s. 𖤝

MIKE DECIDES, VERY MATURELY, THAT IF HE KEEPS STARING AT THE BACK OF YOUR HEAD LONG ENOUGH MAYBE YOU’LL FEEL IT AND TURN AROUND AND APOLOGIZE.

this is a flawed plan for several reasons, chief among them being:

1. you are extremely stubborn.

2. mike is also extremely stubborn.

3. the back of your head is currently doing absolutely nothing wrong.

the back of your head, for the record, actually looks exactly the same as it always does. same stupidly neat part. same little flyaway near your crown. same hoodie hood bunched awkwardly against the plastic back of the chair. there is nothing visually new here. the back of your head, unfortunately, is being extremely smug about it.

mike knows this makes no sense. heads cannot be smug. hair cannot be smug. posture, however, can absolutely be smug, and yours is doing that thing where you’re sitting a little straighter than necessary, shoulders squared like you’ve just made a decision and are standing by it. which, frankly, feels hostile. you are three seats to his right now. three. you were supposed to be directly next to him. that was the plan. the agreed-upon, verbally confirmed, nodded-at plan. mrs. smith had clapped her hands and said, “same partners as last time.” which is teacher-speak for don’t make this my problem.

you had already turned halfway toward him, prepared, bag half-unzipped, notebook sliding off your desk. ready. normal. mike had even pulled his chair a few inches closer, which he now recognizes as a mistake of optimism. then he’d said calmly, reasonably, “we should probably split the sections this time instead of doing it your way again.”

your eyebrows had gone up a little. warning eyebrows. “my way?” you’d asked.

“yeah,” he’d said. “you know. where you redo everything at the end.”

which, okay. maybe not phrased perfectly. but still true. mostly.

you’d stared at him for a second like you were deciding whether to laugh or set something on fire. “i redo it because you overcomplicate it.”

“i don’t overcomplicate it!” mike had shot back immediately. reflexively.

it had gone downhill from there fast. words piling up, tones sharpening, that horrible awareness creeping in that everyone around you was absolutely listening. someone had actually said “yikes” under their breath. mike is choosing not to remember who. then, this is the part that keeps looping, you had closed your notebook. stood up. said, “fine. then i’ll work with someone else.” and you had moved, just like that. chair scraping, backpack swinging onto your shoulder. mike’s stomach had dropped somewhere near his shoes.

okay. okay. that was dramatic. he tells himself this now, again, because it’s important that someone in this situation be reasonable. and since you clearly weren’t—

you lean toward the guy you’re sitting next to now. mark? matt? something with an m. he has a soft-looking face and one of those mechanical pencils that clicks too loud. mike hates him already. mrs. smith is passing out the assignment sheets, one lands on mike’s desk. he barely looks at it. his leg is bouncing now, aggressive, like it’s trying to kick the desk out from under him.

he knows logically that you are allowed to work with other people. he knows that. he is not insane. this is not about ownership or control or whatever accusation is trying to form at the back of his mind. this is about fairness. you were a team. a unit. you fight a lot, sure, but that’s because you actually talk to each other. argue. care. he’s pretty sure most people don’t bother. most people don’t bother, and that’s the thing, because you bother. you always have. you argue back. you push. you don’t just nod along and let things slide, which is, objectively, better. healthier. probably. mike read something about that once. or maybe will said it. same difference.

you didn’t have to switch. you chose to. which means you were making a point. which means the fight earlier mattered more to you than the project. which means you escalated it. there. logic.

you and mike always partner together. this is not a rule written down anywhere, but it might as well be. it’s been like that since forever. since the science fair volcano that almost set the gym on fire. since the history presentation where you’d forgotten your note cards and mike had filled in without even looking at you and you’d mouthed thank you. you fight, sure. constantly. about everything. font sizes. directions. whether something needs more explanation. whether something needs less explanation. you once didn’t talk for half a day because you disagreed about whether posters should be portrait or landscape. but you always circle back. always end up on the same side of the table, papers overlapping, shoulders knocking together. that’s just how it works.

except apparently not today.

the guy—mark. matt. mason. mike decides his name is mason because it feels annoying—laughs. what is so funny. wheeler tries to tell himself it’s fine, that you’re just being dramatic. that you stood up because you wanted to make a point, not because you actually wanted to switch partners. a power move. a statement. you do those sometimes. so does he. it’s basically communication at this point. you’ll come back after class. or tomorrow. you’ll say something like, “okay, that got out of hand.” and mike will say, “yeah, but you started it.” and you’ll roll your eyes and then you’ll be fine.

he doesn’t even know why he’s this mad, he just is. it’s physical at this point. probably just stress. or something. but come on, it’s mason (whoever that is) of all people.

the partner he’s been forced to accept today, unfortunate stand-in for you, asks him a question. mike snaps. “uh… yeah. that. sure, whatever.” tone dismissive. he doesn’t even read the words correctly, he doesn’t care. the answer is irrelevant. he doesn’t want to be partnered with him. he wants you. this is ridiculous. everyone can see it’s ridiculous. he can see it. he can feel it. that’s why his face is hot, a little vein in his temple ticking like a moron. but it’s okay because historically every time this kind of thing happens you always come back to him so he can sit there and be mad for now. it’s a perfectly logical plan. he leans forward and jabs his pen down, leaving a hole in the paper.

this is normal.

this—fighting, snapping, sulking, refusing to look at each other for an entire class period while aggressively pretending you don’t care—is basically your thing. has been for years. practically tradition, like d&d nights or bike rides or arguing over which movie to rent until family video closes and someone (usually him) storms out dramatically. this is not new. this is not a problem. this is just how you interact.

he stares down at the hole in his paper, exhales through his nose, and adjusts the notebook so it’s covering it. no reason to draw attention. he’s not angry-angry, he’s just firmly displeased. there’s a difference. a very adult difference. someone behind him keeps tapping their foot, the clock ticks too loudly, the teacher is explaining the assignment again even though she already explained it and mike already knows it because he read the board and also because he always knows what the assignment is. he just doesn’t want to do it with this guy.

he glances at his emphasis-on-replacement partner. the kid, nameless, probably wrong too, has his worksheet tilted at a dumb angle, like he doesn’t even understand basic desk geometry. mike sighs and straightens the paper, looking for any small petty reason to get upset over. you would never place it like that, he thinks. you like things neat when you’re trying to make a point, which you were. earlier. when you stood up and moved. his jaw tightens at the memory. you didn’t even look at him when you did it, just gathered your things, chair scraping against the floor, backpack strap sliding off your shoulder because you were annoyed and didn’t fix it.

he writes his name on the worksheet, presses a little too hard, then forces himself to lighten up before he sneaks another look at you. you’re leaned toward mason, your elbow on the desk, chin resting on your hand like you’re actually invested in what he’s saying. which is ridiculous, because mason is not interesting. mike knows this for sure, definitely. he’s known mason-type people his whole life. they exist to fill chairs.

he looks back down, flips the worksheet over, and scans the questions. it’s a group project about—something. it honestly doesn’t matter. what matters is that you were supposed to be doing this together, because you always do. his partner clears his throat. “so… question two?”

mike blinks, dragged back to the present. “yeah. sure.” he reads the question this time, answers it curtly. he’s good at this. being competent when he wants to prove a point.

out of the corner of his eye he sees you gesture with your pen. he remembers another time last year when you’d argued with him with the same expression. you’d been right then, too, which he’d admitted after three hours and one apology pizza. you’ll come back, he reassures himself. you always do. you get mad, you storm off, you make a show of it. then later you circle back like nothing happened, or like something happened but you’ve both decided not to talk about it because that’s easier. that’s friendship. real friendship. not whatever mason is offering.

he sits up straighter, posture screaming i am fine, because he is. this totally doesn’t bother him. it’s just a fight. fights mean you care enough to have them. he glances at you again. your laugh this time is softer, different. something twists unpleasantly in his chest. he ignores it. probably indigestion. he focuses harder on the paper, scribbling notes, answers, bullet points. his handwriting is messier than usual. whatever. he’ll clean it up later.

five minutes later mike is pretty sure the clock is ticking slower on purpose, just to mess with him. the second hand drags like it’s trudging through mud. he stares at it for a solid ten seconds, decides that was a mistake, and looks back down at his paper instead. he’s alert. engaged. a scholar. definitely not counting down the seconds until he can stand up and reestablish the natural order of things. you’re bent over mason’s desk now, whispering something. whispering. okay. sure. totally necessary. the class is allowed to discuss out loud, but yeah, lean in closer.

ten more minutes, he estimates. maybe eight. the teacher is droning on about expectations and due dates and “collaboration.” mike knows how to collaborate. he’s excellent at it. you just have to follow the rules. the obvious ones, like if you always work together you don’t suddenly stop because of one argument!

he tries to remember a time when you didn’t circle back. there isn’t one. even the bad ones—like that fight sophomore year about the campaign notes, or the one where you accused him of “always needing to be right” (unfair, and also incorrect)—you’d still waited for him after class. arms crossed, foot tapping, face set in that stubborn way that meant i’m mad but i’m not leaving. he’d apologized eventually. or half-apologized. or explained his side until you sighed and said, “okay, whatever.” same difference.

he clings to that. you’ll wait. you always do.

the bell rings, too loud. seriously, who decided that volume. mike startles, then immediately stands like he’s been coiled up and waiting. he doesn’t rush—he’s not obvious—but he’s efficient. notebook closed, pen capped, backpack open, closed, slung over one shoulder. he looks up. you’re already out of your seat.

okay, fine. no big deal. you’re just eager. you always get like that when you’re annoyed. restless. he watches you shove your chair in with more force than necessary. yeah. you’re still mad. good. that means this is still a normal fight. he steps into the aisle, timing it so he’ll catch up with you near the door. that’s the move. that’s how this goes. you’ll slow down just enough, he’ll fall into step beside you, and there will be a tense but familiar silence as you walk to your next class together. maybe he’ll say something neutral. maybe you won’t answer. progress.

except; you don’t slow down. you don’t look back. you walk straight out, turn, and keep going like you’ve got somewhere important to be that does not include him. mike stops short like his brain has to buffer. he stares after you, watching the back of your head disappear into the hallway traffic. there’s a flicker of confusion first followed immediately by indignation.

oh.

so that’s how it is.

his jaw tightens while heat crawls up his neck and settles behind his ears. wow. okay. wow. now this isn’t just dramatic, now it’s rude. he swings his backpack higher on his shoulder and strides into the hall, eyes locked on your retreating figure. he still expects you’ll glance back, even now. even at the last second. you don’t. you turn the corner and you’re gone. something twists in his chest. indigestion, probably. maybe he shouldn’t have had that second slice of pizza.

he slows his pace. no reason to chase, he’s not chasing. he’s reassessing, because clearly you’ve escalated. clearly you’re making a point, and fine. two can do that. he was still going to walk you to class, he thinks, irritation flaring hotter now. he was being nice. he was being mature. he was willing to reset without making a big deal out of it and you didn’t even give him the chance. unbelievable!

if you think you can just walk off and pretend he doesn’t exist? fine.

he can play that game too.

he lasts fourteen minutes.

just kidding, it’s more like forty. he does sit through the rest of the day (which consists of: one class. congrats michael!) he answers when the teacher calls on him, he does not storm out or dramatically brood in a bathroom stall like a psycho. he behaves. which is impressive honestly. mike walks through one hallway, sits through a lesson without sleeping, takes two pages of notes he does not remember writing, and maintains a perfectly respectable level of not-caring. his foot only taps a little. his eyes only drift to the clock every twenty seconds, which is normal.

when the final bell rings obviously he leaves immediately, because you always go home together too, and because biking home together is not a favor or a gesture or some kind of emotional olive branch. it’s a routine. you live in the same direction, you’ve been doing it since sophomore year. deviating from that would be stupid and impractical and also a waste of perfectly good momentum. so he’s outside your classroom before you are.

he leans against the wall, arms crossed casually. approachable. the picture of someone who did not sprint down the hallway with his heart thumping like he’d missed a step on the stairs. students pour out of the room in clusters. laughter, lockers slamming, someone shouting about homework. mike scans faces without meaning to and spots you. there it is again, that small, stupid, annoying lift in his chest. relief probably. relief that the day can resume its normal programming. he straightens without realizing he’d slouched, uncrosses his arms, then crosses them again because that looked weird.

you slow just enough that he can catch up without it looking like either of you planned this, which is good. that’s important. mike immediately clocks this as you folding first, which feels correct and earned. when he falls into step beside you there’s a beat of silence. then another. mike stares straight ahead, expression neutral in a way that is meant to read calm but probably reads like he’s thinking about revenge. which he is not. he’s thinking about how normal this is, the post-fight truce walk. the ceasefire before negotiations break down again. “so,” he says, because someone has to. his voice comes out even, casual. generous. “guess mason’s pretty funny, huh.”

okay. maybe not generous. but still conversational.

you don’t answer right away. that’s fine. you never do when he opens with something stupid. you’re consistent like that. mike takes your silence as confirmation that the comment landed. “or matt,” he adds magnanimously. “mark. frank. whatever his name is.”

you give him that familiar look, half warning, half challenge. he’s seen it in hallways, in basements, in the middle of arguments that start about homework and end about everything else. it’s practically nostalgic. “how’s your project going?” you deflect.

right, okay. that’s what we’re doing. selective amnesia. aggressive topic pivot. he recognizes it immediately and absolutely takes it personally. “uh,” he pauses, because he has to reroute his entire thought process. “fine.” which is true. objectively. fine. “we’re outlining. research stuff.”

this is generous phrasing. his partner’s name—something with a j, maybe—mostly stared at the worksheet like it had his entire family held captive at home. mike filled in most of it himself, fueled by spite and a need to prove he can function without you. which he can. obviously. he’s doing it right now.

you nod like that answers everything, like you didn’t just sidestep the entire issue and leave him standing there holding it. whatever. he can do normal. he’s excellent at normal. you start walking toward the bike racks and he falls into step beside you, because that’s also normal. the late afternoon air outside smells like grass that’s been trampled all day.. “so,” you start, lighter now. “we’re doing the renewable energy thing. solar panels. matthew found this article—”

so that’s his name. well, fuck matthew. why would he give a shit about matthew? “matthew.” he repeats neutrally, inquisitive. a scientist examining a specimen.

you glance at him, probably sensing something. good. he wants you to sense something. “yeah,” you reply, unfazed. “he’s actually not dumb.”

“wow. high praise.”

you shoot him a look. “don’t.”

“don’t what,” he says immediately. it’s like his mouth is on autopilot. “agree?”

you shake your head, lips twitching despite yourself. “ass.”

there it is, rhythm restored. banter re-engaged. proof that everything’s fine. they reach the bike racks. mike leans his bike out of its slot and rests one foot on the curb. he tells himself very clearly that this is the part where he shuts up. that he lets it go, that he proves he’s mature. he lasts maybe twelve seconds. “i just think it’s funny,” he continues, casual as anything, eyes on his handlebars, because mike wheeler can never stop himself from pushing buttons, “how you suddenly care about other people’s opinions when you didn’t even let me finish my sentence earlier.”

you freeze mid-unlock to slowly look at him. “i did let you finish. you just kept talking.”

“because you were wrong.” he replies automatically. your eyebrows lift. there it is again, that look. the one that says oh, so that’s the hill you’re dying on. mike clocks it and, instead of reassessing like a reasonable person, he doubles down because retreating now would imply regret, and regret implies fault, and fault is not on the table. “i mean, you didn’t have to storm off. it was dramatic.”

“you weren’t listening!”

that’s—okay. that’s unfair. mike always listens. he just doesn’t always agree, which is different and more honest. “i was listening,” he insists, offended. “i just didn’t agree with you.”

“you never agree with me.”

“that’s not true.”

“mike.”

he stops walking. the bikes roll to a halt, tires scraping against the pavement. people pass around you, voices and footsteps blurring into background noise, but the space between you feels suddenly very loud. “that’s not true.” he repeats, firmer. “i agree with you all the time.”

you cross your arms. “name one.”

he opens his mouth. pauses. okay, bad question right now. his brain scrambles, rifling through memories like a disorganized file cabinet. last week? no. those ended in debates. the month before? also fights. there was that time with the movie—no, he argued about that too. okay, maybe he doesn’t have an exact point in time right now, but he knows it’s happened. “that’s not the point.

you let out a breath, frustrated. “then what is the point, mike.”

he grips his handlebars tighter. this is where it starts to feel slippery, like he’s standing on the verge of something and doesn’t know how he got there, only that backing up would look bad. “the point is that you didn’t have my back.”

“are you serious right now.”

“yeah,” he says, because apparently he is. “i am. i just thought we were a team.”

“we are not a team,” you snap. “we’re friends.”

“exactly,” he shoots back, relief flaring because yes. “friends don’t just ditch each other.”

“i didn’t ditch you!”

“you did! in the middle of class!”

“because you wouldn’t stop.”

“because you were wrong!”

he hates this part. the part where the argument shifts, where it stops being about the project or the class or mason-whatever and starts being about this. about him. about you. “i’m just saying,” he pushes, voice defensive, “you didn’t have to go partner up with some random guy to prove a point.”

“you mean matthew,” you say coldly. “who you refuse to call by his actual name.”

“because he doesn’t matter.” mike snaps.

you stare at him. “wow.”

“i didn’t mean—” he starts, then stops because, no, he did mean it. he just didn’t mean for it to sound like that. “i mean, he matters, obviously, as a person, but not—” he cuts himself off. that sentence is a dead end and he can see it now, stretching out in front of him like a pothole he’s already fallen into once. finishing it would only make it worse, and worse is not something he can handle right now. “never mind.” he mumbles, a classic mike wheeler maneuver and has literally never fixed anything, but whatever. consistency is important.

he swings his leg over his bike abruptly. he doesn’t look at you when he pushes off. looking would mean dealing, and dealing would mean emotions, and emotions are… optional. avoidable. manageable if you just don’t poke at them. this is fine, this is what people do. you leave. you cool off. you think things through in a normal, rational way. his parents are very good at this method. silence until everything goes away on its own. extremely effective and definitely healthy.

he pedals hard, faster than necessary, the chain rattling as he turns out of the lot and onto the street. houses blur past—familiar lawns, mailboxes he’s known forever, the crack in the sidewalk near the hendersons’ place that he always avoids. his brain unhelpfully keeps replaying the last thirty seconds on a loop, editing it in real time.

you shouldn’t have said that.

you didn’t say anything that bad.

okay, maybe a little bad.

but you’re right, though.

he grips the handlebars tighter. this is why he leaves. staying just leads to saying things that get misinterpreted. people taking stuff personally. him having to explain himself when he already knows what he meant.

he turns down a side street, heading toward his house, already planning the rest of the evening: bike in the garage, door shut, room, headphones. maybe a game. solid plan. then —- tires behind him. mike stiffens, shoulders tightening as he glances back before he can stop himself. it’s you. you’re pedaling fast, hair tugged loose by the wind, expression set in that determined way he recognizes immediately. the i’m not done face. the one that has historically ruined his entire plan to be alone. his first reaction is irritation. seriously? he speeds up, because obviously the solution here is to outrun the problem.

you keep pace. he pedals harder, lungs burning a little now, annoyance spiking because this was supposed to be his exit. his cool-down. his emotionally responsible retreat. you are not respecting the system. “mike!” you call. he pretends he doesn’t hear you. which is difficult, because he definitely does. “mike, slow down!”

nope. not doing that. slowing down implies engagement. except—annoyingly—you’re stubborn. and fast. and suddenly you’re right there, riding alongside him. “are you serious right now?” you demand.

he exhales sharply, finally braking because you slow to a stop in the middle of the street, forcing him to do the same unless he wants to look like a total jerk. which—fine. he does want that. a little. “what.”

“you can’t just leave.”

“watch me.”

you roll your eyes. “god, you’re such a—”

“what do you want?”

“you’re running.”

he bristles. “i’m not.”

“you are.”

“i’m going home.” he states, like that settles it.

“okay… but why are you so upset right now? seriously, this is ridiculous.”

“this is not ridiculous. it’s… it’s… you know.”

no. you don’t know. he doesn’t explain, of course. explaining would be admitting. admitting is weakness. weakness is for mason/mark/matt or something, probably. a car comes barreling down the street. mike reacts, jerking both of your bikes toward the sidewalk with one hand on yours, the other on his. “hey! what—” you start, but he cuts you off with a glance that says not today, get on the sidewalk.

he marches you both a few feet onto the concrete, rigid, as if the universe might judge him if he lets either of you wobble an inch closer to danger. after he’s sure you’re safe is when he can continue the argument, of course. he can’t just let it go. he shouldn’t let it go. loyalty is important. partnerships are sacred. and you, apparently, just switched sides. “i’m upset because you didn’t care about loyalty.” he continues.

you blink at him. “loyalty?”

“yes. loyalty. if you were loyal, you’d have stayed. you’d have stayed because it’s what we do. what we always do. and suddenly you’re over there with mark—matt—whatever his name is—and i’m left to —- to clean up! after your rebellion!”

“it’s .. a project, it’s not—”

“it is exactly like that!” he cuts in, voice rising despite himself. his hands gesture wildly for a second before he remembers he’s still holding the handlebars. “you can’t just change teams. not without warning. not without consideration. not without, i don’t know, thinking about me! that’s loyalty. protocol. history, rules, whatever.” he takes a deep breath and tries to center himself. fails. irritation bubbles into something more. “i just think that if we were really partners, really friends, really— you know, then you wouldn’t have abandoned your post. your new lab partner—he’s fine, i’m sure, but he’s not us.” he explains, throwing his hands up because now he’s desperate to justify it. “i didn’t mean—like—it’s not like—i’m not like jealous or anything! it’s just… you’re mine! i mean, you’re my partner! my project partner! my—” he freezes mid-word because yes, that sounded like a confession. maybe an insult to matthew. definitely too much. “look, what i mean is you should be loyal. to me. for the project! and… stop stopping in the middle of the road!”

you’re staring at him now, waiting. “what are you trying to say mike?”

there it is. the moment. the question. the very clear opening for him to explain himself like a normal person with functional emotional processing. he does not do that. “nothing,” he backtracks too fast, defensive the moment he feels pressure on him. “i’m not trying to say anything.”

you tilt your head. that tiny movement, the one that means you don’t believe him and are deciding whether to call him on it or let him dig his own grave. historically, you usually let him dig. great. he feels heat crawl up his neck. his mouth opens. closes. opens again. “i just—this is stupid. this whole thing is stupid. you switching partners was stupid. mason is stupid. this argument is stupid. you’re being—” he gestures vaguely.

“being what?”

“stupid!” he snaps, then winces internally because, okay, maybe that one hit a nerve. maybe his own. so he does the thing he always does when he’s cornered: doubles down. “i’m just saying that you don’t just walk away from your partne—- your friend. from me. not without talking about it. not without—without something!” he doesn’t know what the something is. acknowledgment. reassurance. him. probably him.

you’re still quiet, watching him. that’s when it hits him. the look on your face. hurt, yeah—but something else. resolve, like you’re about to turn around. like this time, you might actually leave. his stomach drops.

you’re making things worse! quick! do something!

he steps forward too close. definitely too close. he barely registers it until your breath catches, and suddenly you’re right there, eyes wide. “mike—”

he doesn’t let you finish. he kisses you. it’s not smooth. it’s not planned. it’s panic-driven and messy and absolutely not thought through. it’s quick, almost desperate, like if he doesn’t do it now he never will. for exactly one second the world stops. then his brain comes roaring back online.

he pulls back abruptly, breathing a little too fast. “i—” he starts, then stops, because there is no sentence that fixes this. “that was—i didn’t—” you’re staring at him, stunned, lips parted, not pulling away. his heart is pounding so hard it feels like he could die. “i just—” he swallows, trying to sound casual. anything but terrified. “you weren’t listening.”

objectively the worst possible explanation.

you’re still staring at him, not angry, not storming off, just blinking at him like your brain is buffering, like whatever just happened hasn’t finished loading yet. which is, honestly, fair, because his own brain is doing the exact same thing. he can practically see the question marks floating over your head. excellent. this is going so well. “you—” you start, then stop, like you’re checking your surroundings to make sure this is the right reality. “what?”

his face feels hot. his ears definitely are. this is not subtle. you can probably tell. “i mean,” he says, because apparently he’s committed to digging, “you weren’t listening. like—before. when i was explaining. the… loyalty thing.” he nods to himself like that helps, like this is a coherent continuation of a thought and not a mad-lib assembled under duress.

you just look at him. “…i was listening,” you say slowly, carefully, like you’re talking to someone who might spook. “that’s why i’m confused about why you kissed me.”

right. yes. that.

“okay, when you say it like that—” he starts, then stops again because no, there is no version of this where it sounds better. “i’m not—this wasn’t a strategy. you were looking at me like you were about to walk away again. and i—” his voice drops a notch before he can stop it. “—i didn’t want that.” too honest. he stiffens immediately, defensive instincts kicking in late but loud. “not because i need you to, like, stay. you can go wherever you want. obviously. it was just—impulse. bad impulse. i have that sometimes. clearly.”

you’re still quiet, your expression has shifted now, less stunned, more searching, like you’re trying to find the logic in his mess.

good luck with that.

“so,” you try carefully, “your explanation is… i wasn’t listening. so you kissed me.”

“when you summarize it like that it sounds worse.” he mumbles with attitude.

“mike, it sounds bad no matter how you say it.”

he rubs the back of his neck stiffly, like maybe that will fix the situation. “look, it just .. happened. sometimes impulses are stupid. it’s fine. you’ve done stuff without thinking too, right?“

you blink at him. probably should’ve been an eye-roll. instead it’s that moment where everything feels… suspended. you’re both looking at each other like your brains hit pause at the exact same time. “mike—” you begin, but your voice falters because he’s staring at your lips. no, not intentionally, he thinks, because that would be weird, but also, kind of… he can’t look away.

he’s aware of how ridiculous this is. “yeah?” there’s a pause. hovering. the mutual, unspoken, oh-god-what-do-we-do-now. and somehow, because michael wheeler has zero control over these things, his face is too close to yours. not on purpose. okay, maybe a little on purpose. but rationally, he’s just trying to make sense of the fact that impulses are stupid. you swallow. he swallows. eyes flick down, then back up, then to lips again. his brain is screaming do something!

so he does the only thing he can think of. he leans in. your lips meet, awkward and choppy at first, it’s fast. frantic. he’s embarrassed but also… too invested to stop. he’s thinking too much and not enough at the same time. it’s supposed to stop there. something you both laugh off later with a wow, that was weird and a mutual agreement to never speak of it again. instead, you make a small sound—barely anything, really—and mike’s brain short-circuits completely.

oh.

oh.

his hand comes up automatically, like muscle memory he didn’t know he had, fingers curling at the back of your neck. the kiss shifts, deepens. he’s aware that he’s leaning in. like, a lot. gravity seems to be helping. or betraying him. your lips part and he follows the opening without thinking, because thinking has proven wildly unhelpful so far. your hand slides up, fingers tangling in his hair, tugging just a little, and there is a full second where he forgets how to stand upright.

he makes a sound. hates that he makes a sound. immediately makes another one because you do it again and wow, okay, noted, apparently he likes that. a lot. his grip tightens without permission, pulling you closer, closer, closer, like proximity might explain what’s happening. he kisses you harder, less tentative, less apologetic. all that pent-up irritation, all the logic he’s been stockpiling, it just dissolves, replaced by this overwhelming need to stay here. he backs you both into something. a fence, he realizes, because suddenly there’s metal at your back and nowhere else to go, and he should probably stop—

he does not stop.

your bikes are… somewhere. behind you? beside you? irrelevant. his knee presses between yours by accident and he freezes for half a second —- then decides that if this is wrong, it’s been wrong for a while, actually, and keeps going.

he finally pulls back just enough to see your face, and wow. that’s definitely a face. your cheeks are flushed, lips still parted, eyes wide and—he’s never been more aware of eyes in his life. his brain is a blender full of why did i do that and oh god what now and this is terrible all mixed together with a small hint of but also not terrible. he’s panting. so are you. that makes everything worse because it’s proof that yes, that just happened, and yes, he was the one who did it. totally, 100% responsible.

his hands fall awkwardly to his sides. he looks down because looking at you directly is apparently lethal to his brain. blinking. too fast. okay mike. plan. exit. now. leave. leave like nothing happened. that’s his plan. genius.

“uh…okay.” he mutters, voice cracking because why wouldn’t it, and suddenly he’s backing up toward his bike. “i…i gotta…uh…ride. ride home. bike. alone. um. homework. stuff.” he grabs the handlebars like he’s holding the last lifeboat on earth, leans down, shoves one foot onto the pedal, and basically hurls himself away without looking back.

you call something, words that probably start with “mike—” and fade into general noise, but he doesn’t process it. can’t. all he can register is movement, pedaling, escape. the sweet illusion of normalcy. his brain is firmly locked in “ignore and exit” mode.

he doesn’t look back. he cannot. he will survive this. he will process it tomorrow. or next week. maybe never. that’s fine.

monday happens anyway.

by thursday it’s officially been four days, three hallways, two almost-eye-contacts, and one very deliberate detour around the water fountain near the science wing because that is your fountain now, apparently, and mike is nothing if not adaptable when under emotional duress. he tells himself this is fine. strategic, even. space is healthy. people take space all the time. mature people. adults. people who do not accidentally kiss their best friend against a fence and then flee like a cartoon character whose feet spin before taking off.

he has not spoken to you since.

this is not because he is avoiding you. it’s just that circumstances keep lining up in a way that makes talking… inconvenient, like how you turn left and he turns right. or how you’re suddenly always surrounded by people when he walks into a room. or how, one time, you looked like you were about to say something and his brain short-circuited and he pretended to be deeply invested in a poster about safe lab practices. very normal behavior.

he’s fine, by the way. he’s been excellent, actually. sleeping mostly normal. eating fine. thinking about the kiss only a reasonable amount, which is to say constantly but in a very analytical, non-emotional way, like a scientist. a scientist who keeps replaying the exact moment your hand tugged his hair. he tells himself the kiss was a fluke. an impulse. a misunderstanding. a stress response, like when you touch a hot stove except the stove is your friend and the burn is… not unpleasant? okay, bad analogy. scrap that. the point is: it didn’t mean anything. people kiss friends sometimes. probably. in europe. or in movies. or in situations where no one is thinking clearly and emotions are high and —- he stops that train of thought entirely by staring very hard at his locker combination.

he hasn’t biked with you since either, which is weird because that’s been a thing for years now. rain, snow, demodogs, government—doesn’t matter. you bike home together. except now he leaves earlier. or later. or goes a longer route “for exercise,” which is a lie he feels only mildly bad about. lucas asks once if something’s up. mike says no. the worst part, and he hates that this is the worst part, is that you haven’t chased him down! no confrontation, no cornering him after class. no “what the hell was that?” speech. which, logically, means you’re being mature. respecting boundaries, doing the healthy thing. to mike, it feels like abandonment.

you didn’t do anything wrong, you just kissed. that happens. not a big deal. you’re just friends. friends who fight. friends who accidentally kiss and then never talk about it again, apparently.

which is fine. honestly, ideal, if you think about it. mike thinks about it. a lot. silence is clean. silence doesn’t demand explanations or eye contact or that awful moment where someone asks so what was that? avoidance, on the other hand, is practical. mature. practically a coping strategy. he perfects it. he adjusts his route between classes by half a hallway so he doesn’t pass your locker. if he ducks into the library for six minutes after third period, you’ll already be gone. if he leaves math early, he won’t have to make that weird almost-eye-contact at the doors.

he tells himself that if you wanted to talk about it, you would. evidence supports this theory. you are not subtle. you never have been. you slam doors when you’re mad, you confront, you argue. you do not wait for people to figure things out. therefore, your silence must mean you agree with him: it didn’t mean anything. case closed. except sometimes he catches himself scanning the bike racks out of habit, then getting annoyed when you’re not there, like you’re the one breaking routine. he reframes this irritation immediately. he’s allowed to be annoyed. you disrupted the system. you always bike together. that’s a thing. people know it’s a thing. it’s practically tradition. so yeah, it’s inconvenient that you’re not there. that doesn’t mean he misses you. it means he dislikes inefficiency.

that’s all this is. mike wheeler, famously logical. he’s not running from anything. this is more like… strategic withdrawal. he’s choosing not to engage with a situation that offers no clear solution, which is smart. that’s what adults do. his parents avoid things all the time and they seem fine. functional. so this is learned behavior, actually. very well-adjusted if you think about it.

the wheeler boy keeps circling back to the same point because it matters: he has never thought about kissing you before. not seriously, not in a this-means-something way. sure, he’s noticed your mouth. everyone notices mouths. they’re right there. people talk with them. sometimes you stand too close. sometimes you lick your lips when you’re thinking. the kiss had to be an anomaly, stress plus proximity plus his terrible impulse control equals poor decision-making. end of story. there is no hidden subtext. if there were, he would have noticed. he’s observant. he would know if he had feelings. this, on the other hand, is just .. confusion. something he can ignore if he keeps busy.

he keeps busy.

he stays late at school under the excuse of homework. he bikes home alone faster than usual, legs burning like he’s outrunning something, which is stupid because nothing is chasing him. he rearranges his desk. reorganizes his notes. he rewrites a paper he already got an a on just to have something to focus on. his thoughts still drift but he corrals them back with irritation. every time your name pops up in his head he swats it away like a mosquito. except at night, when he’s lying in bed and the house is quiet and his brain has nothing better to do, it sneaks back in. the way you looked stunned, the way you didn’t pull away. the way his body reacted like this was something it had been waiting for, which is not true and also not something he plans to think about ever again.

he does, in fact, plan to think about it ever again. just later. future mike’s problem. current mike is busy. a week passes. then two. then enough time that it stops feeling like a fluke and starts feeling like a pattern, which he pretends not to notice. you don’t talk. he doesn’t reach out. neither of you explodes, but he interprets it generously: mutual maturity. growth. personal development. definitely not two stubborn people in a staring contest where no one wants to blink first.

he starts making plans without you. movie nights get scheduled before he remembers to check if you’re free. d&d sessions you never know about. he bikes with the others home again now instead. this is fine, friendships evolve. people grow apart. that’s a thing that happens. a couple months pass. winter thaws into spring and suddenly prom flyers start appearing on lockers like a disease. pink paper, glittery fonts, a crime against dignity. mike hates it on principle. hates the idea of tuxes and loud music and pretending any of this matters. he hates dances. he hates slow songs. he hates the concept of asking someone to something that already comes with expectations attached. he especially hates the way your name still shows up in his head when people talk about dates.

“are you going?” lucas asks one afternoon.

mike looks disgusted. “no. prom’s stupid.”

he wouldn’t go even if everything were normal. he didn’t go last time. he didn’t miss it. the pictures looked awkward. he hasn’t been to a dance since middle school. why would he voluntarily do that to himself?

yet he hears through the grapevine—dustin probably, who is terrible at subtlety—that you might be going. maybe with friends. maybe with someone. maybe just to spite the institution itself. who knows. mike tells himself he doesn’t care, this information changes nothing. his life continues exactly the same.

he still hates high school. he hates the way it pretends these four years are supposed to matter forever, like the lockers and pep rallies and awkward assemblies aren’t just something you survive and then forget. he hates the social math of it—who sits where, who dates who, who’s allowed to reinvent themselves and who’s stuck being “that guy” until graduation. mike plans to leave hawkins high the second it lets him.

prom, therefore, is stupid. it’s a performance. an overpriced ritual where everyone agrees to dress up and pretend they’re having the time of their lives because that’s what you’re supposed to do. pictures that will be shoved into drawers and never looked at again. he doesn’t need it, he’s fine without it. he is deeply committed to this opinion.

which is why it is particularly offensive when, on a friday afternoon by the lockers, he hears your name followed by matthew and prom in the same sentence. he doesn’t mean to eavesdrop, he’s just there. existing, grabbing his book, minding his business. then he hears, “—yeah, they’re going with matthew,” someone says. “i think he asked last week.”

there’s a pause. someone says something else he doesn’t hear because his brain has stalled out entirely. matthew. of course it’s matthew. the guy who laughs too loud and doesn’t know your history and gets to swoop in like this hasn’t been years in the making. mike feels something cold settle in his stomach. not jealousy. jealousy would imply entitlement. this is concern. concern that you are going to prom, an objectively terrible event, with someone who probably thinks it’s fun. irresponsible, really.

also, it’s weird. you don’t do this. you don’t go to dances with random guys. you don’t pair off like that. good for you but why him. he spends the rest of the day pretending this didn’t happen. failing. by fourth period he’s restless, leg bouncing, pen clicking until someone kicks his chair. by the time lunch rolls around he’s made a decision.

he’s not going because of you. he’s going because this situation requires observation. closure. confirmation. he needs to see it with his own eyes. that’s all. so he stands in line at the office after last period, irritated by the fact that this is even a thing he’s doing. the secretary asks for his name. he gives it. she asks how many tickets. he hesitates for half a second. “one.” he answers firmly. he hands over the money, takes the stupid little paper ticket, and shoves it into his backpack like it’s evidence of a crime.

this proves nothing. it doesn’t mean anything. he just wants to see you, that’s allowed. that’s normal. besides. if mason gets to go?

then mike wheeler is absolutely not missing it.

the day arrives like a threat. mike wakes up already irritated, which feels appropriate. prom day should not feel different from any other day. it is, at its core, a saturday. the sun comes up. birds exist. nothing about this warrants nerves. he tells himself this repeatedly while lying in bed staring at the ceiling, aware of a tight, buzzing feeling under his ribs. he has not spoken to you in almost two months. this is a statistic. an interesting one maybe, but not alarming. people go longer without talking all the time. pen pals. astronauts. married couples, probably. the fact that he’s been thinking about you more during this time is unrelated.

he showers too long. gets out and realizes his hands are shaking a little while he towels off. he pauses, frowns at them like they’ve betrayed him, then decides it’s probably just caffeine withdrawal. or dehydration. or the psychological pressure of formalwear, which everyone knows is a thing. downstairs his mom has laid out the suit. it’s his dad’s. navy. a little boxy in the shoulders, a little long in the sleeves, like it remembers another decade. the fabric smells like closet and aftershave and something comforting he doesn’t want to unpack. his mom beams at him when he comes down, which he immediately resents. “michael! big day today.”

“it’s not a big day,” he snaps automatically, because his mouth is faster than his brain and his brain is committed to this stance. “it’s just… a day.”

his mom just hums and holds the suit out like it’s an offering. mike takes it with the kind of care usually reserved for fragile artifacts, not because he respects it, but because if he wrinkles it he knows she’ll notice and then there will be commentary. “try it on upstairs,” she says. “don’t rush.”

“i’m not rushing.” he is absolutely rushing.

he retreats up the stairs two at a time, suit draped over his arm, irritation trailing behind him. he can hear his mom calling something about pictures later. he does not respond. pictures are another crime entirely. in his room he drops the suit on his bed and just… looks at it for a second. navy fabric spread over his comforter like it belongs there. it doesn’t. nothing about this belongs here. his posters, his books, the smell of dust and pencil shavings—this is his environment. tuxes invade environments. they impose expectations. he strips off his t-shirt and jeans, yanks on the dress shirt with more force than necessary. the buttons fight him. traitors. he buttons them anyway, then shrugs into the jacket. it fits better than he wants it to. the sleeves are a little long, but the shoulders settle like they remember how to sit. he catches his reflection again and grimaces. he looks… fine. he loosens the tie. tightens it. loosens it again. leaves it slightly crooked on purpose, just to reclaim some autonomy. his dad’s tie too, which he notices and then immediately tells himself not to think about. nostalgia is a trap.

he looks at himself like he’s trying to identify the person staring back. he’s taller. 5’11 and still growing into it, like his body forgot to check in with the rest of him before stretching itself out. his shoulders are broader now, even under the borrowed jacket. his face has sharpened. jaw more defined, cheekbones doing something new. he looks older. not adult exactly, but definitely not the kid he was last year either. it’s like catching your reflection in a store window and not recognizing it for half a second. his hair is fluffier now too. fuller. doing that thing where it actually cooperates if he lets it. he didn’t even realize it until recently—nancy did, though. she actually helped with his wardrobe remodel too, took him shopping a few months ago and said things like “trust me” and “stop wearing that, mike” and somehow now he owns clothes that fit and don’t brand him as fourteen. “michael!” his mom calls from downstairs. “they’re here!”

they can only mean one thing.

he exhales through his nose, smooths the jacket one last time, grabs his shoes, and heads back downstairs with the same defensive energy he’s been carrying for months now. if anyone thinks this means something—if anyone thinks this is a milestone or a moment or— whatever —- they’re wrong. they’re wrong.

lucas and dustin are in the living room, standing awkwardly like they don’t know what to do with their arms. lucas looks… put together. clean lines, dark suit, calm expression like he was born knowing how to wear formal clothes. dustin looks like he got dressed in a hurry and then someone interfered. his hair is styled in a way that is suspiciously familiar. mike looks puzzled immediately. “did steve touch your head again.”

“he offered guidance.”

his mom beams at all three of them like this is exactly how she imagined the night going. mike shifts under the attention. “you look nice.” she says to him, soft.

“thanks.” he mumbles.

dustin gestures. “you look prom-y.”

mike grimaces. “don’t say that.”

lucas smirks a little. “no, really dude, you clean up.”

rolling his eyes, mike wishes he could crawl back into bed and die. “let’s just go before she gets a camera.”

too late. the camera appears anyway. he stands stiff for exactly three photos, expression neutral, then he bolts for the door like the house might trap him otherwise.

outside, salvation takes the form of steve harrington’s car idling at the curb. steve is leaning against it like this is the most natural thing in the world, like he didn’t agree to chauffeur three teenagers to prom under intense pressure from dustin henderson. he’s dressed nicer than usual, jacket, decent shoes, hair doing its thing as usual. “gentlemen,” steve greets. “wow. look at you guys.”

mike squints. “why are you dressed so nice.”

“because,” steve says easily, getting in the car, “i’m a responsible adult.”

no one believes him.

dustin is vibrating. he hops into the front seat without asking, as usual. dustin always gets front seat privilege with steve. steve pulls away from the curb, glancing at dustin out of the corner of his eye. his expression softens. “high school prom,” steve nods to himself. “man. that’s huge.”

“don’t.” mike mumbles, still in a sour mood about having to go at all even though it was and still is entirely his decision.

steve ignores him. “i remember my prom. feels like yesterday. you blink and suddenly—” he gestures at dustin. “you’re all grown up.”

dustin beams. “i know, right?”

lucas groans. “please stop.”

mike slouches lower in his seat. “he’s not grown up.”

“that’s not what your mom told me last night mike.”

steve chuckles, then gets that look. the one that means he’s about to get emotional. mike braces. “just—” steve clears his throat. “don’t forget to have fun, okay? these nights matter. you don’t get them back.”

the school comes into view, lights glowing brightly, music already thumping through the walls. cars line the street. people in suits and dresses cluster outside like it’s some kind of ritual gathering. mike’s chest tightens. he tells himself it’s secondhand embarrassment. steve pulls to the curb. “we’re getting out.” mike says immediately.

dustin scrambles out, lucas follows, mike last. steve leans out the window. “pictures?” he asks hopefully.

“no.” all three say at once.

they start toward the entrance. mike doesn’t look back. he can feel steve watching them anyway, proud in that annoying, earnest way. dustin throws an arm around lucas’s shoulders. lucas shoves him off. mike walks half a step behind them, hands in his pockets. inside the music hits harder. lights flash. okay. he’s here. now all he has to do is survive it.

this is immediately harder than expected. the gym has been transformed into something unrecognizable, twinkle lights, streamers, a balloon arch that looks one good elbow away from collapse. there’s a banner that says a night to remember which feels vaguely threatening. the three losers drift, naturally, to the food table. of course they do, it’s where people without plans end up. the island of neutrality. no expectations. just questionable punch and cookies that taste like the cafeteria gave up halfway through. dustin grabs a cup, sniffs it, and grimaces. “this smells like cough syrup.”

lucas takes one anyway. “everything smells like cough syrup in here.”

mike doesn’t take anything. he scans the room without meaning to. or—fine—meaning to, but not for anything. just observational awareness, basic situational assessment. very normal. he sees couples. too many couples. people he vaguely recognizes but doesn’t care about. a guy from math class. someone slow dancing already even though the dj is playing something aggressively upbeat, like they’re trying to force joy through volume. “this is bad.” mike speaks.

lucas shrugs. “could be worse.”

“how.”

“could be middle school.”

mike concedes that point immediately. they stand there, three guys in suits, no dates. no plan, just existing. this is fine. this is actually ideal. no pressure, no awkward small talk, no pretending to enjoy himself. he leans back against the table, and then there you are. he doesn’t mean to notice you instantly. he really doesn’t. but his brain does that thing where it zeroes in before he can stop it. you’re across the gym, laughing at something someone says—matthew, his brain notices immediately—and the sound doesn’t reach him but the sight of it does. there’s that stupid, annoying lift in his chest again. irritation. obviously. of course you’d be having a good time. of course mason is there. of course you look—

fine. you look fine.

mike looks away immediately.

he focuses on the table, the cookies. one of them has frosting smeared slightly off-center. “you good?” lucas asks.

“yeah,” mike answers too fast. “why wouldn’t i be.” he risks another glance accidentally. you’re moving now, weaving through people. mason follows, causing mike’s irritation too flare. not jealousy, this is about patterns. about disruption. about the fact that you and mike usually arrive together, stand together, complain together. this is wrong. the system is off. “i hate this.”

dustin nods. “yeah. we know.”

lucas sighs. “we could leave.”

mike’s head snaps up. “no.”

they both look at him.

he recovers badly. “i mean—no, like. we just got here.”

“you said you hated it.” lucas points out.

“i hate prom,” mike corrects. “that doesn’t mean i’m leaving.”

if he leaves now, that means —- nothing. it means nothing. it would just be… inconvenient.

an hour passes. maybe a little more. mike has stopped pretending he’s casually surveying the room, he’s locked in. eyes trained on you and matthew like radar. dustin keeps trying to insert himself into conversations—mostly with other people who clearly have no interest in small-town nerds—but mike doesn’t intervene. not because he’s magnanimous, he just doesn’t care. mike glares at you instead. matthew laughs at something dumb. mike doesn’t know why it’s bothering him, except that it is. “maybe we should get punch.” dustin suggests.

mike ignores him. he does not want to be caught sipping punch while you and matthew exist in the same space. dustin sighs and wanders off again. lucas is completely absorbed in his own orbit, surrounded by basketball friends, teasing someone about a missed free throw in a past game. mike envies him. maybe. no. not envy.

mike can’t even look at you anymore. the sight of you laughing at something matthew said, the sound of it, it’s too much. so he turns. literally, pivots 180 degrees and plants himself in front of the snacks table like some sort of defensive linebacker. hovering. guarding. no one is allowed near the cookies or the punch except him. not that he’s taking any.

hes fuming, and then, because, of course, you appear. mike doesn’t see you at first. he’s hyper-focused on a suspiciously large group of junior girls eyeing the cookies. you lean on the table just enough for him to notice, and deadpan: “wow mike, guarding half the table like it’s fort knox. really committing to your post, huh?”

he says nothing, because saying anything might—he doesn’t even know—acknowledge why he’s standing there in the first place. so he just stands, rigid, still utterly, pathetically, spectacularly fuming, glaring at the cookies like it’s your fault they exist and that you exist, and also maybe that matthew exists, and also why and how are you talking to him like the last two months didn’t happen?

mike feels it immediately, the snap. the irritation. the defensive spike in his chest that’s basically a built-in alarm that says you are too close, emotionally, physically, temporally. he can feel it radiating down his arms to his fingers. “i… uh…” he starts, and immediately regrets opening his mouth. words are dangerous apparently, especially around you. “yes,” he snaps. “someone—someone has to do it or—you know.”

what is it with mike and making no sense when he rambles? you raise an eyebrow, looking like you know exactly how ridiculous that sounds. mike’s jaw ticks. two months. two months of radio silence. and now you— … he doesn’t even know why he wants to kill you or kiss you or scream, all at the same time. he is hyper-aware of the fact that you’re here with matthew, talking, smiling, looking like nothing between you two ever happened.

mike breaks first with a sharp pivot, a decisive step back, the kind that says i am removing myself from this situation because you are making me feel things and that is unacceptable. “i’m—” he starts, then aborts the sentence entirely because there is no version of it that doesn’t sound insane. “i need air.” which is true. technically. the gym is hot. loud. full of lights and bodies and you laughing at someone who is not him. that last part might also be relevant.

he leaves the gym and storms down the hallway, paces. turns a corner. counts tiles on the floor. looks at lockers like they might have answers. they don’t. five minutes pass. ten. he’s probably going in circles. maybe he’s been on this hallway loop before—he doesn’t know. doesn’t care.

then, like the world has a vendetta against mike himself, there you are. sitting on the floor against the lockers, your head is tipped back against the metal, eyes unfocused. immediately mikes head jumps to the worst conclusion. where is matthew. “where is he?” he demands, already mad.

you blink, startled, then look up at him. “who?”

he scoffs. “don’t—him. your date.”

you shrug casually. “inside.”

mike’s hands curl into fists at his sides. if i were your date—

which is a stupid thought. irrelevant. hypothetical. he does not finish it. except he does.

if i were your date, i wouldn’t have left you alone.

he swallows it down and replaces it with irritation. much safer. “he just left you?”

“i told him i was fine.”

that does nothing to help. somehow it makes it worse. mike lets out a breath through his nose. “wow. great guy.”

“you’re mad at him now?”

“yes. i mean no. i’m just saying. it’s rude. i mean, prom’s stupid, but if you’re going to bring someone, you should at least—i don’t know—stick together?” silence stretches. you watch him with that look again, the one that sees too much. mike feels the ground slipping and retreats into offense. “what. i’m right.”

you don’t answer right away. you do scoot over on the floor, making space beside you. an invitation. a trap. mike hesitates, then tells himself it’s about principle. about making sure you’re not abandoned in a hallway by some idiot who doesn’t know how things work. he sits. “i needed a break.” you explain.

“from… prom?” he questions, trying to sound neutral but failing, which is basically his default. “from him?” he pushes, trying not to sound hopeful.

“hm. both, i guess.” you pause as if deciding whether this was worth speaking on. “.. someone i really like hurt me.”

oh, okay. right. matthew hurt you. who else could it be? not him—he’s fine. the rest of the world? plausible. he narrows it down. prompt evidence: prom date. obvious candidate: matthew. “did he… like… say something dumb?” mike asks, carefully casual. this is okay. it’s emotional triage. someone has to protect you from idiocy, expensive social mistakes, basic conversational failures. that’s what friends do. that’s what mike does, for you. he glances at you. your shoulders slump slightly. someone really did hurt you. unacceptable. if he’d been there he wouldn’t have let it happen.

“not really.”

“not really?”

“he did something.”

“he did something?” he repeats, cautious, his voice climbing an octave without realizing it. defensive, protective, vaguely panicked.

“he… kissed me.”

why are you telling him this? why is this a sentence? did his brain just betray him? mike freezes. the world tilts , probably just perspective, probably just adrenaline, definitely definitely bad timing. mike laughs once, the kind of sound that escapes when your brain is buying time. “he—” he starts, then stops, because his mouth has apparently decided to freelance. “he kissed you.” a pause. “you kissed him?” he corrects, because obviously this needs clarification. blame allocation matters. accountability.

your silence answers him anyway.

something hot and electric spikes up his spine. jealousy is not the word—he doesn’t use that word. it’s outrage. it’s concern. it’s what the hell were you thinking. mike sits up straighter, agitation snapping into place like a switch. “no. that’s—no.” he gestures down the hallway as if matthew might materialize if summoned by anger. “you just met him. like two months ago! you can’t just—kiss people like that! you don’t even know him. you don’t know if he’s—if he’s weird. or irresponsible. or doesn’t return library books.” he looks at you, incredulous. hurt masquerading as logic. “i mean what if he does that with everyone? what if you’re just—another prom checkbox? did you think about that?”

this is all wrong. wrong that matthew touched you at all, let alone kissed you. wrong that you let him. wrong that mike wasn’t there.

you stare at him for a second, letting the words settle. “yeah. he kissed me. and now he won’t talk about it. we… haven’t really addressed it.”

“well, maybe you shouldn’t talk about it. ignoring it is technically an option. actually, probably the best option. because, i mean—if you bring it up, it’s awkward. which it already is. i mean, you don’t want to make it worse, right? so… don’t.” he’s helping. giving you advice. he’s just… a little fired up about the circumstances.

“i tried ignoring it. i even tried to move on. it’s not helping.”

ignoring it? moving on? who are you even talking about right now. he thinks, because there is clearly one obvious culprit—matthew—and now suddenly you’re talking about moving on like… like there’s a second person? no. impossible. “wait,” he blurts. “moving on? you mean—another guy?”

he can feel his jaw tighten, not in a “this is concerning” way, a “this is infuriating” way. because what the hell, you just kissed him, then matthew, and now you’re talking about… another, like he’s somehow not enough to even hold your attention for two months? ridiculous.

“mike.” you interrupt, looking painfully over his stupidity. “why did you kiss me.”

direct hit! mike freezes, the conversation shifting. it’s not about matthew anymore. it’s about him. suddenly, terrifyingly about him. “i—i didn’t—” he stammers, every possible sentence sounds wrong. every single one. “i mean, it’s not—like, i wasn’t—I didn’t—i just…” words fail spectacularly. his hands flail in that graceless way of someone who simultaneously wants to defend himself and also disappear entirely. air leaves his lungs. panic spikes. his stomach flips. he wants to run, hide, explain, and deny, but mostly he just wants you to stop looking at him like that. “i don’t know, it just happened.”

“it just happened?” you repeat. “do you kiss all your friends?”

mike blanches like you’ve personally insulted the very concept of decency. “what—no! of course not!” his voice wavers between indignation and panic.

“so why did you kiss me?”

he freezes.“i —- don’t know! maybe… maybe because you … were right there. and… and i—i don’t know!” words tumble out, faster than thought, “i didn’t mean — i didn’t plan it. it’s not—it’s not like a—” he stops himself, realizing the sentence is collapsing under its own absurdity. “hey! you were the one who ignored me for months!”

you stare at him. “i didn’t ignore you.”

he glares, because clearly, everything is always someone else’s fault. “you did. you did! you could’ve reached out! you weren’t there! you didn’t—”

“you were the one ignoring me!” you fire back. “you disappeared, avoided me at school, stopped inviting me to hang out, acted like none of this ever happened. i tried! i waited! and you—”

mike’s face screws up, mortified and furious. “that was… i was… i—i had to… it’s complicated! you don’t understand!” he doesn’t understand either, if he’s honest. he doesn’t understand why he ran, why he kissed, why his chest feels like it’s going to explode when you just stand there glaring at him, demanding answers. his hands clench into fists at his sides, the absurdity of it all physically manifesting. “you can’t expect me to explain—everything!” why is my chest on fire? why am i sweating like this? this is ridiculous. cuffs of his dad’s jacket brush against his wrists. “i wasn’t thinking, okay? it’s not like i do this normally! besides, you seem to like kissing a lot of guys.”

“what is that supposed to mean?”

“nothing.”

“oh my god, mike, you idiot! i haven’t kissed anyone besides you! i liked you!”

“what? i thought you—-“

“—yeah.” you cut in sharply, not letting him finish whatever half-formed assumption he was about to embarrass himself with. “you thought. i know. you always do that. you decide things in your head.”

mike stops, it’s like his brain blue-screens mid-argument. the music from the gym fades into a distant thrum. all he can hear is the word like, echoing obnoxiously loud in his skull. liked. past tense? present tense? both? why didn’t he clarify. why didn’t he ask. why is he like this. “you—” he starts, then immediately halts. nothing comes out.

you like me.

no. that can’t be right. his chest tightens again, but this time it’s not anger. it’s not outrage. it’s not righteous, morally justified fury at matthew-or-mark-or-whoever. it’s lighter. “okay,” he says, immediately lying, because he is not okay. “okay, but—” there is no but. he knows there’s no but. his brain is scrambling anyway, flipping through excuses, escape routes, alternate timelines where he handled this like a normal human being. “you didn’t— you never said anything!” because if you had, obviously, this all would’ve gone differently. obviously. he would’ve been calm. totally normal about it. sure. “I thought— I mean, you were with him, and then you weren’t talking to me, and I just—” he clears his throat like he can intimidate it back into submission. “I didn’t think you—”

liked me.

there it is again. that word. the most dangerous one in the english language, apparently. his face feels hot. “so you… like me.”

this is not a question. it’s an existential crisis.

you sigh, long and tired, like this is the fifth time you’ve had to say it tonight even though it’s the first. “yes, mike. i like you.”

no qualifiers, no jokes, no backing out. just there, sitting between the scuffed linoleum and the bad pop music leaking through the gym doors. he doesn’t hate this information. it doesn’t feel wrong. it doesn’t feel shocking. it feels… explanatory. best friends since sophomore year, tuesdays at the wheelers’ basement, shared notes. shared rides. shared everything except apparently this. of course it’s you. of course it always has been. he realizes now that the kiss didn’t feel weird so much as overdue.

oh no.

prom is happening twenty feet away. people are dancing, people are kissing, people are being normal about this. meanwhile he’s sitting in a hallway in his dad’s jacket realizing something fundamental about himself at seventeen years old and absolutely not enjoying the timing. he has no script for this. no manual. no dungeon master to ask what the correct move is. “cool. great.” he looks at you again. your face is open in a way that makes his chest ache. hopeful, maybe. guarded, like you’re braced for him to screw this up, which feels… fair, historically. “i’m an idiot.”

he sits there, hands planted on the linoleum, fingers brushing against yours accidentally, except not really. not accidental in the way his life ever lets things be accidental. “so,” he tries, voice tight, because why does everything sound tight? everything is tight. heart, lungs, shoes maybe. “do you maybe… uh…” he falters. the words disassemble themselves like they have a better social life than he does. “do you… want to—like… go out then? with me. like… date. me. date me.”

your eyebrows lift. one, then the other, which is the signal for please clarify your nonsense. “mike, not today. i’m still here with… you know, my date. prom. remember?” your lips twitch in a half-smile that’s half amused, half exasperated.

“oh.” that is literally all he manages. oh. air leaves him like he’s deflating. why is liking someone the most aggressive form of torture?

“but…” you lean closer, dangerously close to leaning over into him, “why don’t you ask me tomorrow?“

“tomorrow,” he echoes, voice somewhere between a question and a declaration. he keeps his hand where it is. doesn’t move. feels ridiculous. feels alive. this is not a normal prom experience. why am i sitting on the floor. “okay. tomorrow.”

you stand and mike stumbles to his feet a little slower than you, like gravity just got stricter since he realized you liked him. he looks at you like he’s calculating trajectory, probabilities, and whether you’re allowed to leave him alone in this hallway without him being furious. “where are you going?” he asks, voice pitched like someone who’s simultaneously curious, indignant, and slightly panicked. his posture slouches a little, like he’s preparing for the emotional fallout of… you walking away.

“i’m gonna go back with matthew.” you say, the words casual but careful.

mike’s face immediately folds into that ridiculous pout that makes him look small and vulnerable, but also like he might throw a chair at a wall in frustration. “what? why? do you like him?” he literally does not care about what matthew feels, whether matthew notices you’re gone, or even that this is… a prom.

you raise an eyebrow. “mike, i’m not leaving him alone. i’m his prom date. it’s… that’s how it works. i’m not a jerk.”

he scowls. “fine. whatever. sure. go.” his voice drops lower, and he mutters under his breath like he’s cursing the very concept of social norms until he trails off, realizing that yes, he has no right. he’s acting purely on instinct, and every instinct says if you’re with anyone he needs to be better. he’s realized that he does like you. likes you a lot, actually. like, dangerously, now-what-do-i-do likes you. the problem is that realization does not make mike wheeler noble. it does not make him graceful. it makes him worse. he stands there for half a second after. prom music thumps through the gym doors behind you—something slow and overproduced, all violins and sincerity. “i know how prom works.”

he does not, actually. he knows how movies say prom works, which is already suspicious, and he knows how it feels to watch you adjust your outfit like you’re about to walk back into a room where someone else gets to stand next to you. someone else gets your arm. someone else gets to be seen with you. matthew. mike’s brain supplies the name like an insult. “i just don’t get why it had to be him,” he says, like this is a normal, reasonable question. “like. of all the guys.”

“mike.”

“i’m just saying! i haven’t talked to you in months, okay? and now i have to watch you—” he gestures toward the gym doors, toward the concept of matthew. “with him.” he does not care about being fair. unfortunately, he cares about you more. you shift your weight, clearly ready to go back inside, and something in his chest tightens, panicked and possessive and deeply inconvenient. “wait,” he stops you, too quick. you look at him. there it is—that attention, that focus, that look you haven’t given him in weeks. months. “you don’t have to, like… rush back in,” he says. “he’ll survive. promise.”

“mike.”

“i mean, it’s loud in there,” he adds. “and he has friends. right?”

he does not care if matthew has friends. he does not care if matthew is standing alone under a disco ball, abandoned, bewildered, checking his watch. mike wheeler would watch that happen with interest. what he wants is absurdly simple and catastrophically impossible: he wants you to stay right here. with him. in the hallway that smells like floor cleaner and cologne and missed chances.

because you know him you recognize the signs immediately. the stiff shoulders. the pout he’s trying very hard to swallow but keeps resurfacing anyway, petulant and wounded and unfairly endearing. he looks at you like he’s already lost something. “you’re doing the eyes.” you comment.

“i’m not.” mike replies instantly, which is how you know he is.

you step closer before he can spiral any further. before he can say something else he can’t take back. before he talks himself into believing you’re already gone. “mike.” you urge quietly.

his expression softens and sharpens at the same time, like relief immediately tripping over jealousy. “you’re gonna go back in there,” he says, resigned now. sulky. “and he’s gonna—” he stops himself, lips pressing together. “whatever.”

you don’t explain. you just reach up, grab the front of his suit jacket, and kiss him. it’s quick. decisive. just enough for him to freeze completely, every thought evaporating mid-pout. your lips brush his, warm, brief, and for one perfect second mike wheeler forgets about matthew, prom, social norms, and the concept of time. when you pull back his face is stunned. “that,” you say calmly, “is for reassurance. not permission. i’m still going back in there.”

“…okay.” he nods, dazed. “right. okay. cool. yeah. go have fun. with… him.”

the jealousy tries to crawl back in, but it’s weaker now. confused. muzzled. you give him one last look—fond, knowing—then you turn, because of course you do. because you’re a good person. because social norms exist. because prom dates are apparently sacred vows. the gym doors swing open and swallow you whole. mike stands there as the music floods the hallway, louder now, bass rattling in his ribs. colored lights spill out—blue, pink, gold—washing over your clothes as you step back inside, scanning the room until you spot matthew near the refreshments table.

he spends the rest of the night pretending he’s not watching you. he fails spectacularly. from the moment you step back onto the dance floor mike’s eyes track you while he leans against the wall. then matthew offers you his arm.

that’s it. that’s the chair-throwing urge.

mike watches you dance. watches you smile. watches you exist without him. he’s going to talk to you again. soon. he’s going to corner you by the punch bowl or outside or radio you at an ungodly hour with something dumb like are you still mad.

you look beautiful. you look happy. you look like someone he could have had sooner if he weren’t so stubborn.

the jealousy is evident to him now but the clinginess is worse, this aching, needy pull that makes him want to walk in there, grab your hand, and say something wildly inappropriate like actually, they’re with me and deal with the fallout later. he imagines it briefly. he doesn’t do it, because underneath the jealousy, the pout, the two months of silence and the painfully obvious crush, mike knows something now that he didn’t before.

tomorrow exists.

tomorrow he can radio you. tomorrow he can hang out with you again. tomorrow he can ask you out properly and argue about it later and sit too close to you and complain about how much prom sucked except for one very specific hallway.

so he stays put. watches. waits. suffers quietly.

when prom ends and people start filtering out he doesn’t intercept. just lingers by the wall with dustin and lucas while waiting for steve, pretending he’s very interested in the exit sign. you pass him on your way out. your fingers brush his, just barely. his heart does something stupid. he exhales, smiling despite himself, already planning what he’s going to say tomorrow. something casual. something cool. something that absolutely will not sound casual or cool at all, but that’s fine.

because mike wheeler can wait one more night.

he’s already decided he’s not waiting forever.

based off these two requests !

A/N: guys i had so much fun writing this this has been by far my fav mike fic to make yet… the brainrot is festering so bad i fear im living inside his head

STARTED 12.27.2025. POSTED 12.31.2025.

  ⸝⸝  masterlist  .ᐟ  𝜗𝜚

©️ latedeparture

His head is propped up on the table by an elbow that looks like it’s about to slip off the edge, so you sneak up behind him and place your hand against his arm to stop him from falling face-first into the wood.

He looks up at you, a little startled for a second, and you can see the moment it clicks in his head when he realises who he’s looking at. He smiles, all surprised but content and you melt. The last time you had seen him was only for the third time ever at another one of Sirius’s parties. You hate to admit that the only thing you look forward to now is when you receive an invite from your workmate and you have another excuse to see his lanky best friend.

“Y/N! When did you get here?” Sirius chants, flicking his last remaining coin at Frank. He shoots him a well-deserved glare.

“About thirty seconds ago,” you smile.

Sirius looks down at your socked feet and frowns, “You took your shoes off again. How many times do I have to tell you, you don’t have to do that.”

You roll your eyes, “You’re gross, Sirius.”

Remus looks down too, the top of his head pressing into your side, a crush of his curls tickling the bare skin of your arm and you almost shiver. “Cool socks.” Is the first thing he says to you. You giggle.

They’re a dark cornflower shade, moons scattered across the material at random. They crease when you wriggle your toes, “Thanks. Got them from mum for my birthday.”

“She has good taste.” He moves off of you, slouching down in his chair until his knees are pressing Lily’s legs. 

His head lolls backwards, neck bared under the warm light. You think you feel dizzier than he does. Even when he squeezes his eyes shut. 

“What have you done to him?” you laugh, hand flat against his forehead to brush away his loose hair. He keens, sighing deeply under a hiccup. 

“He’s very awful at poker,” James laughs, flicking a pastille across the table. You look at his high pile, and then Sirius and Franks’ which are almost of equal height. Then you look in front of Remus, the table almost bare. You laugh. 

“We like to play a little differently,” Franks states over the rim of his bottle. 

“Basically, you take a shot every time you lose,” James says, sober as ever. You think maybe he hasn’t lost yet. 

“And Remus has lost every hand,” Sirius adds to the chime of details. 

“Have not!” Remus finally pipes up, finger pointed at James instead of Sirius, too distracted staring at the ceiling. “Frank lost the first.” 

“Anyways, Moons. You just lost and I think you owe us another.” 

Remus groans, but sits up to reach for the bottle of Sambuca sitting in the middle of the table. You gently swat his hand and push him back into his chair. 

“I think you’ve had enough,” you say, turning to place the bottle on the kitchen bench, along with the empty bottles. 

“C’mon, one more,” Remus giggles, making hands for the bottle in the air. A child, you think. 

“Yeah, Y/N! One more!” Sirius agrees, smiling boyishly. 

“You’ll make yourself sick,” you chide with a small frown. Remus slumps against you, much defeated. He might fall asleep on you if you stand there any longer. You poke his cheek where it’s pressed into your clothes. 

“He already is sick.” Sirius is smug when he speaks and you fret about what else he’s about to say, “Sick in love.” 

You laugh. Could’ve been worse. But it still has your heart skipping in your chest. You really do hope Remus shares the feelings you hold for him. But then again, Remus is drunk and Sirius, is well, he’s Sirius. Despite the name, he hardly ever is. 

“Boo. Awful.” You frown in faux offence, ignoring him when he winks at you. Sickening, really. 

You lean down so your mouth is in line with Remus’s ear, “You wanna go lay down?” You realise you’re in quite a predicament. Coming over to parties to see Sirius’s best friend. Looking after him when he’s drunk. You’d hoped he would do the same. 

“Please, no sex in my house,” Sirius states, standing to grab another drink. James guffaws. 

You roll your eyes, “He’s drunk.”

“So, you do want to have sex with him?” he adds. 

You almost choke on your tongue, “No, it’s just. He- Stop it.” You have to stop yourself from saying something wrong. It wasn’t a lie, you did want to. But you wanted much more than that. 

“Leave her alone,” Remus chides, leaning back off your stomach. “You’ll scare her off and I’ll never see her again,” 

He was right, his friends did intimidate you. But you’d hoped it would take more than not yet warming up to them to get you to never see Remus again. 

Remus stands and you’re surprised he doesn’t stumble when he takes your hand to lead you away from the table and out into the lounge room. You poke your tongue out over your shoulder when you hear James make some sort of crude comment to Frank. Lily smiles warmly at you as an apology. 

He sits down with all the gracefulness of a baby elephant and you have to bite back a laugh. He looks up at you, pretty eyes all droopy and a lopsided smile, and you feel like you’ll never come back from these feelings ever. 

Before you can overly admire him for too long, he’s patting the space next to him with a floppy hand. “C’mon.” 

You oblige probably too willingly, flopping yourself down next to him with a small oomph, your thigh pressing into his. He shuffles down the lounge to rest his head atop your shoulder, neck craned a little to reach it. You can’t find it in yourself to mind. His face is warm and it presses into your collarbone that’s peeking from out the top of your shirt. His light stubble tickles your skin and it’s weirdly soothing. God, you know you’re in deep. 

“You smell good.” 

You breathe in subconsciously, “You do, too.” 

Under the strong scent of stale beer and sambuca, you can think you can discern a hint of his cologne. Woody and something like cinnamon. Mixed in with the light scent of his laundry detergent, like fresh linen and lavender. He's dizzying. 

“I smell like beer,” he groans, hand finding its way between both of your thighs, your skirt tangled in his fingers. 

“You smell nice,” you laugh. 

You watch the doorway where James gets up to turn the dial on the vinyl player. The current song now loud enough to be heard where you’re sitting.

Humming along, you say, “I love this song.”

Remus gawps, “Me too. S’my favourite, actually.”

Remus having the exact same favourite song as you makes your head spin. “No way.”

“Yes way.” he smiles. If he were soberer, you’d gush to him over this. It’d have to wait.

He shifts his head from your shoulder and startles for a moment, eyebrows raised, “I didn’t even ask if you wanted a drink.” You get whiplash from the change of subject. 

You sigh, very amused at his intent to be nice to you, despite being half-cut, “I’m okay. I wasn’t really planning on drinking tonight.” 

He frowns, wrinkles his nose and you want to kiss it. God. “Why did you come, then?” The fact he thinks you came to get drunk and not just to see him makes you want to laugh. 

The smile you’re still trying to fight every time he speaks makes your cheeks ache, “To see Sirius.” 

He frowns even more and you think he wants to shift away from you. He roughly scratches at his face and you almost regret messing with him. 

“Sirius?” He hiccups. 

“I’m kidding.” You poke his bicep, “I came to see you.” 

There’s a silence and then Remus is breaking out into one of the biggest grins you’d ever seen. You’d have the decency in you to blame it on being drunk. Nothing else. 

“Me?” He hiccups, again. You place your hand atop his thigh and trace the thick seam of his pants. 

“Yes, you.”

His smile dials back but doesn’t fade and his face relaxes. He leans down to place his head back against your shoulder, cheek all smooshed.  

“Oh.” 

“Oh?” 

“Thank you.” he hums, hooking his elbow behind yours, completely squished against you. He thinks you must be cold in a skirt and a small T-shirt. “I like it when you’re here. You make it bearable.” 

You want to accept his compliment, but when he hiccups for the third time, you remember he’s drunk. “That’s a bit mean, Remus. Will I tell your friends you can’t bear them?” 

Remus stiffens and you stop rubbing his leg. Drunk Remus is very gullible. Sweet, but gullible all the same. 

“Stop it. You know what I mean.” He pushes further into your shoulder and you feel yourself dip down against him, head almost falling against his. You wouldn’t mind if it did, but it wouldn’t be very comfortable, you assume. 

“I don’t think I do,” you tease and Remus pinches your side, which results in a stifled yelp. 

“Don’t be cruel.” He strains.

“I would never.”

When you shiver in your spot, Remus wonders what your answer would be if he offered you his jacket. He thinks he should test his theory. 

“Are you cold?” he asks but doesn’t move his head from your shoulder.

“A little,” you yawn. Which then causes Remus to yawn. You laugh animatedly. 

“Do you,” Remus blinks slowly, eyelashes kissing his cheeks as he attempts to keep his eyes open. “do you want my jacket?” 

You’re glad Remus’ head is still propped on your shoulder lest he sees the blush creeping across your cheeks. Drunk Remus is gullible. But drunk Remus is still just as kind as he is when he’s sober. 

“Then you’ll be cold,” you reply, giving his thigh a squeeze. You crane your neck to look at him. He looks tired. 

“Better me than you.” He moves to take it off and before he can even get one arm out, you sit forward and place your hands on his chest. Fingers twisted in his cotton shirt, your turned knee pressing into his. 

“Remus, I’m okay.” You give him your most reassuring smile. Being cold is no one’s fault but your own. You don’t want to be an annoyance. 

“You sure?” 

“Positive.” 

Remus sits back, albeit begrudgingly, hands wrapped around the zipper of his jacket. The further he pushes back into the lounge, the more he looks like he’s about to fall asleep. 

“Remus?” you murmur. Voice quiet under the din of the party. Sirius is a loud drunk, his laughter roaring at something stupid James is doing. 

His head begins to dip into the edge of the cushion, headed for the arm of the chair. If he kept this up, he’d have a crick in his neck in no time. 

He hums and you pat his cheek to encourage him to sit up. It’s bemusing how quickly he can drift off. You’re very envious. Maybe it’s just the alcohol. 

“What’s up?” he murmurs in return, peeking from one eye, the other scrunched up. He’s adorable and you’re in too deep. 

“You seem tired.” You poke his face this time and he beams, all warm and dozey under the mellow light of Sirius’s living room. A line of curls falling into his eyes and the apples of his cheeks a tinge of peach. 

He hums again, much thicker than last. “M’not.” 

You hold out your hand, all five fingers spread. “How many fingers am I holding up?” 

He struggles, but pulls his hand from his lap and holds it up to yours, tangling your fingers. Palm flush against yours and much warmer in comparison. “Feels like five.” He pulls your entwined hands back down and you laugh. 

You try not to shy from his actions, pretending like it doesn’t make your heart skip, and then almost stop completely when his thumb rubs circles into the top of your hand. You can feel the warmth seeping from his into your own and your fingertips tingle. 

“Do you want to go home?” You twist so you’re completely on the edge of the lounge, hand still wrapped in his. You stop, “Or are you staying here tonight?” 

He brings his arm up - with yours still tangled - and rubs his face with the back of his hand. Dragging you up and down. You giggle at his tired actions before pouting. 

“I think.'' You can tell he’s trying to stay alert enough to hold a conversation with you.

When he wakes up in the morning he won’t remember being so tired here and will think you both had the best conversation. You’ll be okay with this. “I think Sirius was supposed to take me home, but he’s too drunk now.” 

“You’ll sleep on the couch?” You frown and he blinks. 

“I think I might have to.” He throws his head back and sighs. Strained and raspy. 

You look at the size of Sirius’s two-seater and then Remus’s stupidly long legs. It wouldn’t work, and he’d end up with either a sore back or a worse-off neck than whatever it was he was doing right now. You don’t even really think before you say, “I can walk you home.” 

Remus looks a little more alert, “You can’t sleep on this.” You prod the squeaky leather and it bounces back with absolutely no recoil. You’ll be sure to scold Sirius next time for having a horrendous couch, though enough money to buy everyone in the room ten of them. You know he won’t appreciate the exaggeration. But it’s for the sake of his friends’ backs. 

“You don’t have to do that.” He sits up properly now and tries to situate himself to look convincingly comfortable. “I’ll make do.” 

“It’s no big deal.” You shrug. “I’m walking home anyways.”

Now he’s sitting forward, his knees pushing into your leg and you almost stumble off the seat, grabbing his arm for purchase. “You just got here.” He almost frets and then coughs to hide his worry. He’s not very good at achieving a smooth, cool demeanour when half-cut. Not that he ever achieves it sober, he thinks. 

“No, but I think you need to go home and sleep.” You look out into the kitchen that’s now surprisingly quieter. Lily looks like she’s about to fall asleep, leaning on James’s shoulder, who’s trying to play a horrible game of go fish with Sirius and Frank. Absolute party animals.

“I live too far away, anyways,” he says, leaning down to tie his shoelaces. “You’ll have to walk me home and then walk back, you’ll be walking for at least an hour and a half.” Why Remus is so afraid to suggest you can stay the night at his, he doesn’t know.

You squeeze his shoulder as he struggles to loop his lace through his fingers. He decides to go for the simpler, bunny-ear option. “That’s okay. You can stay at mine. I only live ten minutes away.”

When Remus sits back up after tying his laces too tight, his face is pink.

-

Remus Lupin has never been one for sitting comfortably, ever. With long, lanky limbs, he always has his legs sprawled out and his arms thrown over something. Anything he can take up comfortably, with enough space to spread, he’ll sit willingly. 

On one hand, he’s thankful you convinced him not to sleep on Sirius’s couch. He didn’t need a repeat of New Year’s. Though, on the other hand, he could’ve made do. 

Nothing was like sitting in your bedroom. He wouldn’t say he was uncomfortable, though deep down he was a little, a pit of anxiety creeping up his chest. He felt like he had little room to move - despite you owning a double bed - because he didn’t want to look stupid. He could take up space and not notice it.  

Remus has trouble not taking in every detail he can in your room. Like your little trinket dishes filled with miscellaneous items, signet rings and seashells. The stuffed rhino toy in the middle of your pillows that you had told him - shyly at that - was named Clarence. Not before giggling at the poster of Twilight that you swore had been there since you were young. Your current read splayed open on the end of your bed, along with the stack of records in a blue milk crate in the corner, were things he promised himself he would ask you about when he wasn’t half tipsy and could hold a proper conversation. 

In his admiration, one that was making his anxiety spread into warmth that seemed to be seeping from his bones. He’s too busy pretending like he isn’t taking in every small detail one shouldn’t when they’ve only known someone for only a month, and doesn’t notice that you’ve changed. 

He looks over at you, in a pair of shorts littered with tiny daisies and a shirt that almost eats said shorts. Your hair pulled back and your face still sort of wet from where you obviously washed off the day's grime, causing the hairs around your face to curl. He doesn’t know if it’s the fading alcohol that’s causing him to hiccup even more, or if it’s seeing you all fresh and content from being at home that has his breath catching. 

Remus Lupin is still a little drunk but he is also quite clearly growing to like you even more. That doesn’t change. He thinks he's done everything backwards. Meeting you, then seeing you now but too inebriated to say something redeeming, and then seeing you in the comfort of your own home before he even gets to ask you on a date. He also thinks he wouldn’t have it any other way. 

“Remus?” Your voice is as calm as you look when you speak and he melts. 

“Hm?” He blinks, shaking his head. 

“You okay?” Warm light washes over you and paints you amber as you patter across the room, the moon socks that are still on your feet pressing into the white fabric of your rug. “You’re not feeling sick?” He thinks he should blame his daze on a fake sickness, but he doesn’t want you to worry even more, so he decides against it. 

When you press the back of your hand to his cheek, that’s only warm because he’s a little overwhelmed, not because he’s feeling poorly, he can’t find it in himself to hold your gaze. “I’m okay.” 

“I was saying I don’t think I have any clothes for you to change into.” You remind him after it felt like you were talking to a brick wall a minute earlier. 

Remus pushes his hands into the rough material of his black jeans. He doesn’t see himself sleeping in anything else. “That’s okay.” 

“You’re not going to sleep in those are you?” 

What else would he sleep in if you have no other clothes? “Uh.” 

“You wear boxers?” you grin. 

“Yeah. Yeah, I do.” He wishes he was still a little drunker so he could blame his bumbling words on the effects of downing half a bottle of sambuca. Now he’s realising that’s just how he sounds when he’s overwhelmed by you. 

“Sleep in those. I don’t mind.” 

Your confidence, and your confidence only, is how he ends up pantless and under the covers of your bed. He doesn’t feel uncomfortable at all. You have a lovely way of making him feel at ease. He thinks that’s why he likes you so much. 

You take off the last of your jewellery from the night and his breaths turn shallow when you lean across him and they clink into one of your many dishes.

You smell different than earlier in the night when your shirt tickles his arm. Like fresh face wash and night creams, and maybe even roses. He’d hate to think of what he smelt like in comparison to you. Probably still like beer, and maybe like sweat. He should’ve asked if he could’ve showered. That might’ve been too much, he’s definitely overthinking. 

“You’re very quiet,” you say into the dimness of your room. He’s lucky your bedside lamp is so muted, lest you see the goosebumps raised over his skin and how his cheeks haven’t returned to their normal colour since he crossed the threshold of your room. 

“M’thinking,” he returns, just as quiet. It feels wrong to disturb the calmness blanketing the room. 

“I can tell.” He can hear you grin, “What about?” 

He swallows and he wouldn’t be surprised if you heard it, “You.” 

You huff a small laugh and push down into the pillow behind you, “Me?” Your voice is a little strained, and not louder than before. Maybe even quieter. 

“Yeah. Thinking about the next time I’ll get to see you.” 

“You haven’t even left yet and you’re thinking ahead to the next time we’ll see each other,” you tease, getting comfortable underneath your plush quilt and sheets. Probably too much for a summer night but there’s still a chill in the air, flowing through your open window. 

“I’m just hoping I won’t be so drunk,” he admits, hating how he still actually does sound drunk. 

“Hopefully,” you smile, “But that’s okay, we can blame it on James.” 

“If only I wasn’t so shit at poker,” he laughs in a strained and animated voice, trying to hold back a yawn. 

He finally gets comfortable, hands fisting the sheets around his body and head balancing restfully against the plush of your ivory pillows. 

You can see his eyes flutter in an attempt to stay awake. You think it’s endearing but you also think he needs to sleep. “Remus,” you say, firm but caring at once. 

“Hmm?” he mumbles, eyebrows pinched. 

“You should sleep.” You push itchy locks away from his forehead and he sighs at the caring touch of your fingers. 

“Don’t wanna.” He scrunches his nose, “I think I’m finally sobering up. Wanna talk t’you.” 

You smile at his absolute urgency and think he’s adorable. Truly. “Please, sleep. We’ll talk in the morning.” 

“You’ll be here?” This, you actually laugh at. 

“Of course, Remus. You’re in my room.” 

He closes his eyes, eyelashes kissing the freckles of his cheeks and his tired, darkened skin, “M’kay.”

When you wake up in the morning, almost midday, Remus plagued by the effects of alcohol, you too content to wake whilst being next to him, you both have separate texts from Sirius. 

Your own chat log reads, aren’t U glad you came out? You don’t reply, not wanting to encourage him in any way. 

Remus’s phone, on the other hand, reads, 

uncle pads has a ring to it don’t you think? xxxx

He does in fact reply, too used to Sirius being a twat. 

Nothing happened. Ur disgusting and I hate you. 

what do U mean nothing happened? 

I was drunk. She helped me basically stumble home. 

U both stumbled. in her sheets. 

Fuck off. Idiot. 

Neither of you mention any of Sirius’s messages to each other the entire morning. Too busy enjoying each other's company. 

-

The week spent after Remus had drunkenly stayed the night, you could pleasantly, though maybe even with a smidge of embarrassment, admit that he was all you thought about since. 

It was a new feeling. You’d never felt it before. The endearment, but also the nerves, of realising you actually like someone. Some days it made your cheeks ache from smiling, and filled your chest with warmth. On other days, the warmth cracked your chest open, an aching chasm pleading to be filled and a head clouded with apprehension.

You were eager and scared all at once. But you were happy either way because Remus made you feel things. Good things. 

You had spent the morning, forcing him to eat something, telling him it would make his hangover feel much better. He’d argued for no longer than two minutes before agreeing. Saying, who am I to argue with a girl like you?

“Like me?” you’d replied, mouth full of half-eaten pancake, pushing his own plate across the marble of your kitchen bar. 

“Smart,” he smiled, picking at a blueberry, “Pretty.” 

And after it was your turn to babble like a fool, he’d eased you open. Asked you about the record collection in your room (he was proud of himself for remembering). You’d rambled off your favourite artists, a lot similar, and he knew he’d be an idiot if he didn’t give you his number before he left. 

And he did. Wrote his number on your hand as you stood at your doorway and he thanked you for breakfast. And for walking him home, drunk. You kissed his cheek and watched him press his fingers into his skin until he rounded the corner. 

You wrote the number down on a piece of paper, magnetising it to your fridge as soon as you shut the door. Though your hands were sweaty - obviously because you were around Remus - and the last number had smudged. Was it a 3? Or an 8? Or a weird looking 5? You couldn’t tell and told yourself that was a problem you could deal with later.

It was later. A whole week later and you still hadn’t called him. If it was due to your nerves or the fact you had a missing number, that was your business only. You left the last space blank, the empty spot a blinding reminder of your stupidity. You’d just have to try every number until you found Remus. It would take no more than ten attempts.

Numbers zero through four were all wrong numbers. You were only met with a piercing tone before the line went dead. When you got to five, you were met with, what sounded like, a grumpy old lady. You tried to hang up straight away, well aware it wasn’t him, but she screeched and persisted that if she had a prank call one more time, she would phone the police!

Turns out, it was a 6 after all. The lovely tone of Remus’s voice rings down the line and you sigh in relief.

“It’s you.” Your voice is airy and Remus isn't sure he knows who it is. 

There are only a handful of people who have his number. His friends, most of them called and checked in regularly, except Mary, who's always one to stop by instead. His parents and his neighbour had it too. But he seriously doubted the latter, unless his flat had been ransacked. 

And then he remembers he'd given it to you and he laughs. All these thoughts happen within the span of two seconds. He hopes it's you, he's been anticipating a call all week. He was beginning to maybe think you didn’t actually want to hear from him. That he'd embarrassed himself in his drunken stupor. But then he remembered how nice you were to him.

You’ll make yourself sick.

“It is?” he laughs, still hoping it is in fact you. The image of his flat turned upside down, the spot on his mantle where his small TV is, now empty, flashes across his mind.

“Remus. It’s me!” you chirp and he pushes his phone closer to his ear as if it’ll make him hear your pretty voice even clearer.

”Me? I don’t think I know any me’s” he teases, fighting back an eager smile. Teasing you could be fun. Could become a constant. He’s imagining the warmth of your cheeks, and hopefully a small smile.

“Y/N,” you correct and he can almost hear the roll of your eyes. 

“Oh. I know an Y/N,” he smiles, leaning against the lip of his kitchen bench. “She’s very pretty,” he pauses, wanting to drag it out, “and she’s super-”

“Remus,” you plead. Half wanting him to continue, half wanting him to stop to save your phone splitting in half where you’re holding it too hard. “Stop.”

Hearing your smile isn’t enough for him, “Super cool. Actually probably way too cool for me and…”

Remus sighs, very happy with himself.

“You done?” you ask. 

“Maybe.”

“You’re a nuisance.”

Remus decides to not argue, you’re half right anyways. “I’m sorry. What’s up?”

You pause, thinking. You’ve forgotten why you called him for a moment. Too happy with just listening to him talk. You think you could do it all day if he let you. “I was wondering if you were coming out tonight? Drinks?” You feel silly asking now. It was drinks for James, he’d gotten a promotion, but of course, Remus is coming, they're best friends.

“Are you?”

You grin, “Yes. Yeah, I am.”

“Great. Me too.”

The excitement you feel when you know you’ll be seeing him again is palpable. Giddiness mixed with a number of nerves is always there whenever you think of him. He makes you feel like a schoolgirl again and you know he’ll be the cause of your undoing.

“Great.” 

A face-splitting smile erupts across Remus’s features. If only you could see each other.

-

The amount of time you spend getting ready in the afternoon for James’s get-together is silly. After what's an almost stupid amount of time rustling through your closet to find something, the final thing you settle on you hope isn’t stupid. A red skirt that ends mid-thigh, a white tee and a leather jacket. Boots that you hope actually do your legs justice, not just how they look in the mirror.

You know exactly why you're making such a fuss with your appearance. Spending an extra amount of time making sure loose hairs are sprayed down and a fresh coat of nail polish that's applied probably a little too late before you make your way out your front door.

You think that maybe if you didn’t know if Remus was attending or not it'd be a lot easier on you. Or maybe worse. God, you're a mess. You just really want to make him like you.

Arriving at the pub a little early is probably a bad idea in the long run. You greet James and Lily with equal delight. You hadn’t seen them since his shindig at least two weeks ago. Sirius, pint in hand, greets you loud enough to let the entire pub know of your arrival. Frank and Alice are absent. In-laws. You feel as though you had finally found the perfect group of friends.

James had told you that Remus was probably going to be late.

Which gives you too much time to down an inappropriate number of vodka-cranberries, much to Sirius’s delight. Pressed into a corner booth, settled next to James and Sirius who have now also transitioned to fruity drinks.

When Remus finally arrives, the sun now set, you're at least five cocktails deep. The pub is a little loud now, though you’d never struggle to hear any of your rambunctious friends. They're probably half the noise. You're a giggling mess, warm from the effects of alcohol. You feel ridiculously happy like you expected to, but you haven’t even seen Remus yet.

When you sip back the last dregs of your drink, the rim pressed into your nose, determined not to waste a single drop, your eyes finally settle on Remus who's selfishly been admiring you from afar. Your eyes light up like a delighted puppy and he has to bite his tongue to stop himself from smiling like an idiot.

He walks to the edge of the table, wet and sticky wood pressing into his jeans and he grimaces. “Finally he arrives,” James cheers, mojito raised in the air.

“Moony! Looking as ravishing as ever, my boy!” Sirius cheers with equal flare.

Remus ignores both of them with a tiny smile, too used to their words it’s like second nature to ignore them. “Sweetheart,” he smiles at you and you light up even more.

“Remus! You’re here.”

Sirius gets up and slides along the wall to make room for Remus next to you, “He looks ravishing, wouldn’t you say, Y/N? Good enough to eat,” he repeats

“I am hungry,” you admit with a giggle as Remus settles down next to you, only enough room for a sheet of paper to fit between your thighs.

“Having a good time, lovely?” Remus gestures to the empty glasses taking up the table in front of you. Your lips are stained red and he has to lick his own.

“Amazing!” You lean into his side and your hair tickles his neck. Your warmth seeps through Remus’s skin and he doesn’t have a single problem with how close the two of you are sitting. He’d be kidding himself if he said he did.

“I’m glad,” he says, hands settling atop the table.

“Are you?” You blink, eyes bright and welcoming. He has to avert his attention to your nose instead. Feeling as if you’d swallow him whole.

“I am now,” he grins.

Distracted, the half-empty glass in your hands spills when you twist its stem a little too quickly. A puddle of cosmo seeps into the half-polished tabletop and you cringe.

“Oops.” Quick to act, despite how sapped you feel from the cocktails, you grab a too-big handful of napkins from the dispenser in front of you.

With little to no flare, you push the entire pile of paper into the split drink and probably make it worse. The napkins almost turn to pink sludge and you only spread the drink further. A cold, sticky mess.

Remus laughs and grabs your wrists, pulling them up from the mess, “What have you done, hmm?” He puts your hands in your lap and you slouch, defeated.

“Accident,” you huff. You watch Remus’s hands swipe across the table, much better at cleaning up your mess. Like it wasn’t even there in the first place. 

Upset that your drink is now empty, when Sirius isn’t looking, too distracted talking quidditch with James, you reach forward and snatch his mojito. Cheering internally, too happy with yourself, you sip slowly.

“He won’t be too happy with that,” Remus laughs, pushing the serviettes to the side. 

You shrug, pushing further into the leather of the booth seat, “Accident.” you repeat.

Remus chuckles. You scull back the last of Sirius’s drink and Remus braces his hand on the skin between your shoulder blades, with a gentle “Take it easy,” 

You turn to him and wipe the line of drink from your chin with the back of your hand. Smiling before gently slamming the now-empty glass back to the table, a ring of condensation splashes across your palm. 

You wipe it across Remus’s leg unthinkingly and he wrinkles his nose. A dark stripe up his thigh. He takes your hand by the wrist again and grabs another napkin. Dabbing your palm gently and you act unaffected by his attentions when you trace the water on the table with your free hand.

“Am I the one who’s going to be doing the babysitting, tonight?” Remus counts the glasses that hadn’t been collected yet. Five. Six, now counting the one you stole.

You nod, gleefully.

“Saves me, then.” Lily takes another swig from her Pimm's, very happy. James presses into her side and throws his head back. 

“Merlin, I’m tired.” he huffs.

“Boo. No fun,” you pout, eyeing only his third drink that he hadn’t touched in way too long, “You drink too slowly, that’s your problem.” 

He snorts, “I don’t have the drinking problems, lovely.” 

You gasp, hand to your chest, sticky fingers pressing into your skin, “Just because I’m having fun!” 

You notice the beginnings of a frown across Sirius’s face, clocking the glass in front of you, green to your past pink drinks, “You little sneak.”

You pout, “Okay, I’m sorry, let me get the next round.” You move to stand and when you’re upright, the room spins. You grab Remus’s shoulder for purchase and he grabs your forearm. His grip is grounding, flesh between his slender fingers.

“Okay, let me get the drinks,” he says, standing. The love-hate relationship you have with his height hurts sometimes.

“No, let me.” You rummage through the purse over your shoulder, through sickles and spare tampons, and pull out a measly fiver. You hold it up to him with a frown, paper crumpled in your hand.

Remus chuckles and places his hands on your shoulders, “Sit.”

You do what he says and ignore the warmth in the pit of your belly.

As Remus stands at the bar to wait for the drinks, he turns to watch you with a content smile on his face and a warmth spreading up his chest until it begs to swatch his cheeks. He watches as you cover your face with your hands, giggling madly at something James is telling you. 

He thinks his heart is messing with him when it skips in his chest. When you throw your head back, neck bared and your eyes squinted, your shoulders raise like it’s the funniest thing you’ve ever heard (it could be but he doubts it), he thinks his heart has an actual fault. Almost halting completely when your eyes meet his and he thinks he’s been caught, but you smile contently and he has to look away before it jumps out his throat. 

He knows he’s truly done for.

He returns with a tray of drinks, mojito’s for his friends and a pint for himself, a packet of crisps pinched between his teeth. If he doesn’t choose to drink cocktails with everyone else because he wants to be sober to keep his eye on you, that’s completely his business. 

He places the drinks down, a hum of thank yous and cheers follow, he opens his mouth to let the crisps fall into your lap. You startle and look up at him, bemused.

“You said you were hungry.” He smiles.

You beam, hiccuping what he thinks is thanks.

“Where’s my fuckin food?” Sirius calls, voice very clear above the din of the pub. He throws a cube of ice at Remus and misses.

“Up your ass.” 

Sirius goes to reach for a crisp and you clutch the foil bag close to your chest. He doesn’t try again, thinking you might bite him. “Fuck, I need a cig.” 

He stands and stops Remus from sitting as he climbs over you. Squeezing past with almost zero care. You laugh, he seems hangry.

When he almost steps on your toe, “Look out, you prat.” Remus scolds.

“C’mon. Outside.” Sirius drags him away before he can even protest.

-

“You gonna ask her out, or what?” Sirus leans against the wall of the smoking area and flicks his ash.

Remus groans, “Don’t say it like it's easy or some shit.”

“Is it not?” Sirius laughs like it’s obvious. Remus envies his natural charm some days. He wished it came easy to him.

“No. She doesn’t like me like that.” Remus toes the gravel beneath his boot with a crunch. Watches as it skips across the ground and to the firepit. A distraction from the scolding that he’s expecting he’s about to get from Sirius.

Sirius coughs on a thick exhale of smoke, pushes himself off the wall. “You’re fucking with me, right?”

“What? No.” In some delusional, fucked up way, no, Remus is fucking with Sirius. Not since 7th year, anyways.

“She's mad about you,” Sirius laughs around the filter of his cigarette, “It’s sickening really. I mean she’s gotta be half dumb or something.” After another exhale he flicks more ash to the ground.

“Fuck up.”

“Whatever.”

There’s a beat before Remus says, “She doesn’t feel that way about me.” His head rests against the red brick behind him and wishes it would swallow him up. He wishes this was easier.

“What, you think she wears her best red skirt for people she doesn’t love?”

He lifts his head and glares at Sirius, “You really are a fucking twat, you know?” He steals the cigarette from between Sirius’s fingers and ignores his grunt as he inhales deeply. As deep as he can until Sirius swats his hand.

“I’m fucking kidding.” He takes it back, grimacing at the butt of what’s left.

“Still a twat,” Remus grunts.

Sirius flicks the orange filter to the ground and squashes it under his leather boot. “Seriously, Moons. Make a move already, it’s starting to get sad.”

He sighs, and Sirius almost wants to slap some sense into him. He doesn’t, remembering how he’d reacted last time he did. “I can’t. I’m not ruining anything.”

He decides to pat his shoulder instead, a gentler approach, “You’re a miserable sap.” He squeezes his sad friend, “She likes you, a lot, and she’s really good for you, y’know?”

“She is, isn’t she?” Remus sighs, lovelorn and dizzy, “Fuck, she’s so amazing. I don’t know what I’m gonna do. Have you seen her when she laughs? Fuck sakes.” He has to stop himself before he rants too much.

The both of them start to make their way back into the pub. “Alright, put your fucking cock away.”

Remus opens the door to the bar, “Get inside,” he laughs.

“If you don’t make a move soon, fuck I might.” Remus’s face goes slack and he pushes his dickhead of a friend towards their table with a little too much force. He stumbles with a hearty chuckle.

Left alone in the middle of the bar, a little incensed, he turns to look around and spots what looks like your aforementioned red skirt, standing in front of the claw machine. 

Bemused, but more intrigued, he beelines for you with slow strides. When he stands behind you he places his hand to your shoulder. You turn around and smile warmly. You’re standing, more like swaying, with both hands inside your purse.

“What are you doing, dove?” he asks and squeezes your shoulder. You push back into him, probably for the stability you lack. He braces you with his thigh behind yours.

“You smell like a chimney.” You wrinkle your nose and he laughs. It reverberates through your chest and you have to blink away the way it makes you feel. Sleepy.

“Sirius is a horrible influence,” he says with an equally wrinkled nose. 

“I’m looking for a coin,” you answer his question, looking back down into your purse. “Want to win you something.” Remus’s heart swells tenfold.

Before he can pull one from his pocket as an offering, you bend over and tip your entire purse to the paisley carpet, contents spilling everywhere. Wizard money, bright pink tampons, chapsticks and gum wrappers sit in a pile and Remus steps back with a disgruntled sigh.

You turn and crouch down to sort through everything, Remus looks down and gawps for a second. Half amused, half displeased. He bends down with you and helps as well.

“Do you think it'll take sickles?” you question, moving bandaids to the side. It’s looking like a lost cause.

Remus shakes his head with a laugh, “I don’t think so, honey.” 

You frown. 

“Here,” He handles a few items and places them in your purse, “I’ll help you clean this up and I’ll win you something, hm?” Remus thinks you’re a bit like Mary Poppins with how much stuff you have. He’d say this to you because you probably would understand the muggle reference, but you seem too upset over your lack of coins. 

“Was gonna win you some chocolate,” you laugh, picking up more stuff. 

The last few items fall back in with little organisation and he stands. You take his outstretched hands and let him gently tug you back up with a ruffle of your hair.

He pulls a coin from his pocket and slots it into the machine. You stand around to the side with your hands pressed to the glass like a little kid. The flow of colours washes you fluorescent as you point to a cherry ripe in a perfect spot.

He grips the joystick and moves it to where he thinks it hovers right above it.

“More to the left,” you say with your finger smooshed against the machine.

“You’re drunk,” he says before he pushes the red button on top of the stick, not moving it to where you’d said.

You laugh as it doesn’t even graze the chocolate. Claw coming back up with nothing. “Whatever.” He has two more chances at grabbing it and he’s determined.

The second time he does listen to you but still misses by the width of a hair. You both hold your breath as the claw gets lowered for the final time. You bend over to get a better view and watch as it gets picked up, not cheering until it gets dropped in the chute.

You clap as Remus cheers, taking the chocolate thankfully, opening it immediately with a crinkle of red foil. “Thank you, Remus.”

“Anytime.”

You break the chocolate in half and offer him the bigger portion. You both stand there, chewing on cherry and coconut and chocolate. You look at your sticky fingers and the worst of the after-effects of six cocktails suddenly hits you in a wave of nausea. Not enough to make you want to throw up, but enough for you to groan and grab your stomach.

“I think I should go home,” you whine, placing your half of the chocolate back into the wrapper and into your purse, probably just to melt and make a mess. A later problem, you think.

“Feeling okay?” he asks, turning to check you over. Etebrows pinched in concern already.

“I think I had too many cocktails,” you laugh, weakly at that.

“How are you getting home?” he asks.

You laugh, having flashbacks to your last encounter. “That’s my line.” 

“It’s a good one.”

“I don’t know how I’m getting home,” you say.

“I’ll call you a taxi.”

You sigh, “That’d be lovely.”

-

After saying goodbye to the rest of the group, after they’d moaned about your fifteen-minute disappearance with Remus, Thought you’d gotten stuck in the cubicle! James had laughed. Drunkenly, you’d missed the joke. Remus had smacked him up the back of the head. But now, the both of you were making your way to the front entrance.

Remus has to drag you out the door, holding you upright as you stammer and trip on things that aren't there.

“Be careful,” he tuts, holding you closer under his arm. 

“There was a frog!” you explain, very much exasperated.

“No there wasn’t,” he laughs.

“Was so!” you strain, fisting his shirt behind his back, sure to stretch the cotton.

“You just want me to hold you tighter.” He’s smug when he says it and can’t really help it. He has Sirius’s words ringing in the back of his head. 

You stop at the gutter and kick a stone with your boot, “Maybe.”

Your knees ache, wanting nothing more than to crouch down to the ground. You think it would probably be a bad idea. Though with sore knees and a spinning head, bad ideas turned to the best. 

You pull yourself from Remus' hold and bend your legs to crouch in the gutter. Remus’s eyes blow wide and he looks down at you. Not again, he thinks.

Before he can ask what you’re doing, thinking you've passed out, you look up, “Head rush,” you giggle with a huff of air. He sits down next to you, knees almost pressed into his chin. 

Remus tugs your knee so you turn towards him, legs pressed together. He keeps his large palm over your thigh because being crouched in a gutter leaves little to the imagination to the drunks walking past and he’s not going to ask you to get up if you’re dizzy. 

“You okay?” he murmurs. 

You rest your head on his shoulder much like he had the last time you saw him. He hopes he had more care than you do with your cheek cruelly smooshed into his skin. “I’m just a little drunk.” 

Lucky for Remus, before he thinks you’re about to fall asleep on his shoulder, your taxi is pulling up. He helps you stand, opens the back door and ushers you in. 

Listening to your murmur of thanks Remus before he clicks you in. 

“What’s your address, dove? So I can tell the driver.” You give him your address and he passes it off. 

Before he can close the door for you, you grab his wrist. 

“When can I see you next?” you ask brightly. Hopefully. 

“Call me when you’re not hungover,” he laughs, brushing his fingers across your arm. Your grip hardens. 

“You’ll answer?” He almost laughs again at how drunk you sound. Of course, he’ll answer. 

“Of course, sweetheart.” 

You lean across your seat, seatbelt pulling taut as you press a kiss to his cheek. Warm and buttery-soft just like last time, but maybe even worse now that his feelings for you are stronger. It burns. 

“Thank you, Remus.” 

“That’s okay, lovely.” 

-

You in fact did call Remus, a couple of days after your night out. Expected, you were hungover so you waited a day after to talk. 

Remus hadn’t really been expecting you to call him, despite how eager you seemed, he had talked himself out of believing you had any feelings for him. Like he’d imagined it or something. 

So, when his phone rings, he’s not expecting it to be you at all. He answers with a sigh, thinking it’s James or Sirius. 

“What do you want?” His voice is void of any excitement or joy you’d been selfishly expecting. You were also expecting a more welcoming greeting. 

“Remus?” you say, and his hand stills in his cupboard where he’s distractedly putting clean dishes away. 

He shuts the cupboard’s door a little too abruptly and cringes, clears his throat so he can speak, “Y/N! Shit, sorry. Hey.” He cringes even more at his stupidity. 

“Expecting someone else?” you laugh. 

He nods like you can see him, “Yeah, sorry.” He swallows and tries to fix himself, “How are you?” 

“I’m good,” you say with a little sigh, “Really, really good.” 

“That’s great!” 

“Yeah, how are you?” you question. 

Remus’s voice goes quieter, “Amazing.” Then there’s a small beat like you’re both thinking, “So, what’s up? Everything okay?” 

In his mind, his stupid, paranoid mind, there’s a possibility that all you’ve done is pocket-dialled him. Or, accidentally pressed his name in your contacts, maybe mistaken the name Moony for Mum. 

Is his name Moony in your phone? Or is it just Sirius’s friend? God, he wants his thoughts to shut up. 

“I wanted to ask you something!” When it sounds like you actually want to talk to him, what almost feels like relief washes over him. Paints him bright as he settles on his sofa, beaming like a schoolboy when he says, 

“Oh, yeah?” 

“Yeah!” Your excitement is dizzying. “Are you free this weekend?” 

He has to swallow before he speaks, eagerness bleeds through his skin. His foot taps and he picks at a loose thread on his battered shirt.  “Yeah, I am.” 

You chirp a happy noise, “Awesome! Cool. Um, there’s that gig on at The Red Lion if you wanted to come?”

Remus doesn’t see himself as a cool person and it definitely doesn’t show when he says, “Yeah! I’d love to.” in a tone pitched higher than normal. 

“Great. I think Sirius is coming too, I told him about it the other day and said he should invite the others. I wasn’t sure if he had asked you yet.” 

Oh. 

Remus feels like the biggest idiot ever. You weren’t asking him out, why would you? 

He leans down between his legs until all the air is forced from his lungs, he covers the receiver with his hand and groans, long and suffering in self-pity. 

Is coughing to clear your throat and hide your disappointment a good thing? Because his voice is a little squeaky when he replies. When he sits back up his head spins. “Sounds great.” 

He hears some shuffling on the end of your line before you say, “Amazing. I’ll see you then. Sorry, gotta go. Bye Remus!” 

“Bye, sweetheart.” 

Remus has about thirty seconds of wallowing in self-pity before his phone is ringing again. He wants to shove it in between his sofa cushions and forget about everything. But he sees Sirius' name flash up on the screen so he answers. 

“Moony!” Sirius’s voice pierces the phone line and Remus cringes. “Remus, my good friend.”

“Did you just get lucky or something?” Remus gruffs. 

“Huh?” 

“You’re too happy. Calm it down.” 

Sirius groans, “You’re so content with being miserable, Remus. Just because you can’t get your dick wet.” 

Remus wished his stupid friend could see the displeasure on his face, “What do you want?” 

“You’re free this weekend, aren’t you?” He questions and Remus hums a yes, expecting to hear the exact same question you had just asked him only three minutes ago. 

“Well, you, me, the gang, and a few pints at The Red Lion. Sounds like a plan?” Remus detests his friend's happiness. Or envies it. He feels miserable and doesn’t think Sirius is deserving of his lack of enthusiasm just because you didn’t ask him out. 

“Yeah, Y/N already asked me,” he replies. 

“Well, don’t get too excited.” Sirius huffs a laugh. 

“No, sorry. It’s just I thought she- never mind. Sounds good.” 

“Awesome. I’ll send you the deets.” 

Remus almost laughs, “The deets? Wait until I tell Marls you talk like that.” 

“Shut up.” 

“Bye, Sirius.” 

Sirius hangs up before he can. 

-

Remus spots you before you do, again. Watches where you lean against the bar on your tip-toes, talking to the bartender about something. He’s making you laugh and he feels the stupid need that it should be him instead. 

He does what he always does; walks up behind you and presses his shoulder into your back. You chirp and turn around. Then, your eyes do that thing that they always do that makes him bite the inside of his cheek. They squint, confused, and then light up when you realise who you’re looking at. Remus could swear that they sparkle, but that’s just something he imagines in his lovesick head. 

“Remus!” You smile, mouth upturning until the apples of your cheeks swell. You wrap your fingers around his bicep and pull him into your side. He lets you, willingly. 

“Y/N,” he says probably a little too quietly for the setting. The pub is starting to fill quickly while the band does sound check, the general hubbub of the patrons mixes in with the strumming of guitars and the feedback from the mics. 

“You’re all wet,” you giggle, pressing your fingers into the underside of his arm. 

“Yeah, it’s starting to rain out there,” he says. 

“You walked?” You frown, pulling your hands from his arm. He can still feel where your fingers were wrapped. A burn against his wet skin. 

“From the bus stop.” 

“You know there’s this thing wizards can do, I’m not sure if you heard of it. It’s called disapparition,” you quirk, mouth upturning into a teasing smile.

Amused, Remus says, “I don’t usually like muggles to watch someone appear out of thin air.”

You reach forward to grab some napkins from the dispenser on the bar, probably too many. “I would’ve picked you up,” you say matter-of-factly.

He doesn’t reply, just stops still when you reach up to brush away the damp hair from his eyes. There’s water bunching in his hair and falling in tiny beads down his face, over his top lip. You laugh when he licks it away before you dab across his forehead and then his cheeks. 

“I missed you,” you say, bunching the paper into a ball. 

Remus smiles, too hard he thinks. “You saw me last weekend.” 

You think he might be teasing you, though you’re not sure. You feel like you’ve overstepped. Demure, your eyes widen at your error. “Sorry,” you laugh, airy and quiet. 

Remus pokes you in your side, “I missed you too,” he laughs. 

You nod your head and bite your lip. You feel eased. But embarrassed in the first place. Scrunching the ball of damp napkins in your hands until it pinches. Still, you’re overjoyed. 

“What are you drinking?” you ask, splaying your hands over the bar, leaning where it comes up to your chest. You try to ignore everything. The way Remus is making you feel, the busy pub that’s teeming with rowdy people. 

“Not sure,” he quirks, eyeing the taps at the end of the bar. “What about you?” 

“I think I might just stick to squash,” you laugh knowingly. 

“You’re on it tonight,” Remus laughs, splaying his fingers around your shoulder. 

“I’m not having any repeats of last week.” 

“Damn,” he pouts, “Drunk Y/N is cute.” 

You warm, “Drunk Y/N is messy.” 

He squeezes you, a funny pinch. “I think you can be both.” 

You lean into his side while he orders your drinks. His hand doesn’t move and you don’t want it to. It’s warm and grounding and feels too good to be true. How touchy he is and how you love it. You imagine a world where he doesn’t just touch your shoulder. Imagining what he’d do if you were together. How ruining he would be. 

Distracted by his grip on your arm, before you can even reach into your purse to grab your money, he’s paid. 

“Remus,” you scold, pushing yourself off the bar. 

“Dove,” he smiles, placating. He grabs both of your drinks, in one hand, fingers twisting. The other snakes down to grab your hand to guide you through the crowd of people. 

“Stop paying for my drinks.” Someone bumps into you and Remus digs his elbow into your side to stop you from tripping. You smile thankfully. 

You let him weave you through patrons, your hand flexing around his until you get to your table. Once you've sat down, he says, “Sorry, didn’t think a fiver would cover it.” 

Faux scolding, you shove his arm. “I have more money on me this time.” 

“Good,” Sirius pipes up, “you can buy me that cocktail you owe me.” 

“I’m sorry, Sirius.” You act like it genuinely does upset you. Though the thought of how you acted when you were drunk last week, is worse. “I’m a really annoying drunk.”

“Sirius is being dramatic,” Remus sighs, leaning back against the booth. He throws an arm behind you, pressing it up against the wall. You stay sitting forward, not sure if it’d be too much to lean into him. Despite him making the first move. “You got your cocktail.”

“Yeah, you bought it,” Sirius faux scoffs. It’s hard to believe that he actually cares about a stolen mojito, easier to believe he’s determined to tease you until you die. “Doesn’t count.”

“I’ll buy you a cocktail if you really want me to, Sirius,” you lilt, happy to get him to shut up. It works when Remus shoots him a look you don’t understand. Sirius bites his tongue and sits back in his seat. 

By the time James and Lily get back from the bar, the band has started their set and you’ve had enough time to think too much on whether or not you should lean into Remus’s side. His weight behind you feels like a magnet. The more you want to pull away the stronger the urge is to just give up and fall against him. 

Much like everything is with Remus. The more you allow yourself to think you really do like him, the harder it is to keep to your regular ways. You’ve never allowed yourself to be so openly affectionate and loving towards someone without second-guessing every single thing you do.

Not that you don’t. Every time you speak to him, touch his arm for too long or allow yourself to wrap your own arm around his back, there’s that voice in the back of your head that’s screaming at you. Telling you that you’ve let your guard down too much for a boy you’re not even sure likes you as much as you do him and you’ve embarrassed yourself.

It’s totally overwhelming and constantly feels like a back-and-forth battle. Because, sure, it's no secret anymore to anyone who isn't Remus, that you like him. You just wished it were easier.

As if he can hear your head reeling, or he’s just noticed how quiet you’ve suddenly become, he nudges your leg where it’s crossed with his own jean-clad one.

“You okay?” he asks. His face is soft. Too soft for your dismissive and relentless thoughts to ebb. It’s suddenly painful to even be looking at him and you’ve only been around him for no less than twenty minutes. He’s always had that ability.

The nod you give him is unconvincing and your smile is even worse. His eyes flicker and you open your mouth to speak before he can, “Yeah, jus’ thinking.”

“I can tell.” 

“You can?”

You chance another look back at him and regret it instantly when he’s smiling like he knows something you don’t. “Yeah.” He nods, “You’re making that face you always do when something’s eating at you.”

Hating being read for filth, you turn to take a sip from your drink, filling your mouth with your straw lest you say something stupid. You drink it too quickly, and once it’s down to its last dregs, your head aches. Brain freeze. You squeeze your eyes shut and try to distract yourself when you say, “What face?”

“Your lips part and your eyebrows pinch. Sometimes I have to double-check you’re not crying.” Remus is a lovely, horribly attentive boy. And if he keeps saying things like that, things that let you know he does actually pay attention to you, you’re not going to last. When you said you wondered how ruining he would be, this isn’t what you had in mind.

Remus says something to you again, but you don’t catch it. The band transitions into a much louder song and his words fall on deaf ears. You do, however, catch the look he shares with Sirius again over your shoulder. 

Confused, you suddenly think fresh air would be better than to pain yourself through whatever’s happening around you. “I’ll go get that mojito,” you mumble.

You weave yourself over Remus’s lap, careful where your shoes and hands land, careful to also ignore where he stables you with his own hand on the back of your knee. You try to make it discrete as you beeline for the bar, taking a small turn to head for the back doors.

The warm air cast from the setting sun slowly dwindles away and you cross your arms over your body, leaning against the railing to the left of the smoking area. When the door shuts behind you, the music from inside slowly dies down and you’re grateful to be the only one out here. 

The fear you have been feeling throughout your entire friendship with Remus does its best to claw its way up your throat. Makes your breathing staggered and your palms itch. You suspect if you spent any more time with him inside you would’ve only embarrassed yourself more than you feel like you already have. Best you do it out here instead.

The muffled music slowly grows louder when you hear the door open and you pay it no mind. Not until there’s a hand on your shoulder. You flinch and turn around, pushing yourself against the railing.

“Shit, sorry. Just me,” Remus smiles, pulling his hand from your shoulder.

“Remus,” you breathe, hand to your chest, “You scared me.”

“Sorry,” he frowns.

You pause. Trust him to notice your departure. You hope he doesn’t ask you any questions, you don’t expect yourself to hold anything in anymore if he soothes you over.

“You okay?”

Fuck sakes.

“Um, yeah.” You nod. Remus moves to your side, arm pressed up against the railing and you follow him. Turning so you’re face to face.

“You sure? You just kind of up and left.” he laughs weakly, stopping when he notices you don’t join in.

“Sorry,” you apologise.

“What for?” he asks kindly. You once more detest his kindness and his ability to get you to open up.

“I don’t know,” you sigh, leaning further into the railing and it rattles, “I’m being weird.” You’re not opening up like you’d expected, though the words you want to say to him are at the back of your mind, where they were once pushed away, slowly crawling forward. If he keeps looking at you like that, they might spill.

“You’re not.”

“I am. I’m thinking too much and it,” you heave a calming breath. You want to tell him how you feel, not ramble, “it hurts.”

“Hey,” He traces a line over the hinge of your elbow, “what’s going on in that head of yours, hm? Care to let me in?”

You swallow, “That’s the problem. I can’t find the words.”

“That’s okay.” He squeezes your arm, “Take your time.”

His gaze is soft though it still burns where it’s settled over your face, his grip on your arm is worse. Still, it’s grounding. You blink and take a few calming breaths.

The door opens up again and the band’s music spews back outside. It’s the same song that was playing the night you sat on Sirius's couch and you’d freaked about how it was both your favourite. In some cheesy, cliche way, you take it as a sign.

“I’ve never been one for showing, let alone telling someone how I feel about them,” you begin, “I’m not sure if that’s the most obvious thing ever, or if I’ve gotten really good at hiding it but…”

Remus is smiling widely, more smug than anything. It makes you nervous and you advert your gaze to the ground. Over the ash-strained brick tile under your sneakers, “Stop looking at me like that or I won’t be able to finish what I’m trying to tell you,” you sigh.

“Like what?” he asks like he’s oblivious. Like his mouth isn’t now upturned into the slyest smile.

“That!’’ Your face grows warm and you have to press the backs of your hands into them. You can feel the thrumming of your heart in your fingertips.

“Sorry, you were saying,” he chuckles. 

“God, where did you get all this confidence from, Remus?” you ask, a little dazed. Maybe it’s the setting or the fact you’re both finally sober together that brings out a different side of him, though you can’t be sure.

Remus shakes his head, “I’m sorry, you just look so cute when you get flustered.”

Your mouth parts, a shocked, demure gasp slips past them. Gawping, you say, “You’re not drunk, are you?” It’s not the first time he’s said it, but it's the first time it feels different.

“Not this time. For once,” he laughs knowingly.

“Right,” you pause. Taking in a shuddered breath. In what world you would ever expect this to be easy, you’re not sure. You’re also not sure that doing this with Remus makes it easier. Easier, because he makes you feel secure and appropriately worked down to tell him anything; harder because it’s him you have to let your emotions go with. It’s him you have to let know of your heartachingly, sore feelings you have. He can’t just be there on the sidelines guiding you through it.

Remus watches you slip away into your shy, quiet self again. He can almost hear your thoughts reeling, “God, you’re worse than me.”

You giggle nervously, all pitched up and light, “You make me nervous,”

He steps forward and if your eyes weren’t stuck on the ground, you wouldn’t have noticed it. He’s smooth. “Do I now?” He hooks a knuckle under your downwardly pointed chin and gives it a tap.

You look back up, catching his gaze, “I hate you,”

“No you don’t,” he says matter of factly. Like its the most obvious thing ever. You’re sure it is.

“I don’t?” You blink slowly.

He closes the gap between you some more and suddenly you’re overwhelmed by him. The smell of his laundry detergent, something familiar and heady, mixed in with the cologne that you swear follows you home. Where the toe of his boot almost touches your sneaker and where the sleeve of his sweater catches on your bracelet because he’s as close as possible. Though you still think he’s not close enough. 

His voice mixes in with the same song that’s playing inside and you can barely hear him when it builds to a crescendo and he says, “You weren’t about to go on some rant about how you love me?”

“Remus…” you murmur, quieter than the thumping of your heart in your chest,

“No?”

You bite your tongue, but it does nothing to stop you from saying, “God, yes. Just- kiss me, please.”

“What?” he asks, more shocked than you’ve been this entire interaction.

“Kiss me, Remus. Before the song ends.” You lean into him, up on the balls of your feet and pull your hands between your bodies.

Face to face, lips hovering over yours, he murmurs, “You sure?”

“Completely,”

It’s the last thing you say before Remus kisses you so hard, so deep, that you forget how it was even possible to form words in his presence before now. Snakes his arms around your back and holds you so close your shirt rides up until your skin presses into the soft material of his sweater. 

He tastes of stout, a weird mixture against the lemon on your tongue. You can’t find it in you to mind when he hums into your mouth. A desperate, pleading sound that has you squeezing the flesh of his hips. Compared to the reserved and diffident relationship you’ve held with Remus up until now, the kiss you share is nothing alike. It’s passionate and heated. Longing.

The song ends and with a final tug of your bottom lip, he pulls away panting. Eyes skipping over your face, a little glassy and bouncy. “Fuck,” he murmurs.

Tugging on the hem of his sweater, you say, “What?’' with a light chuckle.

“If I…” Remus has to compose himself lest he says something embarrassing. Completely forward. “If I knew kissing you would’ve been like that…I would’ve done it ages ago.”

“I think I’ve wanted you to kiss me for a really long time,” you confess, giddily rocking back and forth on your feet. Canvas sneakers crushing into the ground.

“Yeah?” he hums. Smugness still ever present.

“Yeah.”

“Thoughts on me kissing you again?” he asks, still not letting you go where you’re held against his torso.

You look over his shoulder, “I think if you kiss me again, Sirius’s jaw might fall to the floor.”

Remus turns and spots Sirius and James almost pressed to the glass window. James doesn’t look as pleased, shoving a crumpled note into Sirius's palm. Turning back to face you, he rolls his eyes, “I think they had a bet going.”

“Should we give Sirius his money’s worth?” you giggle.

“I’m going to kiss you. But, not for Sirius.” Remus says, “Only because you look insanely beautiful right now and if I don’t do it again, my brain might go numb.”

“What are you waiting for then?”