Talyn/Lium

Ryland Grace:

* Confesses that he still has a red fox plushie that he got as a kid at his apartment (he doesn’t always sleep with it, but it’s always there)

* Whenever he stays the night at your place afterward—because his apartment is a good bit smaller than yours—he brings his fox plushie

* Has accidentally left the fox at your apartment before and almost freaked out a little bit—until you texted him a picture of his fox and your stuffed animal together saying that they’ll keep each other company while you’re both at work

Lars Lindstrom:

* Knowing that you have something that you hold onto while you sleep is incredibly comforting to him

* Because he sleeps holding his baby blanket, and knowing how much you cherish your plushie just like how he cherishes his blanket means the world to him

* Treats it with the most respect and only ever with the gentlest of touches

* One time you came to him upset because a stitch had broken and your plushie was “hurt”, and he very carefully “performed surgery” on it (making sure all the stuffing is back inside and then stitching the hole closed) and you had to try not to practically tackle him in a hug from how much you appreciated him helping

Henry Letham:

* Doesn’t mind, treats it with respect

* On very rare occasions he has drawn it and made it tell a stupid joke (usually only if he knows you’ve been having a really tough time because it makes you smile)

* If you leave him at your apartment to go run a quick errand, he’ll hold it while drawing

* If you ask him about it when you return, he’ll say that it was “so it wouldn’t get lonely” but you know it’s because he missed you

Ken:

* Honestly gets a little bit jealous

* He’s right there!

* But then you tell him that you love it so much because it makes you think of him, and suddenly he doesn’t mind it so much

* Is even more okay with it when you get him a horse plushie of his own

* Loves when you dress up both of your stuffed animals in “matching outfits” (giving them matching ribbons/scarves/etc.), it reminds him of how the two of you try to match outfits every once in a while

Colt Seavers:

* Pokes fun at it lightheartedly at first

* But immediately backtracks when he sees that it hurt your feelings a little bit

* He thinks it’s really sweet and tells you so

* If you work with him on movies you’ll sneak it onto his trailer

* One day you walked into his trailer with coffee for him and found him napping, your stuffed animal held securely in his arms

* You managed to get a picture of it, and when he found it as your phone wallpaper, he pouted about it until you changed it to something that “didn’t lose him any tough guy points” (as if he truly has many to begin with, but you don’t tell him that)

Driver:

* Doesn’t actively comment on it, but thinks it’s sweet

* If it ever falls off the bed, he’ll carefully put it back where it was (either sitting on the bed or into your sleeping arms)

* If you decide to bring it on a drive once (“so it can see the world, too”, as you explained it with a smile) he’ll think it’s precious

* If you don’t think to bring your plushie with you the next time, he’ll ask about whether or not it’ll get lonely while the two of you are gone

* Sometimes you’ll end up bringing it again, and other times you’ll chuckle and tell him that it wants some time alone

More cuteness while I keep writing that Driver fic because it seems headcanon posts do really well ^^

Ryland Grace:

* You say it after the umpteenth time he apologized for going on a science tangent

* He’s stunned for a few seconds

* You tell him that not only do you learn a lot from his rambles, but that his voice is incredibly meditative and grounding for you

* Finds himself apologizing less and less for rambling or giving random facts to you

* Has rambled about stars and planets for well over an hour (and you couldn’t be happier)

* You accidentally ask about something related to the paper that got him kicked from academics and he goes on quite the heated rant, and you still end up snuggled up against him, actively falling asleep

Lars Lindstrom:

* Actually the sweetest

* Genuinely surprised that you enjoy listening to him talk and that you find his voice relaxing (like he had to do his little blinks a few times to process)

* Starts talking more about whatever he can think of when alone with you

* If he’s at a point where you can rest against him or snuggle up to him without him registering the contact as painful, you sometimes curl up against his chest and he’ll talk to you and tell you all the things he loves and admires about you (you always end up a smiling, blushing mess)

Holland March:

* Obnoxious about it, 100% (and it’s sometimes pretty charming)

* But deep down it really means the world to him that you listen so intently to him, even if he’s wasted and doesn’t even know what he’s saying (or makes no sense)

* You’ll listen to him while making sure he’s taken care of

* Will regale you with *totally real* stories of cases he’s worked (though some of them actually are true) just to see how intently you listen to him

Dan Dunne:

* Goes on rants about politics/history/dialectics

* Is genuinely shocked when you ask follow-up questions or ask him to explain more, but he will gladly do so—most people don’t end up being interested so if you’ll listen, he’ll keep talking

* Does his best to explain, but you’re honestly happy just listening to him

* If you’re like-minded to him at all and add to something he said, you just might see him light up a little bit—the conversation would become strangely lively

Henry Letham:

* It happens while he’s talking about art—specifically art philosophy

* He’s caught up in explaining some piece to you, but he pauses when he sees that you’re actually listening; not just paying attention, but listening

* You take his pause as a sign to discuss how you view the artwork you were listening to him talk about, not only because you want to express how it makes you feel, but also because you so desperately hope that it gets Henry to talk more

* And it does—not only that, but you swear you see him start smiling a little bit as he explains different art pieces to you

* He starts looking forward to being able to talk with you about art, because he knows that not only will you listen, but you’ll be exactly where you want to be—hearing his voice (even though he doesn’t get why you like it so much)

Ken:

* Obnoxious about it (but it’s kind of cute)

* When he isn’t rambling about things he’s learned (mostly about horses, if you’re honest), he’s singing your praises and trying his hardest to make you smile and laugh

* He will also listen to you talk for as long as you feel like speaking—he might not understand all of it, but listening to you is a gift to him

Colt Seavers:

* Would be obnoxious about it *sometimes*

* Sometimes tells the worst jokes he can think of just because he knows the jokes will make you roll your eyes but also that his voice will make you smile

* Enjoys talking about his favorite stunts that he’s done (regardless of if you were present for them or not)

* He likes talking about stunts in general (and movies—all kinds)

* Sometimes he’ll come to you to rant about Tom Ryder being a dick (as per usual) because he knows you’ll understand and validate his frustration while also actively snuggling into him and trying to stay awake because his voice makes you feel so very safe

* But he can be sweet about it, too

* He’ll go on and on about what he loves about you on quieter nights, about how much he appreciates having you in his life, and those times always end with you in his arms (or him in yours—or you two holding each other), usually asleep

Driver:

* Driver is a very quiet man, he talks pretty rarely

* But when you tell him you like the sound of his voice, the way he speaks, he has to admit that his heart melts a little bit

* Finds himself talking more when he’s alone with you, usually on late nights when he can’t sleep—which is often

* Will usually talk about cars

* Enjoys your voice just as much

* He will ask you questions just to see you light up and hear you talk

* On separate occasions, you’ve both fallen asleep to the sounds of each other’s voices

I hope you all enjoyed these little headcanons, because I absolutely enjoyed writing them!

I apologize if anybody is a little bit OOC, but I was mostly just having fun with the characters ^^

Ever since Henry spent a whole afternoon and evening with you at your apartment, the two of you have been around each other as much as possible—at least, outside of all of the classes the two of you don’t share. You would either visit Henry’s apartment, or he’d visit yours, and the two of you would do homework and enjoy each other’s company. On breaks or free weekends, you go on walks and talk about art or hang out at the dive you perform at and listen to the music; and on days that you were performing, Henry would always come with you, and you’d see him in the crowd as you sang.

Then came the first hell that college students everywhere know and hate: midterms. You haven’t had time to talk to or hang out with Henry for at least a week now, and his absence has left you feeling so immensely alone. ‘You used to be fine being alone—hell, you could say you enjoyed it! But then you meet Henry fucking Letham and now you can’t be by yourself for like 72 hours without feeling like you’re never going to see Henry again and that it means you’ll be alone forever. It’s fucking pathetic, honestly, that you’re this clingy and reliant on somebody’s company. He’s gonna get sick of you eventually, just like everybody else has.’

You eventually decide to put your nose to the proverbial grindstone and work on your midterms in an attempt to stop your self-deprecating train of thought.

…

You’ve finished your midterms now, and so far you’ve spent your weekend alone and high off of edibles you bought.

You’re lying on the floor, staring at the ceiling while listening to some Nine Inch Nails CD you had bought and never listened to and letting yourself feel the goosebumps the music gives you, when you hear a knock at your door.

“The fuck do you wan—” you cut yourself off when you see that it’s one of your bandmates—the bassist, Vanessa. She was the second youngest person in your group, being 21 years old. She’s also the only person in your little band that you knew before college, being the daughter of a family friend.

She looks you over once and then again. “We had to cancel our set this afternoon, y’know. Everybody was worried sick when you didn’t show up. Especially your little boyfriend. He had been waiting for you since the rest of us got there,” she explains, running a hand through her short hair.

“Boyfriend…? Nessa, I told you already, Henry isn’t my boyfriend,” you say, not realizing that she absolutely knows that you’re high at the moment. Vanessa just sighs as she lets herself in, closing the door behind her so she can at least keep you company.

——

Vanessa remembers you going through a similar phase a few years back, while you were in high school. Your parents had told her parents who told her that you got caught sneaking a drink from the liquor cabinet, and how you had confessed that it wasn’t the first time you had done it. She remembers hearing that your parents almost hospitalized you instead of just getting you therapy like you needed—and still need.

‘She really doesn’t want to, but she’s worried about you, and she knows you aren’t about to get yourself any help on your own. She also knows that you aren’t going to stop getting high, and you’ll probably find a way to jump to getting drunk again, too, if she doesn’t do anything about it.’

——

Two days later—Monday—you get a phone call talking about how, on Friday afternoon, you have an appointment with a ‘Dr. Foster’. You tell the person that you never made any appointments, and the voice over the phone tells you that the appointment was gotten and paid for by your parents. ‘Shit. Great. Fucking spectacular. Now you have some appointment with some person you’ve never met before. And you have no choice but to go to it, lest your parents call you and express their further disappointment in you.’

…

Friday afternoon comes faster than you would have liked, and you’re waiting outside of an office in the Psychology center at your college. Eventually, you’re called back by Dr. Foster. ‘Oh great… my shrink is a man. He’s either gonna be too soft and pity me or he’s going to be dismissive as fuck. How fun.’

You sit on the couch across from his desk, arms crossed and one of your legs bouncing absentmindedly. You decide to speak first, “So, you’re the shrink my parents forced me to see today?”

The man—Dr. Sam Foster, apparently—looks confused, his eyebrows furrowing. “Forced? Did you not want to come?”

“I didn’t even want this appointment, Doc. I only came because they would’ve been pissed if I didn’t,” you roll your eyes, and your expression sours further.

“They sounded worried about you. They said one of your friends had some concerns about a habit of yours,” he explains.

For the first time since you entered, you looked Dr. Foster in the eyes, a shocked look on your face. ‘Vanessa told your fucking parents. What the fuck is her problem, thinking she could do that?!’

——

Sam watches as a look of what he can only call betrayal appears on your face, as you uncross your arms only to run a hand through your hair.

He takes a moment to let you try and process before he speaks again. “Your parents expressed worries that you’ve been doing drugs.” He tries to keep his voice gentle.

You deflect. “My parents know jack shit about me.”

“Are you doing drugs?” His question is met with silence, and he decides to elaborate. “You aren’t going to be in trouble if you are. I just need to know what’s wrong so I can best help you.”

“‘Best help me’, my ass, Doc.” You scoff at him.

“If I didn’t want to help, I wouldn’t be a psychiatrist.”

You scoff again. “Fine. Here’s your answer: yeah, I have an edible every once in a while, but I’d hardly call that a fucking drug problem.”

…

The rest of your appointment goes about the same as it had been; he would try and ask a question, and you would either deflect or answer in a way that made it incredibly obvious that you did not choose to be here.

“Will I be seeing you next week?” He asks.

“If my parents decree it, Doc, then yeah. But don’t expect much different from me if I do come back.”

And with that, you leave. Sam has never dealt with a patient who was there against their will, but he’s glad that he’s a patient—and stubborn—man, because it means he’ll be able to help you. ‘He just needs to give you time, and you’ll either learn to trust him or exhaust yourself with trying and failing to get a negative reaction out of him.’

——

It’s been three weeks since the last time Henry talked to you. He knows both of you got caught up with midterms, but they’re over now, and even though he sees you in class, you barely even look at him. He hates how much he’s been looking at you, but he sees that you’re exhausted, that there’s something keeping you away again.

He makes his way to the dive you two frequently meet at, and he hears your voice—only this time, you’re angry. “Nessa, you had no right telling them anything about me just because I missed one fucking performance! They forced me to see some goddamn shrink yesterday, for fuck’s sake!”

The other voice pipes up—he recognizes it as the voice of the bassist of the band you’re in. “You missed one performance ‘cause you were high off your ass and avoiding your not-boyfriend for some damn reason! You’ve done shit like this before, and I was hoping I caught it before it got bad because I’m fucking worried!”

“I’m fine! Everything’s fine, Nessa! I’m not some kid anymore, I don’t need somebody to be watching over me all the goddamn time!”

He listens to the two of you argue until you stomp off, moving right past him like he wasn’t even there. Henry approaches the bassist, and she turns to face him. There must be some confused or sad look on his face, because she curses. “Shit. You heard all that, huh? I’m sorry about that, man.”

He shakes his head. “No, it’s okay. I’d ask if everything’s alright, but, uh… based on that interaction, it isn’t.”

Nessa sighs, running a hand through her hair as she explains what happened. He nods in understanding, but before he can properly respond, she has to go back inside.

With that, he decides to make the walk to your apartment. ‘He needs to talk to you. He needs you to talk to him.’

…

Henry knocks lightly at your door, and is met with silence. He knocks again. This time, your voice—tense with frustration—responds from behind the door. “Fuck off, Nessa, I don’t wanna talk!”

“It’s not Nessa,” is all he says in reply, and he hears movement before you half open the door.

“What are you doing here?” You ask. ‘You really do look exhausted. The dark circles under your eyes are deeper than he remembers them being, and there’s overall just a wildly fatigued look to you.’

“I might’ve overheard your fight with Nessa at the dive. And I haven’t heard from you since midterms started, and they’ve been done for like, two weeks now.”

“Oh, god, not you, too,” you groan, “why can’t you all just let me do what I feel like doing?! I’m fine, I don’t need help! Just- just leave me the hell alone, Letham.” You close your door before he can think of a response.

He can’t find it in himself to leave just yet. Instead, he just sits on the floor outside the door to your apartment, not saying anything. After a while, he hears a soft “go away” from behind your door, and only then does he stand and leave. Even though he doesn’t want to.

…

That next Thursday evening, he’s at his desk in his apartment, sketching a random building he could see from his window, when he hears the softest knock on his door—so soft he almost doesn’t hear it over the rain that hits against the glass. But he stands up and opens the door.

And there you are. Soaked in rain and shaking—he can’t tell if it’s from anxiety or if you’re freezing cold or both. His brows knit in concern as he steps aside to let you in. You don’t make it very far before practically crumbling to the floor, your knees to your chest as you start to rock back and forth.

Henry kneels down beside you. “Songbird?” His voice is soft, like you’ll shatter if he’s even the slightest bit too loud. “What’s the matter, Birdie?”

You try to speak, but the only things that leave your lips for a few long moments are incoherent babbles and stammers. He then sees the slightly red and very dazed look in your eyes, and remembers how Nessa had said something about you getting high, so he decides to ask. “Are you- did you take somethin’, Birdie?” You just nod, and he notices that, on top of just shaking, you’ve started shivering, too. “Do you think you can stand? We gotta get you outta these clothes so you don’t get sick.”

You try to stand, but you’re trembling too much to do so easily, so he helps you up, and brings you to the bathroom. It’s small and a little cramped, but it works. He sits you down where he can and tells you to stay put, and you just nod. ‘You can barely walk by yourself right now, you obviously aren’t going anywhere anytime soon, but he felt like he had to say it. Like if he didn’t, you’d find a way to leave again.’

Henry grabs a spare towel, a t-shirt, and a pair of pajama pants from his closet and returns to the bathroom. His voice is still soft as he speaks to you. “Is it okay if I help you change clothes and dry off?”

You meet his eyes, your body still trembling. There’s a few long seconds where he can tell that you’re thinking about it before you slowly nod. ‘The fact that you trust him enough right now—or at all—to let him see you this vulnerable brings a tight knot of emotion to his chest.’

He starts with your shoes and socks, setting them aside before helping you out of your coat and the rest of your clothes. He then grabs the towel to get as much of the leftover rain that’s stuck to your skin and hair off; he notices that there’s are other parts of your body littered with scars—most of them seem to be from picking at your skin, but there are line-shaped scars on your hips, too, a bit deeper than the scratches that litter your forearms. ‘You made your body a canvas for your pain, too, then. He almost wants to eventually ask what exactly they’re from or when you got them, but he already knows how and has a pretty good idea of when. And asking just doesn’t feel right, either.’

He then carefully helps you into the clothes he got from his closet. Luckily, by the time he’s done, your shivering has died down quite a lot, but he wants to be careful, so he helps you stand up, anyway. ‘Now he just has to figure out where to put you…’

He decides to ask, since he knows you’re able to at least nod or shake your head to respond. “Do you want me to help you to the bed so you can sit or lay down?”

You shake your head. “Is there somewhere else you wanna sit?” You point towards his desk, where it’s clear as day that he had been drawing before you had come over. “Do you… are you sayin’ you wanna sit and watch me draw?” You nod this time, and Henry mutters a gentle “okay” as he helps you to his desk. ‘He’s really glad he got that little extra chair now.’

He lets you go for just a moment so he can swap the position of the two chairs before setting you down in the one that’s just a little more comfortable. Then he sits down and resumes the drawing he had left sitting at his desk. Henry hears you managing to scoot the chair you’re in a little closer to him, and then he hears your voice, more fragile than he thinks he’s ever heard it. “M’sorry, Henry.”

He pauses his drawing to look at you. “What’re you sorry for, Birdie?”

“I was an ass… was mean t’you,” you mumble, your gaze fixed to his drawing.

He sighs softly, returning to work on his art. “You were still mad at Nessa. And you weren’t all that mean. You were frustrated and wanted to be left alone.”

“And m’sorry for avoiding you again… I keep doing that,” your arms come up to rest on a corner of the desk, letting your chin perch on your arms.

“It’s alright, Songbird,” he says, placing his pencil down for a moment to ruffle your hair a little bit, and he pauses before posing the question he knows he has to ask, “did you get scared again? That I’d just… get sick of you?” ‘The thought of him getting tired of you is incredibly foreign to him—he hadn’t once ever thought that he wouldn’t want to be around you.’

Your only response is a soft “mhm”. “You feelin’ a little bit better now that you’re dried off?” Another “mhm” from you. “Hungry at all? I could order somethin’ for us.”

You angle your head to look at him, but you hesitate for a few moments. “Yeah… I don’t- I don’t really remember when I last ate. Up until now I’ve felt- felt too sick to eat… I was—still might be—a little too high,” you pause for a moment, like you’re trying to consider whether or not you want to continue, “I just- I had a really bad day, and I… I dunno, I just needed to calm down after it.”

“And you ended up havin’ too much?” You nod. “I can order Chinese if you want,” he offers.

“That sounds nice,” you say, your gaze moving to look outside, where it’s still raining.

“You want anythin’ specific, Birdie?”

“Just some white rice… and the fortune cookie, please.”

Henry hums in acknowledgement, standing up to call and place the order.

…

The two of you eat in comfortable silence, and not long after you’re both done, he notices how heavy your eyes look. He stands, carefully helping you up again and leading you to his bed so you can sleep. Once you’re lying down, he helps you a little bit with the blankets and makes sure you’re comfortable before heading back to his desk to continue drawing.

A few long minutes have passed, and he can still feel your eyes on him, even though he knows you’re fighting sleep at this point. He looks towards you, an eyebrow raising slightly. “Need somethin’?”

He watches as your face turns into the pillow for a moment before returning to look at him. “If it’s okay… can you- can you maybe lay with me?”

Henry’s eyes widen just the smallest bit. ‘Nobody has ever asked him to do that before. He really hopes he isn’t awkward about it. … And he’s still in his regular clothes. He needs to change.’ He runs a hand through his hair before nodding. “Yeah. Yeah, I can do that. Just- just lemme change real quick, okay?” You nod, and he grabs his pajamas, heading to the bathroom.

Once he returns, he climbs into the bed next to you—albeit above the covers. ‘It’s a little cramped, but he doesn’t mind it all that much.’

You turn towards him, eyes barely open, and you snuggle closer. Almost like it’s second nature, he wraps an arm around you, absentmindedly tracing little patterns and shapes on your shoulder. Just under your breath, he hears you mutter, “You feel safe…” Not even a minute passes before your breathing fully evens out and you’re asleep.

‘He can only assume that you had avoided him after midterms for a similar reason as to why you had avoided him when he gave you your CD back… that, for some reason, you got scared again. How can he prove that he isn’t going anywhere? That he doesn’t want to? That he would much rather be in your presence?’

His thoughts don’t have much time to continue as he, too, falls asleep.

——

You wake up, feeling a warmth beside you that you aren’t used to. As you open your eyes, you’re met with Henry’s face—‘He’s asleep.’ You feel that one of your legs has made its way over one of Henry’s, and that he has an arm around you, holding you.

As you try to blink yourself awake, you start to remember last night. ‘You had frantically made your way over—as much as part of you didn’t want to—after you had gotten way too high. He didn’t just let you in… he helped you dry off—oh, shit, now he’s probably seen all of the scars. Fuck! … But then, he had helped you get dressed, got food for both of you… and then he even laid with you as you fell asleep. But wait—wasn’t he over the covers when you…? You don’t really remember that very well, you were so exhausted…’

Before you can continue your train of thought, you hear Henry stir awake. As his eyes open, he—unintentionally, maybe—pulls you closer, to where, for a moment, your head is now resting against his chest.

He takes a deep breath before letting you go, finally meeting your eyes. “Mornin’, Songbird. Sleep well? Feelin’ any better?”

You nod a little, trying not to nuzzle back into his chest. Apparently, he noticed, and carefully pulled you close again, playing with your hair. “Good morning, Henry. And yeah… I feel a lot better… thank you for everything you did last night.”

“Of course,” he says, pausing for a moment. “Can I ask you somethin’?”

“Mhm. Ask away.” You swear you hear his heartbeat quicken a little bit.

“Last night, right before you fell asleep… you told me that- that I feel safe. My question is, if I do feel safe to you… why do you keep tryin’ to run from me?”

‘Did you actually say that? You had to have, Henry wouldn’t just lie like that, and you were still high when you fell asleep. Fuck… how are you going to explain this?’ Before you can let your thoughts go any further, you just nuzzle your face into him again, like you can avoid his question if you just get close enough.

It doesn’t work, though, because Henry pulls you from his chest again so you’re looking at him. He still looks tired, but he also looks like he genuinely has no idea why pushing him away is always your first instinct. The look in his eyes is almost pleading, and you can’t help but answer, even though you already feel yourself choking up. “I- I keep trying to run because… I’m not- not used to feeling safe, or understood like this… it’s- it’s honestly terrifying to me. I wanna stay… I really do. But I get so scared that one day- one day you’ll just get bored of me or sick of me and leave that I- I try to make you leave because then at least I’m controlling it… and it doesn’t hurt me as much. It still hurts, because I know that by doing it, I’m hurting you, but it feels safer…” ‘The fact that you’re already fighting back tears is so stupid. You’re really almost crying?’

He sits up, bringing you with him, and you swear you see tears forming in his eyes. “I’m not goin’ anywhere, okay? I don’t wanna go anywhere. I can’t remember a time where I felt so understood that was before you, I can’t. The last thing I want is to leave that behind, to leave you behind. Got it, Birdie?”

It scares you immensely, but you nod, too busy keeping yourself from sobbing to vocalize that you understand, and he pulls you into his chest again. You let out a breath you had no idea you were holding, and you feel Henry place a quick, gentle kiss to the top of your head.

After a few long moments, you feel—and hear—your stomach rumble, and you chuckle as you pull away to look at Henry. “Do you wanna find a place to go get breakfast?”

A small smile appears on his face. “Yeah, sure. There’s a diner I go to that’s got some pretty good food and coffee. That sound good, Songbird?” You nod, feeling yourself start to smile, too.

‘Maybe you should let yourself feel safe with him. He’s practically seen you at your worst, and not only did he stay, but he held you through it. Maybe, just maybe, you really don’t have to push Henry away.’

…

The two of you talk over breakfast and then head back to Henry’s apartment.

It’s about noon when you remember that today is Friday, and you remember your parents telling you on Monday that you’d see Dr. Foster again this week. You groan, letting your head fall into your hands. Henry looks at you, an eyebrow raising in a silent question. “The shrink. I have an appointment with him soon. Which means I have to get ready, and I really don’t want to,” you explain, sighing as you stand.

“I mean, you don’t have to,” he starts—at least, before you effectively cut him off.

“No, Henry, I do have to. This guy—he isn’t usually a shrink for depressed college students. I’ve seen some of the other patients he has, and they all look well-off and very, very busy. I have to be at least dressed the way I do for class, and my clothes I wore here probably still aren’t dry, or are all wrinkled and shit. I need to stop by my place and get dressed and- and—I really don’t wanna go…” you trail off.

“Maybe- maybe I could come with you? Not into the appointment, obviously, but I could wait outside. We’re both already basically ditchin’ whatever classes we had today, so if you want me to stick around, I will.” ‘His tone of voice makes it seem like he’s just offering, but from the look on his face, he looks like he’s hoping you’ll accept.’

You run a hand through your hair—‘You’ll have to wash it whenever you get back to your place after your appointment… it’s all weirdly textured from getting soaked with rain and then having basically nothing done with it afterwards.’ You meet Henry’s gaze again. “Yeah- yeah, that’s alright. But we should leave now so I have time to change.”

Henry nods, and the two of you get ready to head to your apartment.

——

Sam leans out the door to his office, stopping when he sees you. Today, there’s a young man with you. He calls for you, and you stand; he hears the young man wish you luck and say that he’ll be there when the appointment is over as Sam shuts the door. You sit down across from him, and he notices that you look both better and worse than you had at your last appointment. You look physically exhausted, but your body language is a little bit lighter than it has been the last few times he’s seen you.

He decides to ask the obvious question. “Who was that with you while you were waiting?”

You shrug. “A friend. He offered to come here with me,” you trail off for a few moments, “I don’t think I would have showed up today if he didn’t come with me.”

“Why is that? Did something happen?” ‘Over these past few weeks, he’s had varying levels of success with you opening up. In some areas, there’s been lots of improvement—there are things you’re far more comfortable confessing; in others, you still tell him next to nothing.’

He watches you sigh and run a hand through your hair—and then watches as you grimace at the current texture. You’re silent for a minute, maybe two, before you speak, your voice softer, more fragile, and your gaze fixed on the floor. “I- I was having a really, really bad day yesterday, and so I- I got high last night—I got too high. I started panicking, I don’t even know how I made it to his apartment without collapsing—that didn’t happen until he let me in,” you actually gaze up from your slouched position on the couch across from him, and you look like you’re starting to fight back tears, “I couldn’t stop shaking, Dr. Foster… my brain kept trying to convince me that I was going to die last night.”

“Is that why you went to your friend’s apartment?”

“I think so… even though I got high in the first place trying to avoid him,” you mutter, your eyes falling to look at the floor again.

“Avoid him? Why would you avoid your friend?” He feels his eyebrows furrow lightly as he tries to figure out your reasoning for avoiding the young man who accompanied you today. ‘He was kind enough to not only come with you to this appointment, but to make sure you knew he’d be waiting when things were done… ah, maybe it’s—’

Sam is pulled from his thoughts by you beginning to speak again. “I don’t- I’m- I’m not used to having friends that actually give a shit about me that are always around. I’m not used to- to feeling safe—or feeling much at all—around another person. I’m used to people seeing what a mess I am and leaving… so it feels- it feels easier to avoid them and sort of make them leave. It tends to hurt a little less that way…”

He nods in understanding. “It gives you control over something you’ve convinced yourself is inevitable. But it isn’t. Yes, most people will eventually leave your life, not because they abandoned you or left you behind, but because they simply went down a different path. Your friend seems like the kind of person who will stay in your life for as long as he can.”

“How do you know that…?” Your voice has managed to sound even more fragile and vulnerable.

“He came here with you today, didn’t he? When you leave my office, he’ll still be waiting there. He’s probably shown you that he wants to stay in your life plenty of times already.”

Sam sees a pensive look form on your face. You then explain how last night, not only did he let you into his apartment, but he lent you clean clothes since you had been walking in the rain for god knows how long, he let you watch him draw and gave you the more comfortable chair, how he let you stay the night. ‘So, you’re able to understand and comprehend that the things he’s doing are kind, but you fear it suddenly stopping so greatly that you’ll sabotage your own relationships to avoid abandonment.’

If there was one thing Sam had expected from you today, it certainly wasn’t for you to be anywhere near this vulnerable with him. But he’s proud that you were willing to share what had happened—though, if he told you that, he’s almost certain you would shut yourself back in again. And most importantly, he’s glad that you have a friend, that you have somebody to lean on, someone to run to, someone who will stay.

——

Henry hears the door open and he sees you walk towards him. He smiles softly at you as he closes his sketchbook. “Glad to see you survived seein’ your shrink again, Birdie.”

You chuckle lightly. “Yeah, me too.”

The two of you leave, now walking nowhere in particular—though in the general direction of your apartment. He looks at you while you walk in stride with each other. “Anywhere you wanna go today?” You shake your head, and he thinks for a moment. “Do you wanna come with me to the art studio? We’d have to take the subway over, but we could head back to my apartment after—or yours. Either works.”

“We could head back to mine after the art studio. I rented a movie from the library the other day and we can watch it together. I have a portable DVD player, so it’ll be pretty easy to watch,” you say before piping up again, “could I get my notebook first? I might get inspiration to compose, so I wanna be able to write down any ideas I get.”

He nods. “We’re already headin’ to your apartment, so, yeah.”

…

Henry takes a deep breath before he opens the door to the little art studio he paints in. ‘He’s never had anybody else in here with him; it’s always only been him and his work. … Fuck, he should’ve cleaned the place up a little bit; but it’s too late now.’

He watches as you take in the art studio—which is littered with photos and sketches and a few dried, unfinished paintings—with an amount of attention he’s rarely seen from you. You walk towards a specific set of pictures—the walrus at the zoo, and inspect them closely, and when you’re done with those photos, you start walking around the room to look at the other pictures Henry’s taken.

He just observes you, and when you finally turn around, your eyes meet his, and he notices that almost starry look in your gaze—the one he’s only had the pleasure of seeing once before. “Did you take all of these?” He nods. “They’re amazing! I can’t remember the last time I picked up my shitty little camera to take pictures. We should go and do some photography together someday!” ‘You’re actually smiling right now… and it doesn’t seem like it’s going to go away anytime soon.’

He realizes that he likes seeing you like this; it brings a pleasantly warm feeling to his chest. He feels himself smile just a little bit. “Yeah. Yeah, we should, that sounds fun.”

Eventually, Henry finds himself working on a painting that he had technically set aside as ‘scrapped’, but that you managed to convince him to continue—a painting of the walrus at the zoo. You end up sat criss-cross on the floor, going between watching him paint and writing in your notebook. You speak up at some point. “Do all of your paintings look so… blurred? Like this one? It looks like- like how someone would visualize a dream that they’re trying not to forget, like different things are trying to happen at the same time.”

He pauses and turns to face you. You look genuinely curious about and interested in the way he paints—‘He isn’t used to that, to somebody showing genuine interest in his work.’ He nods. “Yeah, usually. Not sure why I started doin’ it, but I’ve stuck with it. It speaks to me, I guess.”

You nod this time. “I really like it. It’s unique, and it’s almost like I can see the walrus moving on the canvas. It feels alive.” You turn to the photos of the walrus again, then back to the painting. “Do you use the photos as memory references for your paintings? I think I’m seeing some of the same details from the pictures on the canvas.”

‘You noticed that? … You always were observant—he’s been around you enough to know that you’ll notice things most people either never see or would take far longer to see. He’s honestly not entirely sure he fully noticed that it was something he did.’ Henry is silent for a few moments, and all that leaves his lips in response is a soft “…Yeah, I guess so.”

By the time he’s come to a good stopping point, the sun is starting its descent to the horizon—not exactly sunset, though; it’s still a little too bright to be considered sunset. Henry starts to clean up his stuff, occasionally glancing at you, still absorbed in your writing. Once he’s done, he moves to stand in front of you, head tilted down to still see you. A few long moments pass before you stop, setting your pencil down atop your now-closed notebook as you raise your head, having to crane your neck ever-so-slightly to meet his gaze from your spot sat on the floor. The two of you stay like that for what—at least to Henry—feels like an eternity. He eventually just holds a hand out to you. “Want some help up, Songbird? I know the floor’s not exactly the most comfortable place to roost.”

You laugh—it’s soft and short, but you laugh, not chuckle—as you take his hand and he helps you up. “Yeah, thanks. And it wasn’t that bad, I’m usually pretty comfortable sitting on the floor for a while.”

He gently nudges your shoulder with his arm with a soft chuckle. “Sittin’ the way you were for that long cannot be good for your back.”

A playfully challenging look makes its way onto your expression as the two of you start to leave the little art studio. “Like your posture when you sketch is any better, Henry. I swear, watching you paint might be the first time I’ve seen you have actually good posture.”

He chuckles again—maybe it was closer to a soft laugh, he’s not sure—as he walks with you. “I’ll trust you on that.”

You both spend the rest of the way back to your apartment in comfortable silence. Henry finds that he spends that time not only just enjoying your company, but replaying the sound of your laugh every once in a while, too. ‘That moment—it might have been the most alive he’s seen you outside of whenever you’re singing on stage. He didn’t realize just how much more alive he’s felt just spending time with you today. … He really hopes that you feel the same, that you’re seeing the world just a little bit brighter today.’

——

You and Henry arrive at your apartment, and once you get inside, you start getting ready to watch the movie. You grab the two chairs you had by your desk and set them down not too far from your bed. Henry watches in confusion for a few moments before he speaks. “What’re you doin’?”

“Making a blanket fort. On the rare occasion I rent a movie, I make a blanket fort and a little… sort of like a ‘nest’ in it so I’m comfortable while watching the movie,” you explain, moving to your closet and grabbing a decently thick throw blanket and laying it out on the floor in the space between the chairs and your bed. You notice that he joins you on your way back to the closet, helping you grab a few pillows and setting them down similarly to how you do. Once the ‘nest’ is suitably comfortable, you and Henry add the finishing touch, the thin blankets you both drape over your bed and the chairs.

You gesture to the inside of the now-built blanket fort. “Guests get to enter the fort first.” He enters the blanket fort, adjusting so he’s comfortable while you grab your portable DVD player to set up the movie. Then, you grab your blanket—which you had taken off of your bed before finishing the fort—and get into the little nest, laying on your stomach. The two of you try and adjust so you’re both under the blanket and comfortable.

Henry looks at you. “What movie are we watchin’ again?”

“Fight Club. I wasn’t super interested when it came out in theaters, so I didn’t go. But Nessa told me a few weeks back that I’d probably like it ‘cause it’s sort of psychological, and I finally went and rented it,” you pause after you finish explaining, “you ready to start?” He nods, and you press play on the portable DVD player.

——

As the movie plays, Henry finds his focus mostly on the movie—but part of it can’t help but drift to you and your occasional muttered reactions. Most people would probably find it annoying or distracting, but he finds that you being so immersed in the film is making him more immersed, as well. ‘He has to admit, the movie is pretty good so far.’

…

By the time the movie is over, both him and you are left stunned. You close the DVD player and turn onto your back, and he does the same. He asks you about what all you noticed while watching, and he listens as you try your best to explain everything—which seems to be a little bit of struggle, but he understands that you’re organizing your thoughts as you go. When you’re done explaining your thoughts, you ask him about his, and he starts talking.

Henry doesn’t know when it happened, but the two of you went from discussing the film to talking about dreams and aspirations the two of you still aren’t sure either of you will ever reach. Eventually, you get distracted and go on a tangent that led you to start rambling off music facts. He’s trying his best to listen, he really is; but it’s gotten late and your voice brings him so much peace that he can’t help but start to drift off to sleep.

…

At some point—likely in the middle of the night—Henry wakes up. The first thing he notices is that he’s holding your sleeping frame, your breaths even and slow. Still half asleep, he can’t help but pull you a little bit closer. ‘He likes holding you,’ he thinks, ‘he gets to feel you—like how right now, he gets to feel just how relaxed you are as you sleep. You’re usually tense, so it feels like something to appreciate when he sees you fully relaxed. … Though, he has to admit, he also likes holding you because he doesn’t know when you’ll drift away from him next, and he wants to keep you close for as long as he can.’

He eventually drifts off to sleep again, ensuring that he’s still holding you and enjoying the safe, warm feeling in his chest that he seems to get whenever you’re in his arms.

I hope you enjoyed chapter 2! It took a lot longer than I expected it to, but I’m really proud of the results! Feel free to let me know what you thought!

It’s been about a week since Lars had invited you to go on that walk with him. You haven’t heard from him about when he may want to come over for hot chocolate, and you’re starting to worry that he won’t ever bring it up.

You watch as everybody starts to file out of the church after today’s service. You stay behind today, and once Father Bock returns inside after bidding everybody farewell, you approach him. “Thank you again for letting me stay late. It’s been too long since the last time I sang in a church,” you say, a soft smile on your face.

“Yes, I remember you mentioning having been in church choirs when you were younger. I’m more than happy to let you borrow the place for a little while to sing,” he says as he tidies up the pews on one side. You quietly decide to do the same on the other to help.

He thanks you once you both finish, getting ready to head home. “Try not to stay too long, miss. I remember the one day you had gotten so distracted that you stayed until late afternoon and missed lunchtime.”

You sigh, a lighthearted smile on your face. “Yes, of course. Thank you for looking out for me, Father.”

“Of course. Enjoy your Sunday,” he says, making his way to the entrance.

“You, too, Father.”

Once he’s gone, you sigh softly to yourself, deciding to start with breathing exercises before doing scales to prepare your voice.

——

Lars decided to wait by his car once church got out. He wanted to ask you if this upcoming Saturday was a good day for the two of you to make good on the plans you made last week.

He sees Father Bock leave, making his way past Lars to get to his car. “Uh, excuse me, Father?” Lars asks, his voice soft but still enough to be heard by the older man.

He explains how he was waiting for you, and hasn’t seen you leave yet. Father Bock nods, “She’s inside, she asked for some time alone after today’s service.”

Lars nods. “Thank you, Father.” The man returns the nod and leaves. Lars chooses to wait for you. ‘He doesn’t know when he won’t be too anxious to ask about it again. So he might as well wait.’

A few minutes of quiet pass, and Lars is beginning to fidget nervously. It doesn’t last long, though, because he hears the most beautiful singing coming from the church, its door left just open enough to let in the cool air of the day and let the voice inside out. The sound is deep and rich, but feminine. ‘You’re singing… he didn’t know that you sang at all, much less that you sounded so soothing. Your voice almost feels like a warm, gentle embrace, one that doesn’t hurt him. It’s calming.’

A while passes of him listening to you sing, but you eventually go quiet. After a few moments, you exit the church, closing the door behind you. You notice him and nearly fall down the stairs, but you catch yourself almost immediately, and once you’ve steadied yourself, you hurry down the steps and over to Lars. “Have you been waiting since church ended?” You both look and sound a little concerned.

He forces a few hard blinks, not exactly sure how to answer, but he decides to be honest. “Yes, I- uh- I have.”

“Did you- was there something you needed? Any reason why you waited?” You still look a touch worried, but curiosity as to why he stayed seems to take over.

“I wanted to- to ask if this Saturday would work for the plans we made last week?” His still-gloved hands pull the small blanket he keeps around his neck a little closer, like it can shield him from a possible rejection, even if you were the one who invited him over in the first place.

A bright smile makes its way onto your face, and it quickly puts Lars at ease. “Yeah! Yeah, Saturday works great. Does sometime in the afternoon work? Maybe around 2 or 3?”

He thinks for a moment before nodding. “Saturday at 2 is good,” he says.

Your smile remains—it may have grown, even—as you happily rock back and forth on your heels. “Right, good, great! Saturday at 2, then! I look forward to it!”

Lars smiles back, and you promptly turn to walk to your car and go home. He just watches, blinking a few times as he tries to process the end of your conversation. ‘He’s glad that he asked, though.’

…

The work week feels like it’s going both far too fast and far too slow for Lars. Today—Friday—has been the latter. Apparently, his wanting to go home already is obvious, because people keep glancing at him while walking by. Margo stops just outside his cubicle, knocking on the border to get his attention. He turns to look at her, blinking once and then again to process her presence. “Is everything okay, Lars?” She asks, genuine concern in her tone of voice. He just nods, and she continues. “You’ve just looked antsy all day. Or, I guess more antsy than you usually do.”

He moves a little closer to her so he can quietly explain the plans he has with you tomorrow and how he hopes you and he will become friends. Margo has to try and quiet an excited squeal. “That’s amazing! I hope you have fun,” she says, voice slightly hushed but the joy she feels is evident on her face, “well, we should both get back to work. Bye Lars!” She waves a little and he waves back before she leaves to go back to her desk.

‘Why can’t tomorrow afternoon come any faster?’

…

The day has arrived, and Lars is far more anxious than he had thought he would be. He tries to calm himself by tidying up his appearance—making sure his hair looks nice, that his facial hair is trimmed, that he chooses a nice sweater to wear, and so on. It helps ease his nerves for a few moments, but once it’s time for him to just wait again, the anxiety worms its way back into his mind. ‘He almost wants to not show up… but you had looked so happy that he had accepted your offer. He can’t bear to think of how sad you’d be if he never arrived.’

Lars then thinks back to how you told him that Bianca had told you that he had become braver. He wants to be able to prove that she was right, that he can be brave. And he wants to prove to himself that he can connect with someone again. He connected with Bianca, he connected with Margo, and he wants to connect with you.

Even if it terrifies him.

——

You’ve spent most of last night and all of this morning frantically cleaning your house. You made sure you had enough of all your usual hot cocoa toppings and additions: crushed peppermints, mini marshmallows, dark chocolate flakes, and most importantly, a tub of whipped cream—‘Because the cans are inefficient and don’t make the cocoa as creamy as you like it.’

You have all of the ingredients ready to try and make cookies—specifically chocolate chunk—but you just can’t get yourself to start. You love the idea of baking, but you can’t stand cracking eggs. ‘You’d rather no longer have skin than even thinking about feeling any amount of egg whites on your fingers, and with your luck, you’d probably get shell in, anyway. But you want to make the cookies to be hospitable. You planned to make enough cookies to warrant offering Lars to take some home with him when he leaves, and—’

You’re forced from your anxious thoughts by the sound of a soft knock on your door. You look at the clock and see that it’s already 2.

‘Damn it!’

——

Lars stands at your door. It’s just cold enough out to warrant wearing his usual layers and gloves. He hears scrambling behind your door, and a somewhat distant, frantic exclamation of “hang on, just a minute” from you. So he waits.

After a long moment, he hears the door unlock, and then the door opens. “I’m so sorry about that, I lost track of time,” you say, running a hand through your hair before a light smile forms on your lips as you step aside, “I’m glad you made it, Lars! Come in, come in.”

He makes sure to wipe his boots on the mat by the door before entering. Your house is beautifully decorated, with framed collages of pressed flowers and other art scattered along the walls. The furniture either is antique or was made to look that way. Every light that’s on is warm and calming, and it feels perfectly you. “Your house is beautiful,” he says softly as you close the door behind him.

“Thank you, thank you. Also, there’s a coat rack to your left if you ever feel like taking off your jacket,” you say, gesturing to the coat rack.

He nods, standing still for a beat, thinking about whether or not he wants to remove his coat yet. After a moment, he does decide to unzip his jacket and hang it on the coat rack. He finally notices your outfit—you aren’t dressed in the Victorian-style outfits he’s used to seeing you in. Instead, you’re in a white button-up, sleeves rolled up just past your elbows, what looks like a handmade black sweater vest with a somewhat rough looking, seemingly to-scale, stark white design of a human spine and ribs layered over the button-up, black slacks that seem to flare a bit at the ends, and what are probably black combat boots. He blinks hard a few times before he comments on it. “I like your outfit, it’s nice.”

Lars hears a soft, confused “hm” sound from your throat as you look down at yourself before you realize that he—and likely everybody else in town—has yet to ever see you dress this way. “Oh! Yeah, I only really dress like a Victorian ghost in the winter. All the layers make it really easy to stay warm. Also, one of Mrs. Gruner’s friends made me this sweater vest as a late welcome gift. I honestly have no idea how she knew my measurements, but I’ve heard that she’s just… able to figure out people’s clothing sizes just from looking at them for a few minutes,” you catch yourself rambling, “sorry, sorry, I went on a tangent. But thank you, Lars. I really like your outfit, too.”

He blinks hard a few times before he registers the compliment, and he smiles. After that, though, the two of you stand in a somewhat awkward silence for what’s likely not much longer than a minute, but it feels like an eternity.

Lars looks around and notices the kitchen, seeing the array of ingredients set on the counter. “Were you baking?” He gestures towards the kitchen.

Your eyes go wide before your palm lightly meets your face. “Crap! I meant to put that away, but I lost track of time and then you were here and I totally forgot…” you mumble other incoherent things to yourself as you half scramble into the kitchen. Lars decides to follow you. ‘He doesn’t know what else to do right now, anyway.’

He watches as you awkwardly open various cabinets and drawers, seeing you get more tense and hearing your mutters get more frustrated. “What were you planning on baking?” He asks. ‘While he does want to know what you wanted to make before he showed up, he’s also hoping that he can help you calm down, because you look like you’re about to have a meltdown. He knows the feeling—that base anxiety slowly morphing into panic and then snowballing to something nobody can stop, something that you just have to go through until it’s done. It’s not a good feeling, and he wants to try and stop you from getting to that place.’

Luckily, you pause and go silent, like his question caught you off guard. You slowly turn to him, and the puzzled look on your face matches your body language. “Huh- what?” You blink hard a few times, like you’ve been pulled from a daze.

“I- I asked what you were planning to bake,” he repeats.

You sigh, looking a touch defeated. “I wanted to make chocolate chunk cookies, but I got into my head about, like, if you liked chocolate chunk cookies, or if you liked cookies at all! And—” you freeze, opting to look at the dark hardwood floor beneath you instead of continuing.

“And…? Did- did something go wrong? Were you missing an ingredient?” ‘Goodness, he has no idea what he’s doing right now… he has no clue what he’s supposed to do, but he has to try. He stopped the spiral from continuing, so he can probably help you feel better, right?’

You don’t look up at him, still staring at the floor. “I- I have this weird thing… it’s so unbelievably stupid but I cannot, for the life of me, handle cracking eggs. The chances of shells getting into the mix is too high and I just- I can’t stand the feeling of egg on my fingers, it drives me insane, I just hate it, I hate it! Hate it hate it hate it! It’s just- I don’t know, I can’t explain it.” Your hands move like they’re shaking water off as you speak. ‘He’s never seen you do that before… he wonders if it’s something you do a lot at home, but stop yourself from doing outside.’

“I- I think I understand,” he starts, “maybe I- maybe—if you want—maybe I could help?”

Lars sees your head whip up, and you shake your head. “No no no, I couldn’t do that! You’re a guest, Lars, just let me put these ingredients away and I can start the hot chocolate!”

Before he can realize it, one of his still-gloved hands lands on your shoulder. The moment he notices, though, his hand quickly retracts. “I- I like to bake. I don’t get the chance to a lot. I think- I think it would be nice to bake cookies together.”

You either didn’t process the sudden touch from Lars or decided not to acknowledge it, but you blink. “Are you sure?”

He nods, making the choice to take off his thick gloves and placing them near the corner of the small kitchen island so he can help. He moves to wash his hands at the sink, and once he’s done, you do the same. He looks at you for a moment. “Do you have a specific recipe that you want to follow?”

“Uh, yeah, yeah. It was my grandmother’s recipe. It does make… a lot of cookies, though. As in, it- uh- it makes 20 decently sized cookies,” you explain, grabbing a small spiral notebook and hold it out to him, careful to hold it from the top to lessen the chance of your hands accidentally touching.

Lars grabs the notebook gently, looking closely at the recipe:

* 1 cup of butter, cold cut into cubes

* 1 cup light brown sugar

* 1/2 cup granulated sugar

* 2 eggs

* 1 tablespoon vanilla

* 1 teaspoon baking powder

* 1/4 teaspoon baking soda

* 1 teaspoon kosher salt (crossed out) 1/2 teaspoon kosher salt

* 3 cups all-purpose flour

* 10 ounces milk chocolate chunks

* 10 ounces semisweet chocolate chunks

Everything except the butter is already out on the counter. He looks back at the recipe and reads the instructions before returning his gaze to you and nodding softly. “Are you ready to start?”

——

Your mind can’t help but start to wonder while you bake with Lars. About how he managed to ground you so quickly. About how he actually touched you—‘Even if it was with his gloves on, his hand fully met your shoulder, and when he pulled it away, it didn’t seem like it was because he registered it as painful, but rather that he was surprised that he had done it at all. Or maybe he pulled off because he worried he had made you uncomfortable. You honestly have no clue…’

But he cracked the eggs for you. He didn’t even mention it, just did it with a practiced ease when the instructions called for the eggs.

You’re absentmindedly humming to yourself while carefully mixing the ingredients when Lars speaks. “You know, I had no idea that you could sing.”

You feel your face go hot with embarrassment. ‘Oh no… he must have heard you that day at church last week. You didn’t want anybody outside of Father Bock to know…’ “I- uh- yeah… yeah, I sing sometimes. Y’know… I- I was never all that great at it, and it’s been forever, but I just wanted to see what it felt like singing in a church again, just without all the eyes on me,” you explain as you mix.

Shortly after starting to add the flour, you begin to struggle more with keeping up the mixing. Lars offers to take over, and you hesitantly agree and set down the bowl and silicone spatula so he can pick them up. “I thought you sounded really nice,” he says matter-of-factly as he starts to mix.

The compliment catches you entirely off guard. “Uh- um- what?” You force a few blinks, trying to comprehend the sudden compliment.

He doesn’t look up at you or stop mixing when he responds. “When I heard you singing last Sunday, it was nice… and warm. You humming just now reminded me of it.”

“I- I have- really?” Is the only thing that leaves your mouth. ‘Jeez, you sound like an idiot right now. An idiot that couldn’t take a compliment to save her life.’

You can feel his gaze on you now, and you can’t bear to meet it, lest he notice how red your face is from him just telling you that he likes your singing.

——

A small smile makes its way onto Lars’ face as he looks at you. ‘You look like you’re trying really hard to believe his compliment, too. It’s kind of endearing…’

He finishes mixing the cookie dough. “Is there a specific amount of dough to use for the cookies?”

You turn and nod as he sets the mixing bowl down, and once you’re sure you won’t accidentally touch him, you grab some dough and ball it up before placing it on the tray. Lars copies you, making a ball of the same size, and the process repeats until the tray is full. You put the extra dough in the fridge—per the instructions—while he carefully puts the cookies in the oven and sets the winding kitchen timer to 9 minutes.

Shortly after, he hears a ‘mraow’ from behind and below him. He turns and looks down to see a fluffy orange cat staring right at him.

You notice, too, and he watches as you smile brightly. “Oh hello, miss Shelley! Did you finally decide to come and meet our guest?” The cat responds with another ‘mraow’ before gently pawing at Lars’ pant leg. “Oh, Lars! If you’d like, you can sit down and make yourself comfortable. I can handle the rest of the baking. Thank you so much for the help, too, I really appreciate it.”

“Oh, okay. Is- is the cat going to follow me?” He asks, still looking at the feline gazing up at him.

“Shelley? Yeah, probably. And if she keeps lightly pawing at you, she’s trying to get you to pet her,” you explain.

He nods and then slowly makes his way to the sofa, sitting down awkwardly—at least, until Shelley hops up next to him, now pawing at his right arm.

He slowly holds his right hand out towards the cat, and she quickly nuzzles against it, moving her head against his palm as he gently scratches. ‘Shelley purrs sort of loud. She must be a very happy cat.’

For a while, the only real sounds here are Shelley’s purring and your humming from the kitchen.

A while of this passes, Lars petting Shelley and you humming as you go about continuing to bake the cookies. Eventually, he hears the sound of a kettle whistling, and he stands and returns to the kitchen, where you’re looking through a cabinet with some mugs. “Is the hot chocolate ready?”

You flinch, luckily not having grabbed a mug yet, and turn your head for a moment to look at him. “Oh! Yes, just about. I only have the powder hot chocolate mix, if that’s okay,” you say as you grab two mugs and set them down on the counter in front of you.

“You can get good hot chocolate from the powder mix,” he responds softly.

You chuckle as you poor water into one mug, and then the other, and then make room next to you in front of the other mug. “Yeah, you can.”

There’s some extra ingredients on the counter between you—namely shaved chocolate flakes and crushed peppermint. He watches as you add some peppermint to your cocoa and start to mix it; he decides to finally approach and mix his own hot chocolate that had been on the counter. He sees what he can only assume is the last batch of cookies cooling on a wire rack, and he notices two tupperware containers with the rest of the cookies inside.

Each of you finishes making your hot chocolate—you with added peppermint, then whipped cream, then chocolate shavings on top, and Lars with whipped cream and a few chocolate shavings. He watches you grab two small plates. “Do you want one cookie or two?”

He blinks hard once, then twice. “Uh… two, please.”

You nod, a soft smile on your face, putting two of the cookies on each plate. “Two it is. I like having two cookies, it feels like more of a reward for making them,” you say with a chuckle as you move to sit down at the dining table with your mug and plate.

Lars follows, doing the same and sitting across from you. “Yeah, I think I understand.”

You bite into your first cookie, and you immediately look pleased, humming contently. He tries one of his own. ‘…Oh, wow. He doesn’t know the last time he had a cookie this good. It’s just crunchy enough on the outside, but the inside is soft and the chocolate is rich and perfectly sweet… he swears he feels an almost childlike joy swell in his chest. He also feels that warmth, the same kind he felt when he heard you singing. It’s odd, how he feels this around you. But it’s nice.’

…

The two of you talk while finishing your cocoa and cookies. ‘Well, it’s mostly you talking and him listening, but he likes hearing you speak. Your voice makes his world a little bit quieter, and you look happy as you talk. He likes being around you in the same way he likes being around Margo, if not a little more.’

While listening to you, Lars catches a glimpse of something moving, blended into the dark of a dim hallway, and you explain that it’s your other cat, Morticia—or “Tisha”—and that she’s a lot more shy than Shelley is, and he nods in understanding. ‘He hopes one day your other cat—your “little shadow”, as you called her—will be brave enough to approach him.’

——

You sigh softly to yourself as you close the front door. Lars has just left—after insisting on helping clean up even a little bit; you only let him load the little dishwasher—and you’re honestly a little bit exhausted. You made sure he brought his half of the cookies with him, letting him know that he’s free to share them should he choose to. You finish cleaning up before deciding to read a book. Despite your tiredness, you feel warm and light. ‘You suppose Lars’ presence is more a bigger calming effect on you than you thought…’

——

Lars makes it back home. As he’s grabbing the container of cookies, he remembers how you said that he could share them if he wanted. ‘Part of him doesn’t want to, wants to keep them for himself because he made them with you. But he also wants to give some to Karin and Gus.’

With that, he’s made up his mind, taking a deep breath as he walks to their door and knocking gently. Karin is the one to open the door, and she smiles when she sees him. “Lars! What brings you here? Come in, come in!”

He shakes his head, opting to stay standing outside. “I just wanted to see if- if you and Gus wanted some cookies while they’re still fresh.”

Lars watches as his sister-in-law lights up. “Ooh! What kind of cookies? And- wait… how did you even get fresh cookies?” He answers Karin’s question before he explains that you had invited him over for hot chocolate to hopefully get to know each other better and how the two of you ended up baking the cookies together.

“Oh, Lars, that’s great! Let me grab a napkin so I can get a cookie for me and Gus,” she says, half shutting the door but leaving it open enough that, if he wanted to, he could still get inside.

Karin talks with him for a little while longer before she remembers that she needed to help Gus make dinner and politely dismisses herself. Now that he’s done what he set out to do, he goes inside his little garage apartment.

…

That night, as Lars lays in bed, trying to fall asleep, he notices that his baby blanket—which he’s holding gently—still smells faintly like a combination of cookies, hot chocolate, and something more subtle. Whatever it is, he nuzzles his face into the little blanket, taking great comfort in the welcoming aroma that reminds him of you. But before his mind can wander and cause him to overthink, he’s pulled softly to sleep.

‘Part of him hopes you’ll appear in his dreams… just so he can feel close to you again.’

I hope you enjoyed chapter 2! Lars and reader are getting closer… and they may even be starting to get tiny crushes (not that they realize it)!

Slightly possessive Lars my beloved <3

The moment you moved in, you knew you were going to get stares, that people were going to talk. A small town in Wisconsin where just about everybody knew each other; not only was a newcomer going to be obvious, but one who dressed the way you did—especially in the winter—was going to make you stick out even more. You’ve overheard conversations referring to you as things like “ghost” or “vampire”, which you were used to, and also “Bloody Mary” a few times. “Bloody Mary” was a new one for you, though. You had heard it only on days when you wore red; mixing a blood-red outfit and your ability to seemingly disappear into thin air despite your noticeable clothing choices is the likely reason for the name.

You understood being called a ghost, though; you didn’t particularly like being seen or noticed, so you any time you were out to do something while moving in and getting settled, you were usually fast about it, there one moment and gone the next. You get being called a vampire, too, what with your sense of style looking like more sophisticated versions of costumes you’d see on Halloween. Dressing like you’re from the Late Victorian era will do that.

Due to your appearance, people are usually surprised to walk into the florist’s you work at and see you. You’re used to it, but your boss Mrs. Gruner, who is a very sweet older woman, wants you to let other residents of the town see you for more than a few moments—she says that it’ll help with all the talk. You’ve been hesitant to take her advice.

Today, though, she approaches you with a slightly bigger smile than normal. “Good morning, dear!”

“Good morning, Mrs. Gruner,” you smile at her, “you’re especially lively this morning. Did something happen?”

“We got an order today! I have a list of the flowers requested for the small arrangement. Let me know when you’re done, and I’ll tell you where to go. It’s only a short walk from here,” she explains, handing the list to you. ‘Ah. That’s why she’s excited; she found a way to make sure you’re out and not so able to hide. You know she’s doing it for your own good, but you can’t help but stress a little.’

You nod, smoothing out the skirt of your midnight blue walking dress. “Of course.” The list consists of a handful of beautiful blooms: red chrysanthemum, heliotrope, red tulips, and a few yellow tulips. ‘A lively and colorful declaration of love and devotion, if you do say so yourself. Whoever wanted this arrangement made is very much in love with their partner.’

You hum softly to yourself as you put the bouquet together, choosing to tie it up with a purple ribbon—to match the heliotrope. “Should I find a vase?” You inquire, looking at where the stock of vases are by the flowers.

“No, dear, a vase won’t be needed,” she responds. You walk out to show her the arrangement and get the directions to where you need to go. “Oh, what a gorgeous bouquet you’ve made! Cindy’s going to love it.”

“Cindy?” You honestly aren’t familiar with people’s names yet. You’ve likely seen her before, but haven’t interacted yet.

“Yes, yes. She works at the front desk in the office building near the other end of this row of buildings. She’s going to be one of the first people—if not the first person—you’ll see when you enter.”

“Alright, thank you. I’ll get these to Cindy, then,” you say, waving a quick goodbye to Mrs. Gruner as you leave to deliver the flowers, the short heels of your boots making an ever so subtle clack against the tile floor as you walk.

The winter chill shakes through you, even under all of your layers. You start making your way to the other end of the building complex. Once you arrive, you feel yourself stop a few feet from the door, anxiety coursing through your body. You honestly may have been standing out in the cold holding that bouquet for a whole minute before you got the courage to go inside. You see a desk near the front and approach. A woman sits behind it, typing on her computer. You feel your throat get a little tighter as you start to make yourself known. “Uh… I- I have a delivery of flowers for a- uh- for Cindy?”

The woman at the desk looks up, and her eyes widen in surprise for a second upon seeing you before she stands. “You’re the new lady in town! We’ve all been dying to meet you, but you’re always hiding away!” She has a sweet smile on her face. “You said something about a delivery?”

“Uh, yes! Flowers for Cindy.”

“Then those must be for me, from my husband! I’m Cindy, it’s great to finally meet you!” You carefully hand the flowers over to Cindy, and she places them in a vase on her desk. “Thank you for delivering these… I don’t believe I know your name yet.”

You introduce yourself, and Cindy nods. “Well, thank you again for bringing the flowers! Hopefully I’ll see you around town a little more!”

“Yeah, maybe,” you smile at her and give a small wave, “have a nice day, Cindy.”

“You have a good day, too!”

With that, you promptly turn to leave, but not even five steps after you turn around, you walk right into somebody—sturdy, and definitely larger than you. You take a step back, too nervous to even look at the person who you ran into, already stammering out apologies. “Oh my gosh, I- I’m so sorry, I didn’t see you! I’m sorry, I need to- I need to get back to work!” You move around the person you ran into, leaving as quickly as possible, barely registering Cindy’s voice saying something about a “Mr. Sunshine”.

‘That was terrifying… you really hate meeting new people.’

…

The next time you make yourself known in public is one of the first Sundays you’re in town for church. You aren’t especially religious, but it helps you feel closer with long-gone loved ones and the structured schedule of it all is honestly quite meditative for you. You arrive at the church early, and find a spot near a back corner, trying to avoid being noticed by as many people as possible. As people start to make their way into the church and take their seats in the pews, you find yourself nervously fidgeting with one of the buttons on your overcoat.

…

You stay seated as everybody else files out, hoping to speak with Father Bock, who had introduced himself to you on one of the first days after you had moved in, welcoming you to town and letting you know when typical services were held, but that he welcomed visitors whenever. ‘Maybe Father Bock had meant “He”, as in God, but you weren’t certain.’

Once mostly everyone is out, you stand up and make your way to the priest. “Father Bock?”

He turns towards you. “Ah, I’m glad you made it today! I almost didn’t notice you in the back. How have you been enjoying it here?”

“It’s been… anxiety-inducing. I’m not good at interacting with people,” you say, fidgeting with the button of your coat again.

“Yes, I believe I understand. Entering a new place and appearing different can be difficult, but I believe you’ll open up in time.” Before Father Bock can say anything more, though, a woman you had seen leave makes her way back into the church. She stops for a moment when she sees you, but she quickly recovers and approaches you.

“Hi!” Her voice is higher-pitched, and there’s a subtle, almost squeaky tone present.

Father Bock chooses to make the introductions, likely to help ease your very obvious anxiety. He quickly introduces you to the woman before turning back to you, “And this Karin Lindstrom.”

Karin holds a hand out for you to shake, and you hesitate before doing so. “I’ve been so excited to meet you, but my husband Gus said I should try to let you settle in first. I hope it isn’t too soon.”

Her energy is almost too bright—not like she’s trying too hard to be nice, but just that she’s actually this kind and caring towards people—it’s a little unsettling, but you can’t help but feel a little more at ease. “I- uh- well, I honestly don’t know,” you stammer, “but it’s really nice to meet you, Karin.”

“It’s nice to meet you, too! Say, everybody in town has been waiting to meet you; what do you think about joining me and some friends for lunch one day?” While you already feel a small amount of trust for Karin, you’re nervous—maybe closer to just outright scared—to engage socially with her friends.

“Ah, y’know, maybe! I’m still trying to get my place feeling more like home, so I’m not sure I’ll be able to. But I’ll see,” you explain, trying your best to both be polite and avoid going.

She nods, but you noticed her smile falter the tiniest bit. “That’s okay! I hope I’ll see you around, have a nice day!”

You tell Karin goodbye as she leaves the church, continuing your conversation with Father Bock.

——

Karin walks outside and approaches Gus. He has a confused look on his face as he asks, “What’d you forget in there?”

“Nothing, nothing! I wanted to introduce myself to the lady that moved in not too long ago! I tried to invite her to lunch with some friends, too, but she made it pretty obvious that she’d rather not go,” she says while the two walk to their car.

“So the ghost doesn’t like people. When do they ever?” Gus’ tone is joking, but Karin can hear the judgment laced in it as he starts the car to head home.

“Gus, be nice! She looked so nervous just being around people! I saw that she kept messing with a button on her coat! And I remember Lars saying that she had accidentally walked right into him one day as he was going into work, and that she just apologized and ran off… I don’t think it’s that she doesn’t want to be around people, I think she’s just scared!”

“So, she’s sort of like Lars, then?” Gus asks, the judgment less evident in his voice but still present.

Karin thinks for a moment. “Huh, yeah, I guess she is.”

——

A few weeks go by with you managing to mostly avoid unnecessary social interaction. You go to work, you go to church when everybody else does, and in the time you have free, you’re usually reading or doing things like sudoku and crossword puzzles.

One day, though, on your way to the doctor’s, you see Karin, Gus, a man you don’t believe you know—you’ve seen him at church, but that’s about it—and a… life-sized plastic woman. ‘Huh, I wonder what’s up with that,’ you think to yourself as you enter.

While in the waiting room, you hear the unfamiliar man speaking softly to and interacting with the plastic woman, whose name is apparently Bianca. Karin looks like she’s trying her best to keep composed—‘and failing, she looks like she’s going to have an anxiety attack’—and Gus is next to her looking like he wants to disappear into the wall behind him. You realize that, whenever you’ve seen the man with Gus and Karin at church, he was always quieter than the rest. He occasionally tries to do nice things without being noticed, like picking up a toy that a kid had brought to church that had fallen, and that he would cringe into himself if he fumbled.

The man actually looks at you at one point. He looks at Bianca again before meeting your gaze once more—under all of that, you still see anxiety in his gaze. “Bianca says she likes your outfit,” his voice is soft and gentle, and there’s an inherent kindness in it, then he continues. “I’m- I’m Lars, by the way.”

“I’ve seen you at church, it’s nice to meet you, Lars,” you look at Bianca—even though you know logically that she isn’t real—smile softly, and say, “and thank you, Bianca, that’s very kind. I like your outfit, too.” You know everybody else in the waiting room is staring at you now, and you hate it—in fact, you feel like leaving and hiding and never coming back again—but you couldn’t just let people judge him silently and do nothing.

Soon, Lars and Bianca have gone back, leaving you with Karin, Gus, and the other people waiting. Karin comes and sits next to you, her voice hushed. “What was that?”

You whisper back. “I hate people staring at me, but I couldn’t let people just stare at him and judge! Besides, he seems very nice,” you pause for a second before continuing, “how do you know Lars, anyway? You and Gus always sit with him at church and you seemed like you were stressed just sitting there and Gus looked like he wanted to die or maybe kill somebody—he still sort of does, honestly.” Your face scrunches up a little at yourself immediately after you finish speaking. ‘Aaaaand you were a little too honest. Good job, you may very well have insulted this lovely woman’s husband.’

Karin sighs softly. “Lars is Gus’ little brother, so he’s my brother-in-law. The whole… Bianca thing is… very new. He says she’s his girlfriend.” ‘Luckily, it looks like she’s ignoring what you said, or maybe she agrees that he looks incredibly tense and awkward.’

You nod in understanding, but before you can say anything more, you’re called back, and by the time you’re done, Karin, Gus, Lars, and Bianca are all gone.

…

Looking back, you have to admit that meeting Lars—who was apparently the person you had run into the day you first dropped off flowers for Cindy—has helped you, and you’d be lying if you told anybody that Bianca didn’t change you at all. Because she did; you got a lot closer with the town’s residents because of her. Without Bianca, you don’t think any of the townspeople would know that a handful of your winter outfits—gothic Victorian-style walking dresses with a few extra layers to keep warm—were made yourself from patterns, that you learned to crochet just so you could make stuffed bears and bunnies to give to the church for kids in town to have and for Father Bock to send to other churches, or that you’ve been trying to map the stars on clear nights since you moved in. You’ve spent more time with the townsfolk since Bianca arrived than you had ever expected to.

But she’s gone now. Today is actually the day of her funeral. Lars had specifically requested the community to not wear black. You’re getting ready early to get flowers from work for the occasion, opting for a dark but clearly purple Victorian-style day dress—with a slight bustle to the dress and a clip of a violet flower in your hair, you know Bianca would have wanted you to feel pretty; she apparently always did—along with some gloves to keep your hands warm and a parasol for the burial. You get to work, gathering a bunch of dark crimson roses, as is typically customary at funerals, and make your way to the church.

…

You had to try not to cry during the funeral and burial. You’re standing back from her grave, trying to compose yourself while watching Lars and Margo—who you’d met and started interacting with through church—speak. Margo eventually walks off, waving a small goodbye to Lars. You wait a few moments before approaching.

Stopping a small distance from Lars, having learned that the man prefers his space, you speak. “It was a beautiful funeral, Lars.”

He looks at you and nods, a subtle, sad smile on his face. “It was.”

“I’m honestly really grateful that she came here. I don’t… she- she helped a lot of us,” you say, already feeling your throat get tight. ‘You never handled grief well… but you’re really trying not to cry now of all times? You approached him to offer at least a little comfort, not to cry.’

He nods, fidgeting with the pink carnation pinned to his suit. “Yeah.”

“I honestly think Bianca had a- she played a big part in me interacting and connecting with the community. I’m not sure I would have ever been-” you choke up, blinking back tears, “I don’t think I would have been able to- to feel like I can take up space here and be welcome without her.”

Lars looks at you. “I think I understand…” he trails off, a look of deep thought appears on his face.

“Is- is everything okay?” You ask, voice gentle and offering comfort, but still holding back emotions.

He nods. “Would you- would you like to go on a walk? Maybe we could talk about- about Bianca? I know you spent a lot of time helping her feel welcome… even though you were new, too.”

You’re a little shocked. You don’t think Lars has ever asked anybody to do anything with him in your time here; if he has, it’s been a very long time. You’re honored that you were the one he asked; you know he and Margo are decently close, so you honestly would have expected him to ask her. “Uh- yeah. Yeah, I’d really like that, Lars. We can talk about Bianca while we walk.”

He smiles again, a little more genuine this time, and he starts walking. You follow along, fidgeting slightly by twirling your open parasol. ‘There’s not really any reason to have the parasol, it doesn’t serve a purpose on a day like today, but it feels fitting for a funeral.’ Throughout all of this, you’ve found yourself quite fond of Lars. He’s incredibly kind and empathetic. He even stopped by your work one day to get flowers for Bianca, and he asked lots of questions to make sure he chose perfectly. It’s a quality not many have these days.

At some point during your walk, Lars begins to speak, telling you things about Bianca, but especially how she was apparently very fond of you. He told you that she noticed the way you paid such close attention to details, how you made sure things were right, how you’d help people even if you were nervous to talk to them. He even said that Bianca had seen that, over time, you started looking happier in town, you went out more, you even started adding pretty accessories to your outfits that people hadn’t seen before, and how that felt like learning more about you.

You sniffle, feeling tears streaming down your cheeks—‘When had you started crying?’—and Lars pauses. “Are- are you okay? Why are you crying?”

“I just- I didn’t realize Bianca had talked so much about me… that she held me in such high regard. It means a lot to me.” You didn’t take time to wipe the tears from your face, you knew the makeup you had done was running and you were going to look insane anyway. ‘You knew you should have gone with the waterproof eyeliner and mascara…’

There’s a minute or so of a decently comforting silence as you walk, with each other’s presence being a relatively grounding force for the both of you. But you speak up again. “Y’know, Lars… she talked to me about you a lot, too.”

He looks at you again, a little surprised, like he hadn’t expected it. “Really? What did- what did she say?”

“Oh, where do I even begin?” You chuckle a little to yourself, though the sniffle betrays the lightheartedness you wanted to show. “She always talked about how kind you are, how, under the shyness you’re an incredibly warm and lovely guy. How you would do your best to make things perfect for her and how you’d say it was because she deserved it. And- and one of the last things she told me,” you choke up and start to cry again, “was that she was so proud of how brave you’ve become.”

Lars has tears in his eyes now, and the sight honestly makes you sob harder. ‘You want to hug him and run your hand through his hair, but you know he doesn’t like physical touch, and you’re going to respect that.’ He speaks, voice cracking as the tears fall from his eyes. “She- she said that- that I’m brave…?”

You nod. “Yeah… she did. She was so proud of you. I’m sure she still is, Lars.”

Watching Lars crying breaks your heart. The surprising part is that you can see him smiling to himself even as he cries softly. He doesn’t say anything, he just nods, and you realize that he’s trying to process your words and trying to register them as true; he’s trying to allow himself feel happy about it—about someone expressing that they’re proud of him.

The two of you walk side-by-side—with reasonable distance in between, respecting each other’s space—in comfortable silence, allowing each other to just exist; no expectations, no performance, just… being. Once you get back to where your cars are, you stop and think for a moment. “Lars, would you like to… would you want to visit my place for some hot cocoa at some point? I know it isn’t exactly winter anymore, but, well, it’s still winter to me.”

You see a pensive look come onto Lars’ face, his blinking becoming purposed. It’s obvious he’s a little nervous about it, but he’s also genuinely considering your offer. “Yes. I- I think I’d like that. I think I’d like that a lot.”

——

Lars watches you light up at his response. Even with your makeup having run down your face, the grin you have on brings a warm, nice feeling into his chest. “Really?” The hope in your voice is palpable. He just nods in response, feeling a smile form on his own face just from seeing you happy. You actually squeal in delight. “That’s amazing! Oh! I almost forgot to mention! I have two cats. Are- are you allergic?”

“Uh, no. I’m not allergic to cats. I’m not really familiar with them, though…” he says.

“Ah, don’t worry! My cats are very well-behaved. Though they can get a little bit touchy, it’s just because they want your attention. If they make you uncomfortable at all whenever you come over, I can always put them in my room for a while,” you explain, that infectious smile still on your face as you close your parasol. Lars nods in understanding, stopping with you at your car. You open the door, place the parasol on the passenger side of the car, and turn to Lars. “Be sure to call or let me know in person when you’d like to come over, okay?”

“Yes, alright. Thank you.” He turns and starts making his way to his car.

“Of course. Goodbye, Lars!”

He turns just enough so you can see him give a small wave. “Goodbye.” You get in your car and drive home, and once Lars gets to his own, he does the same.

‘He’s glad he asked you to walk with him. You’re nice, and the only thing you ever seem to expect from him is that he be genuine with you. It’s something he really appreciates about you.’ He’s also wondering if your house is decorated similarly to how you dress; would entering your space would feel like going back in time?

‘The thought of being in your house is terrifying to him, but also… he’s kind of excited about it.’

There IS going to be at least one more part! I know this fic wasn’t much or super interesting, but I swear it’s gonna get better!

I hope you enjoyed reading! Feel free to comment your thoughts on this little intro chapter!

It’s been a rough day for you—well, “rough” is one way to put it. You had, once again, gotten into a fight you logically shouldn’t have, but that you had wanted to get in. It had started between just you and one other person, but you didn’t know that he had a friend with him. You put up a good fight—you always did—but you knew you had gotten your ass kicked.

Your knuckles are bruised and littered with scrapes, your bottom lip is busted, across one of your forearms is a decently long, but not very deep, slash—the guy’s friend tried getting you with a pocket knife a few times, and only hit once—other than that, though, you’re mostly just covered in bruises. The most noticeable contusion, though, is on the left side of your face, barely missing your eye; one of the guys tried punching you, and only sort of hit, but it was still hard enough for a large mark to form. ‘Blinking kind of hurts because of it. But also thank god your hair covers most of it.’

You unlock and open the door to your apartment and see your roommate Henry sitting on the small balcony. ‘He was probably out there smoking.’ He turns around at the sound of the door closing, and a half-shocked look appears on his face as he walks towards you. “The fuck happened to you? You look like hell.” He moves to grab your wrist. But when you see two new burn marks on that forearm, you end up grabbing Henry’s wrist instead, dragging him with you to the small bathroom. Once you’re both in the bathroom, he speaks again, moving to grab the first aid kit. “Are you gonna let me fix you up?”

You take the first aid kit from his hand and sigh. “After I clean up those new burns.”

“You’re worse off than I am,” he retorts.

“I’m not bleeding anymore, Letham. And besides, burns get treated first. You were the one who told me that.”

“That was cause you burned yourself and dropped the glass lid of a casserole dish.”

“And you tried picking broken glass up off the floor with your bare hands and got yourself cut!” You see your roommate roll his eyes. The two of you bicker back and forth for a few more moments before Henry concedes, allowing you to treat the burns that he gave himself.

He rolls up his sleeve more, and you half drag his forearm under the sink’s cold water, holding it there by his wrist because he tends to yank it away. You understand that it’s because the water is pretty damn cold and cold water against the parts of his skin that aren’t burned can’t be comfortable, but you hold his arm in place anyway. ‘You have to admit to yourself that it’s also because it’s the closest you can get to holding his hand out of nowhere without holding his hand.’

After a few long minutes of semi-comfortable silence, you turn the water off and grab a clean washcloth to gently pat the burns dry—it’s not easy to tell if they’re first- or second-degree, but based on the glossy look, they’re likely second. Once you feel that Henry’s arm is dry enough, you go to wash your hands; you’d rather deal with the stinging pain than risk putting gauze on with contaminated hands and infecting his burns.

You know Henry’s eyes have been locked on you since you started tending to him. You know that your heart is racing and that it isn’t from the fight, but rather from your continued close proximity to your roommate. ‘You don’t know how much longer you can hide it,’ you think to yourself while carefully wrapping over the sterile gauze pad you placed atop the burns with bandages.

…

What you don’t know, though, is why Henry’s eyes have been locked on you.

He watches as you treat his wounds with a tenderness you never give yourself, with a level of care he knows you think you don’t deserve. And he knows you treat him with it because you’re more than aware that he thinks the same way about himself.

That’s why, the instant you’re finished, he stands and moves you to sit where he had been. He sees the surprise in your eyes at his insistent movement, your gaze flicking up to meet his, and even though his expression remains mostly focused, he feels a slight satisfaction bubble in his chest at the slight flush that was on your face.

Henry sighs to himself as he goes and cleans the gash on your forearm. You hiss from the sting, and he meets your eyes again. “If it hurts, you should quit gettin’ into fights you can’t win, hotshot,” he says, the nickname slipping from his lips without him noticing.

Your eyebrows shoot up, and you try to deflect from the heat slowly returning to your cheeks by rolling your eyes. “Yeah, yeah. I will when you quit using yourself as an ashtray, Letham.” One of Henry’s eyebrows raises, and you continue. “What? If I have to ‘get better’ against my will, so do you.” He just shakes his head with a chuckle, wrapping your hurt arm in bandages and placing gauze pads along as he goes.

He cleans the scrapes on your knuckles even though you washed your hands—just to be safe—before gently holding your chin to disinfect your busted lip. “Got any other cuts I need to worry about, hotshot?” He says the nickname on purpose this time, and he actually feels himself smile just a little bit at your blushing face.

“Just bruises left,” you mutter, and Henry can feel the tension present in your jaw from his hand. ‘You look like you’re trying not to melt into him, but maybe it’s just wishful thinking…’

He finally notices the discoloration on the side of your face, having been hidden behind your hair. “Did you get this shiner from the fight, too?” His free hand moves the locks to show the bruise in its entirety, using the hand on your chin to turn your face ever so slightly. ‘He can practically feel your heartbeat. Have you always reacted this intensely to him? It’s almost…’

“…cute,” he mutters under his breath.

“Huh? What- what’s cute?” Your eyes start darting around the room, actively trying to avoid Henry’s gaze. ‘You’re usually able to retort, to bite back—he’s very familiar with that side of you. He’s aware that you’re a bit more mellow when at the apartment, but he has never seen you like this.’

He feels a strange and unfamiliar rise in confidence as he moves your chin to face him again. “You almost always have somethin’ to say, y’know? But you’re real quiet now.” He leans down a little, close enough that you can feel his breath against your skin.

Henry loosens his hold on your face, keeping close watch of your expression for any discomfort, any indication that he’s gone too far. But the look you’re giving him is almost too telling—you want this, and you almost can’t believe that he’s actually so close to you.

So, he holds on to that little bit of confidence he has, and gently closes the distance between you two in a soft kiss that’s full of unrealized longing. You finally melt into him, returning the kiss.

He pulls away after a long moment, and the silence between you is thick but comfortable.

Eventually, you speak up. “That… happened.”

He starts to feel uncertainty creeping in.“It did. I- I should’ve asked first, though, I—”

You cut him off with a quick peck against his lips. “It’s okay, Henry,” you chuckle, seeming to have bounced back a little from the shyness you had shown just a minute prior, “would I have kissed you back—or kissed you again just now, for that matter—if I didn’t want to?” You’re still blushing, but you have a small but genuine smile on your face.

Henry can’t help but feel himself start to smile a little, too. “No, hotshot, I guess you wouldn’t have.”

You stand up, grabbing him—by the hand this time—and pull him with you out of the cramped space of the bathroom. In the better light, you look at the bandage on his arm and notice the one on yours again. You squeeze his hand once, a silent expression of thanks that he knows well. He does the same in return.

…

Later that night, after you had fallen asleep, Henry finds himself awake and thinking of you. He can still clearly see in his mind the look that was in your eyes before he had kissed you. He grabs his sketchbook, opening to a page that’s littered with various drawings of emotions he’s seen from your eyes and brows alone, and finds space to begin to draw that longing gaze you had earlier. He hopes to show those drawings to you one day, as you’ve complained in the past about feeling like people not understanding your facial expressions, but he worries that you might not react all that well.

Henry chooses to stop worrying about that for now. That’s a problem for the future. For now, he’ll draw your eyes with that warmth in his chest and the memory of how your lips had felt on his making its way into his mind.

Thank you so much for reading, and I hope you enjoyed my first little one-shot fic!

Henry had been enjoying his first year of college—at least, he thought so; he wasn’t quite so sure anymore. Some days blended together so much that he couldn’t articulate anything that had happened in a particular week, while others felt they dragged on for so long he’d be silently begging for anything to happen.

So far, today has been the latter, feeling as if time is moving like the slow spreading of poured tar. Some would think “like molasses” or “honey”, but those are too sweet, too enjoyable—and the passing of time has felt anything but pleasant lately. He’s been trying to paint, draw, anything, really, but no ideas were making themselves known in his mind. Henry sighs, running a hand through his already messy hair as he stands, grabbing his camera and sketchbook. ‘If it’s an idea he wants, he’s apparently going to have to hunt it down.’

——

Henry finds himself moving through streets and alleys, trying to find some obscure place that might give him a hint of inspiration. He hears music coming from below him—some bar or café in what would have been a ‘basement’ of sorts. The door is open, and there’s nobody standing outside indicating that entry is limited or that IDs get checked before entry. ‘It’s the first thing that caught his interest, so he might as well test his luck here.’

He finds a wall to lean against, as most of the people present are gathered in front of the makeshift stage. For a while, he just watches the people, whether it be whatever amateur musician or band was on the stage at the moment or the crowd itself. Eventually, you and your bandmates take to the small stage. Henry recognizes you from one of his classes, but he honestly knows nothing about you.

He remembers that the two of you had talked once early on in the semester. You had been nervous to speak to him—not because of his appearance, but because you feared that he wouldn’t want to speak with you, as you’d hastily and awkwardly confessed that day. You had wanted to talk about something he’d said during class, about the way he viewed some particular piece of art. Looking back, he supposes it was a nice enough conversation.

Henry was torn from his thoughts by the music starting back up again, this time with you at the forefront of it all. From the moment you had started singing, he found that his emotions were at the mercy of your voice, that it’s so full of emotion that he couldn’t stop listening. He couldn’t stop looking, either.

Maybe he was so desperate for an idea that he didn’t think about how it could be noticed by others—a random guy against a wall away from the crowd taking a singular picture of someone performing—but he needed to make sure this moment stayed fresh in his mind. It wasn’t even your immediate appearance that captivated him, it was your voice, the way it blended so perfectly with the music and sent a rush of emotion to everyone that heard it. All that Henry knew was that he had to paint this experience, paint you, paint your voice. How he’d paint a voice, he isn’t sure yet; but he knows he has to.

——

Henry was sitting outside his next lecture that next Monday, on draft god-knows-what-now of trying to figure out how to visualize the sound of your voice in his sketchbook. He has the basic scene sketch down perfectly, the placement of the crowd, of your bandmates, of you. You. It’s almost a little frustrating how he can’t get your voice out of his head. Having so little emotion for so long only to have his world turned upside-down by the most moving voice he’s ever heard is jarring.

He mutters to himself as he works on his current draft. He’s so absorbed in getting everything right that he doesn’t even notice you arriving until your shadow obscures the light in front of him.

He looks up at you, and you point at the sketchbook. “What’re you drawing?” Henry answers with a shrug, not entirely sure how you’d react if you knew he was drawing you. ‘He’s glad he hasn’t gotten to drawing the details of the scene yet.’

You nod at his half-assed answer and chuckle. “Whatever it is, it looks good so far. Henry, right? We talked once a few weeks back, I think.” Henry mutters a “thanks, and yeah” and you continue, “I saw you while I was performing over the weekend. I’ve never seen you around there before; you decide to follow me or something?” Your voice was light, as was your expression—though he could still hear the richness and depth that was present as you sang, just a bit more subtle.

“Nah. Went on a walk tryin’ to find somethin’ to paint,” he explains, not knowing if he should tell the whole truth yet.

You point to the spot next to him on the bench, a silent request to sit there, and he nods. “Looks like you found an idea, since you’re drawing,” you gesture to his sketchbook again before pulling out a notebook of your own. It’s filled with music—hand-written notations that are entirely unfamiliar to Henry, but he can’t help but notice how they look like both a language and some sort of equation at once.

You notice him looking, and decide to explain. “My homework for my next class. We had to find a piece that resonated with or moved us and describe what we felt as we listened, using our musical knowledge to help with descriptions. I copied the notation down because I wanted to have a visual example of some of the parts that I’d like to try and replicate the feeling of. I was drawn to Henry Cowell’s The Banshee—which looks crazy on paper because it sort of is—because of how it mimics the sounds of distant screams and wails. It’s a bone-chilling piece, really; very ominous, and wildly beautiful.”

Henry just looks at you for a moment, pensive, before he nods a little. “Sounds neat. I don’t really get how an instrument can sound like screamin’, but what do I know?” He looks back to his sketchbook and continues sketching.

He doesn’t see it, but you nod. “I may or may not have burned a CD with it and a handful of other creepy old songs. I could lend it to you if you want,” you pause for a few seconds, “but, uh, obviously if you’re not interested, I’ll leave you alone.” He hears your voice falter, and he hears you move—you’re probably shrinking in on yourself, thinking he doesn’t care or wasn’t interested in any of what you had just said. ‘He really needs to get better at communicating.’

He pauses his sketching to look at you, and he was right; you’re now sat criss-cross beside him, your posture slumped and deflated. “That’d be cool,” Henry half mumbles to himself—you hear, and your head turns towards him again as he continues, “listenin’ to it, I mean. You seemed to enjoy talkin’ about it, and…”

Your eyebrows furrow, waiting for him to continue. He doesn’t. He can’t confess that hearing you sing over the weekend was the first time he’d felt something in a good while, that he wants to feel again, and that he already believes he can trust you to bring him those emotions. Before you can say anything more, students start shuffling out of the lecture hall the two of you are sitting outside of. Henry looks up and notices that some mutual classmates have arrived and are waiting for class to start, just like you both are.

You take a deep breath to compose yourself in preparation for class. Henry sees you adjust your posture, watches your expression change to something seemingly lighter—witnesses you putting on a façade or mask that was so unlike how you had just been as you stand up. You look down at him again with a small, rehearsed smile on your face. “I’ll get that CD to you before class Wednesday,” and with that, you disappear into the crowd of students entering the lecture hall.

——

Henry sees you on the same bench the two of you had sat at Monday. You don’t notice him; you’re far too absorbed in humming to yourself and writing in your notebook. Henry thinks about making himself known the way you had then, but… based on the few times you’ve interacted, you seem like the anxious type, so you might startle easily. He decides then to just go and sit next to you. You continue to be unaware of his presence.

“Hey. Earth to songbird?” Henry moves to wave one of his hands in your line of sight.

You finally snap to attention, turning to face him. After a second, your eyebrows furrow lightly. “Songbird?”

“You’ve got a nice voice like one,” is all he says in reply.

You chuckle, a subtle half-smile on your face—more genuine than the one he’d seen the other day. “Fair enough, I guess.” A moment of quiet passes before a small “ah” of realization leaves your lips, and you look through your bag, pulling out a CD case and holding it out to him. “You said you wanted to listen to that song I recommended, right? I brought the CD like I said I would.”

He takes the CD from your hand. “I’ll be sure to give it back when I’m done with it.” You nod in response. A beat of comfortable silence passes before a question rings in Henry’s mind, “What were you writin’ that had you so distracted, anyway?”

You look back at the notebook in your lap and sigh. “I’ve been trying to find a feeling to put into music. I usually don’t have any problem with it, but I just… I haven’t been able to really- to really find a feeling, y’know? I have a place to start but I have no idea where I wanna go with it.”

The look on your face—at least, what he can still see—is frustrated, but more than that, you look lost. He recognizes that feeling; he was dealing with it for a long while up until this past weekend. Henry wonders if he should ask you if you want to hang out, become more than just classroom acquaintances—become friends. Instead, he empathizes. “Yeah, I know how that feels. I was in a similar spot over the weekend, just couldn’t get myself to paint.”

You turn your head back towards him, and he can see that, behind the empathy in your gaze, you want to connect with him, to let yourself get close. But he can also see fear in your eyes, a caution that’s keeping you just out of reach. You nod a little, a soft, self-reassuring smile making its way onto your face, “Yeah. I’ll find something eventually, though. I always do.”

Henry just nods in acknowledgement. The two of you sit in a relatively comfortable silence, choosing to spend the rest of your time before class in your own little worlds; you scribble in the margins of your notebook, and Henry turns to a new page in his sketchbook, deciding to do some rough sketches of the people around him.

But he still can’t shake the thought of your singing. He still doesn’t know how to visualize your voice from that day. He’d have a better idea of it if you spoke the way you sang. He wants to hear you sing again—he may need to.

——

Henry gets back to his little apartment late that afternoon. As he sets his stuff down, he hears an unfamiliar clack of plastic. He opens his bag and finds the CD you’d lent him. Upon taking a closer look, he sees a perfectly cut piece of paper taped against the backside of the case—you had written out the titles, composers, and durations of every song that you had put on the disc, with The Banshee being first. ‘Might as well give it a listen.’

He grabs his portable CD player and headphones, takes whatever disc had been in there the last time he’d listened to music while painting out, and puts yours in. He presses play and is almost immediately met with discordant sound that ignites a feeling of almost primal dread in his soul.

He realizes that you were right about the piece sounding like screams and wails. He allows himself to get lost in the haunting music you’ve put onto the disc. Once the music clicks off, Henry mindlessly gets up and grabs some leftover unused watercolor paper—not his usual medium of choice, but it fits the inspiration that struck him.

He cuts the watercolor paper to roughly fit the size of the CD case, a little bigger, if anything. He absentmindedly grabs his watercolors and starts working, creating an ‘album cover’ of sorts for the CD case. The scene he imagined and had started to sketch was simple enough: a dark, ‘foggy’ graveyard, nothing there but the graves themselves and a large tree.

By the time Henry’s finished, he’s actually a little proud of the final product. He thinks he managed to capture that feeling of ominous dread he heard in the music on the page. He cleans up his stuff and leaves the watercolor to dry on his desk.

It’s only as he’s lying in bed to sleep that he realizes that, once again, something you’ve done has caused him to feel. ‘What is it about you that makes him feel so intensely?’

…

He’s asleep before he has a chance to think about it more.

——

It’s been a week since all of this started—since Henry had felt something deep, something more than just a passing feeling. It’s even about the same time he’d left to go on the walk he took that led him to your voice, the catalyst of everything that’s happened.

He decides he might as well go see if you’re there again. He makes sure to grab his sketchbook, along with the CD you gave him—now with the cover art that he made the other day.

As Henry starts walking back to that place, he finds himself holding onto the CD in his coat pocket a little tighter than he expected to be. He wants you to like it, he wants to see your soul the way he had last week.

As he arrives, though, he notices a small group of people standing outside and talking. As he gets closer, he recognizes the ones whose faces he sees as your bandmates, and he watches them laugh a bit before making their way inside, leaving one person—you—standing there alone.

You turn around, and he sees your eyes widen. “Henry! I wasn’t expecting to see you here again.” One of your hands finds the back of your neck as you stand there awkwardly.

He stops and leans against the wall opposite the building’s entrance. “What were your friends laughin’ about before they went inside?” Henry gestures vaguely towards the door.

You break eye contact, choosing instead to stare at your shoes for a few seconds before sighing. You look back up—but not at him—as you start to explain. “They apparently noticed you last week, too. They think you’re… they think you’re a boyfriend I’ve been ‘hiding’ or some shit like that. I tried telling them that you’re just a guy from a class I’m in, but I don’t think they believe me. They laughed when they saw you walking up because they were teasing me that ‘my boyfriend was here’. It’s a little awkward, but I think they’re just… hoping they aren’t the only people I talk to on a regular basis…”

Henry looks at you for a few seconds before moving to grab and light a cigarette. “You don’t really have friends either, then?” You shake your head, a sad look making its way onto your face. He looks at his cigarette and back to you. “Want one?”

“I don’t really like to smoke, and I don’t smoke cigarettes,” is all you respond with. An odd specification to make, but he isn’t about to bring it up.

A few long moments of silence pass. “You singin’ tonight?”

“Nah. We show up every week, though, to support the other bands that go up,” you explain, finally having met his eyes again. He just nods in understanding as he smokes.

Suddenly, he remembers the CD in his pocket. He moves his cigarette to the other hand and grabs the disc, making sure that, when he holds it out to you, the side with the song names is facing you. “Here’s that CD back, by the way.”

You grab it, and he feels your fingertips graze against his for an instant—he hopes you don’t notice the way he tensed up at the sudden contact, or at least that you don’t comment on it. Luckily, you say nothing, instead turning the case over and moving to open it and verify the presence of the disc—likely out of habit—but you freeze when you see the new addition to the case.

Henry pays close attention to your expression—completely forgetting about the cigarette between his fingers—noticing the surprise first, and then contemplation as he sees you observe the art piece. You meet his gaze again, this time with a look he hasn’t seen; he can’t tell if it’s excitement or something closer to joy, but he swears he can see stars in your eyes. “Did you- did you make this?” Even the specific tone of your voice is new to his ears.

He nods. “Yeah. Couldn’t get it out of my head after listenin’ to all those songs. I hope I didn’t overstep or somethin’ or—”

You cut him off, “It’s- it’s amazing, Henry. I don’t think I could have described the feeling of the music in words, much less articulate it visually.”

Maybe a minute of silence passes before Henry sees your eyes get glassy with tears and hands start shaking. Before he can process the situation, you’re muttering “sorry”s and running off somewhere. By the time he’s fully realized what just happened, he knows he wouldn’t be able to find you again. He doesn’t even know what he’d do if he managed to.

It’s now that he notices that he’s still holding his cigarette, and it’s still burning. He pushes his sleeve up, briefly wincing at the sensation as he puts it out on his forearm, and then he walks back home, that familiar, blank, black pit creeping its way back into his soul.

——

‘You ran. You ran from the one person your age that you were able to get close to. What kind of pathetic coward are you?!’ Is all you can hear in your mind. All you feel is shame and fear as your own mind ridicules you.

‘I mean, come on. Henry did something nice for you—he made the playlist you lent him an album cover just because, for fuck’s sake—and all you did was run away and start crying like a baby. He’s not gonna wanna talk to you anymore after freaking out like that.’

Your mind’s self-deprecating assault continues even as you clumsily enter your apartment. You lock the door as everything you’d held back while running breaks free, tears readily falling from your eyes as you sob. All you want right now is for everything to stop. You hate that you keep feeling like this. ‘This cycle is just gonna keep repeating, isn’t it? What’s even the point of all of this? What could possibly be the point of living if it only ever hurts? Why shouldn’t you just get this over with, force the end of the cycle by ending the pain entirely?’

You barely notice that you’re practically tearing off your jacket and hastily pulling up your sleeves, allowing you to start digging your nails into your forearms; the pain doesn’t do much of anything. You need more to ground yourself, part of you knows that, but you’re stuck on the floor clawing at your arms.

It isn’t until a few hours later—when you’ve exhausted yourself entirely and are left with nothing to feel but empty and exhausted—that you realize you have some blood under your nails and along some of your scratches. You can’t care enough to clean the wounds right now.

You’ve managed to move to lay on top of your bed, and you fall asleep praying to something, anything, that Henry doesn’t hate you as much as you do right now.

——

It’s been exactly two weeks. Henry has only seen you in short glimpses, like a ghost. On the same day as this past week he’s gone to that dive, hoping to hear you sing again, but with no luck. He never even saw you. Only your bandmates. He made sure they didn’t notice him.

He’s there now, sitting at one of the tables near the back, hoping you’ll get on that stage and sing again. He doesn’t see you at all, even as he watches your bandmates get ready on stage.

His head is down, focused on his sketchbook when the music starts—when he finally hears you again. The song is more solemn, darker, but your voice carries that openness to your soul that it did the first time he heard you. Now that he’s hearing you again, he’s finally getting a visual of how your voice sounds.

Henry opens his sketchbook, and flips to the most recent page that he had drawn you in. He starts sketching lines—wavy lines, almost like sound waves—but the way he sees it, those lines would be ever so slightly distorting the world around it. Because that’s how your voice makes him feel: like reality around him is being moved by the sound of your voice alone. ‘He’ll have to redo the sketch to recreate that appearance, but he doesn’t mind.’

…

A few minutes pass where he doesn’t see you once you’re done performing. But then you walk right past him—he can’t help but reach for you and grab your forearm lightly. You whip around, looking ready to snap when you see that it’s him, and then he watches your expression turn into something more sad, more anxious.

Henry doesn’t even know how to begin to talk to you now, so he just lightly tugs your arm, pulling you closer. “Why’d you just leave like that…?” He sees that glassy look starting to form in your eyes again, sees you start to shake subtly. “Don’t run again- please don’t run again…” he doesn’t realize the pleading look he has on his face.

You try to take a deep breath, still shaky. “Not here… please, Henry, not here. There- there’s too many people here, please.”

“Where, then?” He’s just lost at this point, he just wants you to stay. He’s willing to go just about anywhere if it means you won’t leave.

“Home.” And with that, you practically start dragging him along behind you—he barely manages to grab his sketchbook in his free hand and holds onto it for dear life.

The next few minutes are long and far too quiet; the kind of quiet that slowly sinks into you and starts to eat you alive. But he has nothing to say, so he continues to follow. Eventually, you unlock the door to your apartment and yank him inside, quickly locking the door behind you.

You sit down on the other side of the small apartment, curling your knees to your chest, rocking gently back and forth, your nails digging into your forearms over the sleeves of your shirt. You haven’t looked at him at all since he’d grabbed your arm. Henry slowly walks towards you, stopping and sitting a foot or two from you to give you some space. “What’s goin’ on? Why’d you run after I gave your CD back?”

Your mouth opens, but you choke up, and he sees one of your hands go up to your mouth as you bite down on the part of your hand between the joint of your thumb and your wrist. Not hard enough to do damage, but clearly enough to hurt. ‘Enough to hurt… that’s probably why you’re doing it.’

“Please, songbird, just- just tell me what happened or what you need. I don’t know if I can help much but at least let me try,” he pleads.

You go back to digging your nails into your forearms. “Why the fuck are you even here? Why haven’t you left? Why-” your voice breaks, “why did you keep looking for me?” You don’t give him a chance to respond before you keep talking. “Why would you even wanna look for a coward like me, Henry?!”

Whether you realized it or not, at some point while you spoke, you had shoved your sleeves up to your elbows, clawing at the still raw flesh of your forearms. Henry sees the scabs and some shallow scars across them. ‘This must be some sort of equivalent to him putting cigarettes out on himself.’ He doesn’t know what to say, so he just slowly reaches towards you, resting a hand on your knee. That contact is what causes the tears to flood from your eyes.

You look down, notice your forearms, and scramble to cover them back up. Henry reacts in time to stop you, gently holding your hands in his, causing further sad whimpers from you. ‘It’s crushing watching you fall apart like this—hearing your voice crack and break with each wail.’

“You don’t gotta be ashamed of havin’ those,” he pauses to move one of your hands so both of yours are in only one of his, then, after taking a breath, he rolls up that sleeve, “I’ve got scars, too, birdie.”

You try and blink some of the tears away, but the moment you catch the slightest glimpse of the cigarette scars littering his own forearm, you start crying again. All he can really do at this point is sit here with you; so he does, moving again to let his thumbs rub soft circles into your arms. After a while, your sobs start to slow down and turn more into sniffles. “M’sorry,” you mumble, finally breaking the silence, “m’sorry, Henry…”

“You got nothin’ to be sorry for, songbird.”

“Yeah, I do… you did something really nice for me out of nowhere and it made me really happy but then I just- I just got so scared that you’d eventually get sick of me and leave me alone. And- and I don’t wanna be alone anymore, Henry… I just don’t know how to- how to be close to somebody without being terrified that they’re gonna leave all the time. I didn’t wanna run from you… I really, really didn’t; but I was so worried you’d see me get so emotional and want nothing to do with me anymore.”

Henry doesn’t notice it, but his expression softens. “I sorta get what you mean. I was… a lot more scared to give you that CD back than I thought I’d be—I thought you were gonna get creeped out.”

Your eyes, reddened from crying, meet his, and he sees you chuckle lightly, although you don’t say anything. He notices that, while your body language shows primarily exhaustion, you’re slowly but surely starting to relax into his touch, and you’ve moved to sit criss-cross instead of having your knees to your chest.

Though, shortly after, one of your hands carefully moves to ghost over the scars on Henry’s own forearm. You mutter—possibly to yourself—“From your cigarettes.” Your thumb grazes the one from two weeks ago, and your brows knit in concern as you look down. “This one’s recent,” you mumble, frowning a touch.

“Yeah,” his voice is slightly hushed, “I’m okay, though.”

You make eye contact again, nervous. “Are you sure?” He just nods in response, and your eyes drift back down to your arms.

This time, the silence is more comfortable—albeit still heavy. A few minutes pass of the two of you absentmindedly caressing the other’s scars before Henry speaks, voice soft. “Is there anything you need, songbird?”

You nod silently. “What is it? I can try and find water or somethin’, or food…” but you let go of his arm and just hold your arms out. It takes him a minute to process your request before he gently wraps his arms around you, pulling you close. He feels you practically melt into him as you hug back and your face instinctively nuzzles into his shoulder.

Such emotionally intimate contact is something he hasn’t really had in at least a few months. Henry feels a gentle warmth blooming in his chest as he leans his head against yours. One of his hands absentmindedly moves to play with your hair, and you let out a pleased hum. There’s a few seconds of silence before your voice—softer and more gentle than he’s heard before—graces his ears. “Thank you, Henry.”

“I don’t think I did all that much to help,” he retorts, and he feels you chuckle once against his shoulder.

“You stayed… that was the best thing you could do. And I was thanking you for the art you made for my CD case, too. It’s beautiful.” Your arms squeeze around him just a little as a physical expression of gratitude.

The warmth in his chest grows at your admission of liking the art he had made for you. “I’m glad you like it, birdie.”

…

He’s not sure how long the two of you stayed like that—holding each other like if either of you let go, the other would just disappear. But you did part eventually. Henry had made a call to order pizza for both of you, and you insisted on paying since it was being delivered to your place and you had been the one who had dragged him here anyway.

The two of you ate and talked to each other about art—from paintings and sculptures to music and film—giving analyses of your favorite pieces and hearing what the other thinks about it. It’s the first time in a few weeks that either of you have felt more than the familiar emptiness that tended to consume each of you.

Henry finally leaves, telling you he’ll see you before class on Monday, and you agree. Once he gets his bearings on where exactly he is, he makes his way to the nearest subway station to head back to his apartment.

You don’t know that Henry plans to continue creating his draft sketch of the moment he heard you sing—when your voice bent and changed his reality. And he doesn’t know that you’ve opened your music notebook and started composing, wanting to capture the feelings of today in song; a feeling of panic and dread and regret turning into exhaustion before ending in a place of comfort and safety.

Neither of you get much sleep that night, far too absorbed in working, almost obsessed with the idea of replicating these emotions you’re both feeling.

You both still have a day to catch up on sleep before the week starts again, anyway.