOW baby's first angsty angst.... this is. something!!#hope y'all dont mind reader's personality here. if given no directions 9/10 times i jus go “hmm but what wud i do here....”#anon i am so sorry if this is disappointing AJDHEJDHWE #miguel o'hara #miguel o'hara x reader #miguel o'hara headcanons #angst #atsv x reader #atsv headcanons #atsv #across the spider verse spoilers #spider man: across the spider verse

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