Gather Ye Rosebuds

On this particular winter night, Joseph Jackson had ordered a compulsory family dinner, meaning that though his son had left Hayvenhurst nearly three years ago to move in with his wife immediately after their wedding, tonight was one of those times where he had to be back in his adolescent abode.

He was currently recording an unauthorised interview by the fountain outside the estate, a video he’d decided on randomly at the peak of the evening’s boredom as he anxiously anticipated dinner. While he spoke whimsically into the air, you began to walk up to him, holding a hot mug of coffee, its purpose to help him stay energised for the night ahead.

Despite the darkness, it was only five-thirty in the afternoon, because it was December and Michael loved to sit out in the winter dusk, when the moon and the stars appeared. He would be performing a standalone concert here in California at nine o'clock, and as usual was behaving as if there wasn't any necessary preparation to be done. It was true that he was talented enough and naturally skilled enough to perform on both little sleep and little food, but you knew he'd had one too many sleepless nights recently, therefore caffeine was incredibly necessary.

He didn't notice you approach at first, because he was gazing up and off into the distance—entirely away with the fairies, and in turn so ignorant to his very own Tinker Bell beside him.

“… But this is really magic to me ‘cause it’s like, um… It’s like a painting. It’s very artistic. It’s magic! ♪⋆ So wonderful… ♪⋆”

You snapped your fingers, and a man behind the camera chuckled.

Now Michael turned to you immediately, and his eyes lit up. "Hi, pretty," he smiled, orbs glazed over with both exhaustion and adoration. To the camera, he spoke in reference to you. “See! More magic! My beautiful princess.”

"Hi, baby," you grinned, running your hand over his cheek and kissing his lips twice. "I made you some coffee."

You presented the drink to him, but he only grimaced in disgust. "Minnie, y'know I don't like coffee."

"Mic—" you began, but he interrupted with persistence.

"I hate coffee."

"Michael," you said firmly, sitting down beside him by the fountain and taking no notice of the camera pointing directly at you both. "You got almost no sleep last night—you're gonna drink this."

"No, 'm not," he pressed on, like a stubborn child.

You set the mug down and rolled your eyes. "You need the energy for later. Don't argue with me."

"Yeah, I know, girl, but I don't like coffee."

"God, y'wanna tell me that again?! Didn't hear you the million other times…"

Now you were bickering like an old married couple, despite being in a mere two-and-a-half-year marriage at that stage. You argued like this a lot, because Michael could be so stubborn and frustrating, refusing to listen to you even when you knew what he needed. And it was then always the case that after each argument was over, you'd both go back to being sugary sweet as if nothing had even happened. The healthiest marriages were often that way, you figured.

"I got an idiot for a wife, folks," Michael joked to the camera, in one of those silly voices he always prank-called people with.

That only irritated you further, so you nudged his side and he nudged yours back, almost knocking over the coffee between you as he did. The camera continued to roll despite the interview's disruption, but you still weren't giving it a second thought. Having been so used to cameras throughout your adolescence, you often forgot they were there, even in private moments. Your whole life was an example of human surveillance.

"Michael, you nearly knocked it over!"

"Yeah, whatever—doesn't matter 'cause 'm not drinkin' it anyway," he muttered, turning his head.

But you reached out and turned him back by his jaw. "I said don't argue with me, Jackson."

"You're the one arguin' with me, Mrs Jackson."

"No, I'm tellin' you somethin' constructive—that you need to drink this coffee now, and I'll also say that you later need to drink another coffee, before you go onstage."

"’s not my fault I couldn't sleep last night."

You took hold of his hand absentmindedly as you replied, your fingers playing with his slender ones. "I know, but now there's somethin' you can do about it. I put milk and enough sugar in it, y'know." Michael always had a sweet tooth, where his main dislike for coffee was that it was usually so bitter.

He looked down at your interlinked fingers and instinctively gave a small smile, before looking back to you again and sighing in frustration.

"Try a sip," you urged. "It's not too strong, honey, I promise."

He looked at the camera and scrunched his face up in playful irritation. "Sorry for the interlude, viewers."

You looked into the lens too and shook your head with a chuckle, pinching his cheek. "My husband is the idiot. Not me."

"That's mean, darlin'," Michael frowned in his hypocrisy, before picking up the drink and sniffing it cautiously.

You snuggled into his side, linking your arm into his free one and resting your head on his shoulder. He took his first slow sip, still grimacing as he did, but as the hot liquid went down his throat, he nodded slowly and comfortably.

"It's not that bad, actually," he murmured, shy at his previously vehement refusal.

"Exactly," you smiled, kissing his cheek. You ran your thumb over it slowly, getting lost in his pretty face as he sipped some more.

Then you turned to the camera, hand now rubbing over his knuckles instead. "Michael Jackson is one stubborn—"

Your speech was cut off into giggles as Michael nudged your side again with the hand not cradling the coffee; and of course in doing so, he almost spilled said coffee over his pants. You exhaled a loud sigh, paired with a straight, lightheartedly unamused face.

"This is what I have to put up with," you continued playfully into the lens. "Our marriage is horrible. I don't know why I—"

He'd set the mug down now, in order to start a real playfight, chuckling as you squealed. He tried to pull you up onto his lap to settle you there, but you protested.

"No, I gotta go now, baby—'m not stayin'," you said softly, once the fight had subsided.

Michael immediately frowned again, tugging you closer into him. "Huh, why?"

"I've got some stuff to take care of with my producer, but I'll see you tonight at the show." You leaned forward to kiss him, one hand moving to his soft cheek and poking it as you did; but then you noticed the froth above his upper lip—as a product of his drink—and you chuckled at the adorable sight. Carefully, you wiped the foam away with your thumb, then smoothed over the curve of his lips before warming the flesh with your kiss.

Michael blushed profusely, eyes clamping shut in a shyness that only increased when you then cradled his jaw and said something that made his heart flutter.

"Make sure you drink the rest for me, beautiful."

He rolled his eyes at the intimate adjective you’d used for him, and made a joke to the camera to conceal the effects of it, because he believed that at least when in public it should be the man giving the woman such gentle affection and romantic speech, not the other way around.

"She's so corny," he sighed theatrically, and you rolled your eyes, before leaning in again.

"Shh. Bye, angelface—I'll see you later," you spoke airily, kissing him twice more.

"Oh bye, honey!" Michael replied in that sweet, whimsical tone of his, poking your cheek as you'd poked his a moment ago, before you stood up to leave.

"Remember to feed Brandon by six!" you called back, referring to your almost two year old son, who would be staying there for the night. "His yogurt’s in the fridge!"

The interview resumed, and he finished the coffee only because you’d really wanted him to, while unable to think of anything but you as he yapped to the camera. Throughout, he kept bringing up his 'beautiful, wonderful, magical wife'—much to the amusement of the guys recording, and to his own sister who joined him later on and teased his lovestruck soul. But Michael only ever laughed off the teasing commentary, so grateful that he had a lady to love profoundly and unashamedly for all time.

angelcrescent © 2026 ⋆౨ৎ˚⟡₊˚⊹ everytime i watch this interview i wanna stroke his pretty face so badly...

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You’d spent years keeping it all from him. Eddie Munson—your best friend since ninth grade, the boy who gave you guitar calluses because he told you learning an instrument is sexy and everyone digs it and gave you so many stupid inside jokes—stayed blissfully ignorant because you made it so.

Until Chrissy Cunningham died in his trailer. Until everything cascaded so fast you didn’t have time to think. Until you told him everything—too late, too late, too late—everything in your life always seemed too fucking late. 

Now you carry that weight like a stone in your throat, and you know you’re not the only one. Each one of your friends has their own cross to bear, their own ghosts clawing to haunt them. Your brother Dustin, Will, Mike, Lucas, El, and Max—they’re just kids. They lift each other's weight, hoping to balance the fall out.

Jonathan and Nancy help carry each other’s. Robin joins them, trying to make the burden easier to bear. And then there’s Steve Harrington. 

Steve carries his own. He tries to carry it alone. 

You’ve known him since high school—years of half-flirtation, half-bickering, half-shared trauma (which makes way more than one whole, but after everything that’s happened, Hawkins doesn’t follow basic math and neither do you).

He was there the first time you fought a Demogorgon. There the second time you patched yourself up. There the third time you swore you couldn’t do it anymore.

And he was there when Eddie died, when he screamed your name because you were still crawling out of hell in the middle of a swarm of bats.

The two of you haven’t talked about it yet. Not really. Because talking about it would make it real. 

Today, though, you drive to the old Munson trailer. Steve insisted on joining you, not just because he didn’t want you to be alone—but because he cared about Eddie too. 

When you get there, you notice that most of Eddie’s things have been boxed up, ready to go to Wayne’s new place. But Wayne wanted you to have whatever you wanted—“you were his girl,” he’d said over the phone. “Not romantically. But you were his.”

Platonic soulmates is what Eddie used to tell everyone. We’re going to grow old together, you and me—we’ll be like Bert and Ernie. You always slapped him when he’d call you Bert…because of course he’d be Ernie. Stupid fucking Sesame Street and Eddie's obsession with those dumb puppets...And now he’d never get the chance to grow old. 

You cried in the bathroom for ten minutes afterward. Steve let you. He didn’t pry, he just gave you the time you needed. 

When you finally step inside Eddie’s room, the air feels thick with dust and memory.

And sitting on the bed is his guitar. His favorite one. Wayne wanted you to have it.

You reach for it like you’re sleepwalking. And in the midst of your daze, you don’t notice Steve lingering in the doorway until he speaks. “You don’t have to do this today.”

Your fingers are already wrapped around the neck of the guitar. Your voice comes out soft, shaky “I want to.”

He walks inside, slow steps, hands in his pockets like he’s trying not to disturb the air. “You sure?”

You nod once. Because if you don’t do this now, you never will. You sit on the edge of the bed and let the guitar settle against you. It feels wrong and right all at once.

Steve sits beside you—not touching, just there. A quiet body next to yours. A presence that anchors without suffocating.

“Eddie taught you some stuff, right?” He asks gently.

Your throat tightens. “He taught me everything he thought was important.”

Steve gives a tiny smile. “Sounds like him.”

You rest your fingers on the frets. They shake. “He said I was adequate at best.”

Steve snorts. “He said it in that proud way, though. Which means he thought you were secretly badass.”

A broken laugh slips out of you. You strum once. The chord rings out—sharp, wobbly, familiar. You try again, then again. Slowly, the muscle memory takes over. Eddie’s warm-up patterns; Three chords. Simple, soft and safe.

The sound fills the tiny room, and for a moment you can almost feel him sitting on the floor cross-legged, grinning at you with that stupidly encouraging smile, his hair widely swaying as he shakes his head to the music. ‘That's right! You got it!’ He’d have said proudly. 

But then the fourth chord doesn’t come. Your fingers freeze and your breath stutters. Steve notices instantly.

“Hey,” he whispers. “What’s wrong?”

You shake your head, hands trembling. “He died thinking I didn’t trust him,” your breath catches. “I kept the Upside Down secret for three years. I only told him when it was too late. I should’ve told him sooner—I should’ve—”

Your voice cracks hard, a sharp break in the middle.

Steve reaches out slowly, carefully, and places his hand over yours on the guitar neck. Warm, steady, and real. 

“(Y/n),” he says quietly. “Eddie never doubted you. Not once.”

You blink fast; tears blur your vision. “But I—”

“No.” Steve leans closer, eyes locked on yours. “If you’d told him too early, he would’ve run straight into danger trying to protect everyone. You didn’t push him into this. You kept him alive longer.”

The truth of it hits you so hard your breath leaves your lungs. Steve squeezes your hand gently.

“You loved him,” he says. “And he knew it.”

The tears fall before you can stop them. Steve shifts, his hand sliding down to your wrist, grounding you. The silence that falls between you is peaceful until Steve admits, “I still see him all the time.”

Your eyes flicker with understanding. You haven't talked enough about how this has affected him, and you want him to open up. You want to be there for him, like he's trying to be there for you.

“Everytime I close my eyes,” his throat tightens, gaze evading yours. “I see Eddie. His stupid, arrogant, smile—and sometimes I hear the way he’d laugh with Dustin when I’d fuck something up. I can’t shake it (Y/n).”

You swallow, wanting nothing more than to comfort him, “Steve…”

“And God—I can still hear you screaming that night…” His jaw clenches. “It’s burned into my memory and I–I feel like I failed you—as much as I failed him. I’ve spent the last few weeks terrified you’d hate me for not doing more—for not being more.”

You say his name again, weaker this time, disbelief and heartbreak etched on your face. You reach out, but he flinches, rubbing his face with both his hands. “After Eddie—I couldn't face you.” Steve’s brown eyes meet yours finally…they’re swimming in pools of pain. He looks like he’s drowning. “I would’ve taken his place, (Y/n)—I swear to God—I would have, if it meant saving him.”

“Don’t say things like that.” You shake your head. “Eddie wouldn’t have wanted that, I wouldn’t have wanted that.”

Tears slip down his cheeks and you let the silence engulf you. You can’t speak, you just reach for him. And he lets you pull him into a hug, the guitar sliding off to the side. His body wracks against yours, and it hits you how small he seems under all that guilt—how much he’s been holding all alone. 

“I could never hate you,” you whisper, fingers threading through his hair. “I never could.”

You lift the guitar again, though your arms feel heavy.

Steve hesitates, and then moves closer, thigh brushing yours.

“Play that riff he liked,” he sniffles. “The one that drove the kids insane.”

You laugh wetly. “He had like… fifteen of those.”

“Okay, the one everyone at Hellfire groaned at but secretly loved. That one. We can do it together.” He reaches across, his hand resting on yours—the one that’s firmly placed on the instrument’s neck. 

You inhale slowly, letting the familiarity settle in your bones. Then you say, “Steve, you don’t even know how to play guitar.”

He blushes. “Dustin taught me, like… three things. Against my will.” He pauses, “Eddie taught him.”

You snort, shake your head and reposition your fingers. “Of course he did.”

Then Steve places his hand lightly over your strumming wrist—guiding the rhythm. Not controlling, just helping. Together, you play the slowed-down, stripped-back version of Eddie’s favorite metal riff. It shouldn’t work, but it does.

The music fills the room—not loud or triumphant like Eddie would’ve played it, but soft, vulnerable, raw. When it ends, the silence feels sacred. Steve keeps his hand over yours.

You keep your hand on Eddie’s guitar.

And then so slowly and so gently you don’t even realize you’re doing it, you lean your head onto Steve’s shoulder. Not collapsing, just resting.

Steve exhales, shaky and relieved, and rests his cheek lightly against your hair.

“We’re gonna be okay,” he murmurs. “Not today. Maybe not tomorrow. But we’re gonna be okay.”

You close your eyes. For the first time in weeks, you believe him.

Later that night, you and Steve close up the trailer, the guitar case in your hands. You don’t say much on the walk to the car. You don’t have to.

When he opens the passenger door for you, you pause.

“Steve?”

He looks at you like you’re the only person on Earth. “Yeah?”

You take a shaky breath. “Thank you. For today.”

His expression softens—something warm and heartbreaking in the same breath.

“You saved me first,” he admits. “Long before I ever got to save you back.”

You swallow hard. Maybe today is too soon for anything more. Maybe, maybe tomorrow too.

But someday, eventually, when the grief stops clawing at your ribs—

You might let Steve Harrington kiss you. And you can't help but wonder if Eddie would approve.

• ж • ж •

Your house is dark when the two of you step inside.

Dustin is asleep on the couch, a blanket thrown over him like someone abandoned halfway through tucking him in. Your mom’s bedroom door is shut. There’s a quiet hum of the fridge, nothing else.

Steve closes the front door softly behind you.

You hold Eddie’s guitar case in one hand, your fingers curled tight around the handle like you’re afraid that if you let go, everything will fall apart again.

Steve notices.

“Hey,” he says softly. “Let me take that.”

You hesitate. Then you hand it to him. He sets it gently against the wall—like it’s something alive that could bruise.

When he straightens, he looks at you the same way he did in Eddie’s room, like he’s trying to make sure you don’t shatter in front of him.

“You want water? Or tea, or—” Even in your own home, Steve is trying to take care of you.

“Steve.”

Your voice is quiet, but he freezes instantly. You step closer—not enough to crowd him, just enough that you can feel the warmth from his body, the lingering adrenaline in his breath.

“Can you…” You swallow. “Can you stay for a minute?”

His brows lift. “Yeah. Of course.”

You toe off your shoes and walk into the small dining room where the moonlight hits the table in a silver stripe. Steve follows, slower, like he’s giving you time to change your mind. You don’t.

You sit in one of the chairs and exhale shakily. Tonight was a lot. More than a lot.

Steve leans against the table across from you, folding his arms loosely—not defensive, just contained.

He watches you for a moment. “You okay?”

You shake your head.  For once, the truth comes easily. “No.”

He nods once, like he expected that.

“But,” you add, “I’m…less not-okay than I was.”

His lips lift in a small, relieved smile. “I’ll take that.”

Your gaze drifts to his hands—still faintly trembling from the adrenaline of earlier, the vulnerability of it all. You’re shaking too. “Steve?”

“Yeah?”

The words leave your mouth before fear can catch them “Come here.”

He doesn’t move immediately.  Not because he’s hesitating—he’s checking you. Checking that your eyes are steady, checking your breathing, checking if this is comfort or need or panic. When he sees that it’s none of those things, that it’s something gentler, quieter, real, he steps toward you.

Slow. Careful. Soft.

He stops right in front of your chair.

You tilt your head up to look at him, and the way he exhales—like he’s been holding that breath since the Upside Down—almost breaks you in half.

“(Y/n)…” His voice is barely a whisper. “If you don’t want—”

“I do.” Your heart hits your ribs.

You stand, close enough that your chest brushes his.  Close enough that you can see the flecks of gold in his hazel eyes, the way his lips part slightly, unsure. His hand lifts, hesitates just shy of your cheek.

“Tell me to stop,” he breathes, “and I’ll stop.”

You place your fingers over the back of his hand, guiding it to your face. “I’m not going to,” you whisper.

His palm cups your cheek, warm and careful.  You lean into it before you can think. And Steve looks at you like he’s memorizing the moment.

“Okay,” he whispers. Then he leans in. Slow. Slower.  Like he’s giving you every second to pull away. But you don’t. You don’t even think to try—because this is all you’ve ever wanted. To feel safe, to feel understood. 

Your hands slide up his chest, curling into the fabric of his shirt. His breath catches, a soft, helpless sound, and then his lips brush yours. Barely a touch, just a whisper.

Your fingers tighten and his other hand finds your waist. And this time, when his mouth meets yours, he kisses you fully. It’s not hungry.  It’s not even desperate.

The best way you can describe it: It’s soft.

Soft in a way that makes your knees weak. Soft in a way that feels like apology and promise and relief all tangled together. Soft in a way that says you’re here, I’m here, we’re alive.

You break first—only because your breath stutters. Steve pulls back just enough to rest his forehead against yours, noses brushing.

“You okay?” he murmurs.

“No,” you breathe. “But… I will be.”

He smiles. Then he kisses you again, just once, gentler than the first—and wraps his arms around you like he’s been waiting years to do it. And maybe he has.

Steve looks at you like he’s seeing something holy, like he’s not seeing the guilt or the grief or the damage, but you. Like he can’t believe you’re real, like he can’t believe any of this is happening. And yet, it’s the most anchored he’s felt in weeks, the quietest his mind has maybe ever been.

Suddenly, you whisper, barely breathing, “Do you think he’d be mad?”

The question leaves you before you can swallow it down—the one fear you never voiced out loud, because it cuts the deepest. If Eddie were here, would he be angry you’re still breathing? Angry you’re grieving with Steve? Angry at all the what-ifs? 

And when you rationalize it, you know it’s the dumbest thing you could ever ask yourself. Because how, in any universe, could Eddie ever be mad that you lived? But this kind of pain isn’t rational. It’s flawed and raw and dark. And it has you doubting even the most sound logic. 

Call it self-pity, survivor’s guilt, remorse…you’re not sure. This is stupid, you shake your head, so damn stupid.

Steve’s expression softens in a way that nearly knocks you over. He steps closer again, slowly, like approaching something fragile—and you suppose you are. “Mad?” He repeats, voice gentle with disbelief. “No, no—God (Y/n).”

His thumb brushes your cheek. He’s careful, as if he’s asking permission with every inch you allow him to take. “I think…” He exhales shakily. “I know he’d want you to live.”

Live. It’s such a simple word, but a heavy one. 

Steve’s eyes don’t leave yours, amber orbs peering into the deepest parts of your soul. “He loved you—anyone, and I mean anyone with eyes could see that. Eddie wouldn’t want you stuck in the dark because of him. If anything…” he pauses, “He’d want you laughing again, breathing again…finding things that make you feel like yourself again.”

Your throat feels dry. “What if I don’t even know who that is anymore?”

Steve swallows hard, and the tiniest, softest smile tugs at his mouth. It’s both sad and genuine. “Then we figure it out.” He says. “Together.”

The word together lands warm and steady in your chest, pushing back the cold that’s lived there since you watched Eddie take his last breath. You lean your forehead against Steve’s, the faintest touch, barely there. He lets out a shuddered sigh.

His voice drops low in a way that’s meant only for you. “You deserve to live (Y/n).” He closes his eyes, forehead still resting on your. “And I hope you let me help you do it.”

You curl your fingers around his and squeeze, grounding both of you. “I want to be the same for you Steve.” You admit. You can feel his heart beat, steady and sure. “From now on, what we carry, we do it together.”

“Okay.” He agrees with a smile. And Steve squeezes your hand back, gently, like a promise. 

You press your face into his chest.  His chin rests on top of your head. Your heartbeat slowly steadies, and for the first time in a long while, the future doesn’t feel terrifying.

The roll of your eyes was nearly automatic.

The both of you were sprawled out on Lucy’s blue and yellow sheets while you helped her paint her nails. She was complaining earlier about how she sucked at painting with her nondominant hand, so you offered to do it for her.

You probably would have changed your mind if you realized she was going to corner you about your apparent relationship with your best friend.

Lucy’s face was half pressed into her blanket while her hand was propped up on one of her pillows. You were only halfway done, but you fought the urge to leave the rest of her nails unpainted as a form of protest.

“C’mon, you really can’t see it?”

“See what?”

“The way Lockwood’s in loooove with you.”

“He’s not.”

“He is.”

“He’s not.”

“He i—”

Lucy immediately went quiet at the sound of a knock on her door.

“Who is it?” She called out while you put another coat of black polish on her index finger.

“It’s George. Lockwood sent me up here to tell you he’s starting dinner,” he voiced through the door.

“He’s in the kitchen?” Lucy asked.

“No, he’s getting dinner ready in the library,” George responded sarcastically. “Yes, Luce, he’s in the kitchen. Why?”

“Perfect. You mind coming in and shutting the door behind you, Georgie?”

Your confusion only seemed to grow, but Lucy did nothing but wave you off as the sound of George ascending the steps grew louder. He took in the sight of Lucy face down on her stomach while you painted her nails, a disgruntled look on your face. He sank into the mattress next to Lucy, prompting her to speak.

“How long would you say Lockwood’s been in love with her for?”

“Lucy!” You scolded, blood rushing to your face. “George, don’t listen to a thing she says, she’s crazy.”

“For as long as they’ve known each other, probably,” he said matter-of-factly. “Why?”

That shut you up rather quickly. The girl next to you let out a rather evil sounding cackle.

“She doesn’t believe it when I tell her they’re practically dating. Oh — and get this! She doesn’t think he’s in love with her.”

George blew air through his nose, one of his quiet laughs.

“That’s funny.”

“I know, right! And—”

“I’m literally right here, you know.” You cut in, aggrieved and a little embarrassed.

George tilted his head to look at you, genuine curiosity swimming in his eyes. “Well, why don’t you believe her?”

“Because he doesn’t like me like that,” you said simply. You ignored the way your heart oddly constricted in your chest.

You tugged a bit harshly on your necklace that now felt like it was choking you, missing the way George took note of the movement.

“What even led you two into thinking that we’re madly in love with each other?”

Lucy rolled over onto her back, effectively stopping you from painting her nails.

“I’m so glad you asked, because I can name a few.”

“Oh, can you?” You challenged.

“She’s been planning this intervention for a while,” George added.

You rolled your eyes again.

Lucy leaned over to rifle around in her drawer, careful of her wet nails. From it, she procured a bright pink magazine, the color nearly blinding your eyes. She rifled through it before finding the page she was looking for.

“Lockwood’s been a passenger on the Love Train for so long, he’s past the point of just having one or two love languages. He manages to hit all five. Daily.”

You had to admit, you were slightly impressed with how prepared she was, already knowing which page to turn to.

You couldn’t help but ask, “Just how long have you been thinking about this?”

“A while.”

The look on your face made George laugh. “Believe us, if you were around a couple like you and Lockwood for this long, you would go a little insane too.”

You shoved his shoulder playfully before leaning closer to the magazine Lucy had pulled out.

She pointed to a bulleted list on the center of the magazine page. The title, The Five Love Languages, was written in frilly cursive and surrounded by hearts and a drawing of Cupid.

You read on.

Want to know how to love your significant other better? Find out what their Love Language is! This article was written by Tammy, our resident love expert!

“I’m so glad we’re getting a real professional opinion on this,” you deadpanned.

Lucy jabbed a finger at the first bulleted point. “Suspend your disbelief for a second, alright?”

“Acts of service,” she began. “We all know how much Lockwood loves those.”

—

It wasn’t unusual for case research to stretch on for multiple days. With some visitors going back centuries, it was actually very normal. Records could be hard to find, which meant spending many late nights. Oftentimes, the four of you would be poring over documents under the light of the moon until it gave way to early morning sunrise.

There was nothing quite like finding the piece of information that made all the pieces fall into place, and you were clearly committed to finding it. You had been running yourself ragged over this job, scarily determined to find and secure the source.

Ms. Church was a kind old lady who pinched Lockwood’s cheeks and offered you all caramels from her bag. This particular visitor had been tormenting her for weeks. Terrified and unsafe, she came to seek Lockwood and Co.’s help.

Everyone knew you were insanely sympathetic. And when you saw the suffering of this sweet woman caused by this specific visitor, you would not let yourself rest until it was dealt with. Quite literally.

After the first late night of research, Lockwood had walked you to your room, ensuring that you actually got in bed. After months of working together, he was well aware of your working tendencies.

“Go to sleep,” he reminded you. “I know you’re eager to close this case, but get some rest first, alright? We’ll start early in the morning if you’re so eager.”

Your laughter was muffled by your blankets. “I can’t believe the champion of sleep deprivation is telling me to go to sleep right now.”

He gave you a fond smile. “I’ll only get some rest if you promise to as well, so you better close your eyes.”

An exaggerated sigh spilled from your lips as you turned over. “I suppose I’ll sleep. G’night, Anthony.”

He flicked the lightswitch off. “Goodnight,” he said into the darkness before swinging your door shut. You could hear the creaking of the floorboards get further away as he retired to his room too.

You shut your eyes as promised, and waited for sleep to take you. After being focused on a case for hours, it was near impossible to shut your brain off. You tried counting sheep, but found them morphing into visitors instead. Case facts tumbled around in your mind like clothes in a washing machine.

Groaning, you sat up in bed. If you were going to think about the case, you might as well look over the actual documents.

You made your way to your desk with all the stealth of a fox, wondering if Lockwood was awake. His room was just across the hallway, and you couldn’t help but feel like you were doing something wrong by staying up.

Why were you even worried about what he had to think? You weren’t a kid, you could do whatever you wanted.

Nevertheless, you made sure to keep as quiet as possible. When Anthony slept, he would either go into a sleep state similar to Ghost-Lock, or a sleep state that had him waking up at sounds half a mile away. You hoped that tonight was not one of the latter days.

It’s not even that late, you justified, looking at your clock. You promised him you would get some rest, but never said how much.

You could keep your promise to him while still doing something with your overactive mind. Sleep would come in a couple hours when you got tired, you were sure of it.

It did not.

Without you realizing, the clock was showing you a time you definitely should have been asleep by. A glance up from your papers showed the sun already risen through your window.

Oops.

You tried to reason with yourself. Against your will, you had nearly dozed off about a hundred times that night. Those brief moments of sleep had to have added up to at least an hour. Technically, you hadn’t gone back on your promise. Not really.

It would have to do. You pulled the documents into a pile, and made your way downstairs to make something for the four of you to eat. One by one, your friends trickled down the steps. Lucy was first, looking rather nice for someone who had just woken up. She lit up at the sight of the breakfast you had prepared and gave you a kiss on the cheek in thanks.

George was next, looking like the epitome of a good night’s rest with his ruffled hair and wrinkled tee. His dimples popped up when you handed him his special plate.

By the time Lockwood arrived, the three of you had finished your meals. The boy looked the complete opposite of the well rested George. The dark circles under his eyes were prominent as always, and you wondered if he also hadn’t slept. His face pulled down into a frown at the sight of you already filtering through papers this early in the morning.

Anthony took his usual seat next to you, studying your face carefully. “You look tired.”

“I’m fine,” you said honestly. Although you hadn’t gotten any sleep, you felt unaffected by it. If anything, you felt more energized than you were normally.

“Did you eat?”

“Yes, I had some biscuits and tea.”

“And you’re feeling alright?”

“Of course,” you assured him. “After I made breakfast, I went through our remaining files and divided them equally between the four of us. This way, we can be as efficient as possible.”

You motioned to the individual stacks of papers you, Lucy, and George were leafing through. His pile was sitting on the counter behind him, while his usual breakfast plate was placed in front of him.

He hummed. “Thank you.”

He began to eat, but you could feel his gaze on you from your peripheral vision. Glancing up at him, you found that you couldn’t read the expression on his face.

He was studying you like one of the crosswords in the paper he loved to do. You swear he was an old man in a teenager’s body.

The time ticked by steadily as he slowly finished his plate and the rest of you made your way through your piles. After a few more minutes of this, you excused yourself to get a pen you forgot in the other room. Lockwood didn’t take his eyes off of you until the kitchen door swung shut behind you.

As if he had been planning for this very moment, he put down his fork and slipped about a third of the papers in your pile into his.

George guffawed. “Looks like we know who the favorite child is.”

Lucy could not help but join in on the teasing. “You mind taking some of my pile too, Lockwood? Seeing as you’re being particularly kind.”

Lockwood shrugged, unashamed.

“Just trying to make things easier for her. She didn’t sleep last night.”

You burst through the door a few moments later, and dived right back into work, completely unaware of your missing papers. This did nothing but affirm Lockwood’s suspicions. On any normal day, you would’ve called attention to the difference immediately. Your sleep deprivation was getting the better of you.

He huffed, a little bothered. He wasn’t upset with your dedication to work, in fact, he admired it. He just wished that you would take care of yourself a little better. You wouldn’t know what a healthy life and work balance was if it hit you in the face.

Of course, he wasn’t any better, but at least he was self aware.

Looking over a rather interesting photograph, you took no notice of Lockwood washing his dish in the sink and rifling around for something on the top of the pantry. Your attention was drawn to him when he placed something in front of you.

“I picked these up for you yesterday.”

Trying to focus your eyes, it took you a moment to realize it was a tin of your favorite cookies.

He knew you so well, it made you want to explode.

You beamed up at him. “Anthony, thank you, thank you, thank you! Where did you find these? The corner store has been out of stock for weeks!”

“Found them at a little store in Piccadilly Circus,” he lied. He had taken a thirty minute cab ride to get these, but you didn’t have to know that.

Giddiness written all over your face, you got up, ready to squeeze the life out of him.

Instead, you became a victim of gravity immediately. The room went dark and you had to grip the table to keep from falling over.

“Woah,” you breathed out on shaky legs. Your hands went to hold your head, your vision still swimming. Lockwood grabbed onto your shoulders to stabilize you.

“Are you alright?”

He looked concerned, you think. You couldn’t really see that well. George and Lucy looked up from their documents, everyone now aware of the fact that you were not alright.

“I’m fine, I swear. I think I just got up too fast.” You rubbed your temples, trying to bring back your sense of sight.

Lockwood was not having any of it. His frown deepened.

“No, you’re tired and running on no hours of sleep. You need to get some actual rest,” he admonished you, guiding you to the door.

Thoughts about the job disappeared from his mind completely. You were now the only thing he was concerned about.

Already halfway up the steps, he missed the knowing look your two friends shared.

Instinct carried your feet towards your door, but you let yourself be led away when Lockwood steered you towards his own room.

“I take it you broke our promise, then?” He asked as he corralled you into his bed.

“Sorry,” you said into his sheets.

“Don’t apologize. Truthfully, I didn't get much sleep last night, either.”

He pulled the covers up to your neck, and you held back your comment about how much of a mother hen he was.

“Actually get some rest this time.”

“What about you?”

The chair at his desk squeaked as he pulled it out.

“I’ll be here until you fall asleep.”

“You need rest too, though. You didn’t sleep either.”

He smiled warmly. “I’ll be fine.”

“Then we can stay up together.”

“We can’t help our lovely Ms. Church if half the agency is dead on their feet.”

“That means you need sleep, too. Lay down with me.”

“I’ll fall asleep before you, and who’s to say you won’t escape my evil clutches and go back downstairs?” He was settled into the chair at this point, one leg kicked onto the ottoman.

“I promise you that I won’t.”

“Because our last promise turned out so well?” The incredulous look on his face had you backtracking.

“Fine, I won't promise, I’ll swear it to you. Make a vow, I don’t know. If you really doubt your ability to stay awake while we lay down, then read a book or something. Just don’t sit in that rickety old chair. You’ll get back issues, you old man.”

That seemed to convince him enough to get up. He peeled back the covers and rolled you onto your stomach when you wouldn’t move off his side of the bed. Your hair now obstructing your vision from his manhandling, you could only hear when he opened his drawer and pulled something out.

Well, how were you supposed to sleep when you were this curious?

Rolling back over to face him, you felt the oxygen leave your body.

He was propped against the headboard, a hardcover book in his hand. He refused to read softcover books, and called them annoying repeatedly. The novel was one you had got him last month.

Anthony wasn’t doing anything remarkable, just lounging next to you and reading. But love made people act funny, and rather interesting thoughts started swirling in your head. You wouldn’t mind if you had this for the rest of your life, the two of you in one house forever.

“Can you read to me?” You asked before you could lose the courage.

Wordlessly, he dropped his right arm so you could rest your head there, letting you see the words on the page. Leaning on his shoulder and his voice in your ear, you fell into the best sleep you had in ages.

—

You smiled affectionately at that memory. Since that day, Lockwood had got on your case about selfcare whenever he could. If he even thought you were close to pushing your limits, he would cut you off immediately, forcing you to take a break.

Lockwood cared a lot, there was no doubt about it. But you were still rather unconvinced.

George cleared his throat, and you could practically feel the teasing that was about to ensue. “Lockwood left me and Luce all alone downstairs after that. What were you two even doing up there? Just sleeping, I hope—”

“He read me a book,” you said, amused. “And then I fell asleep. That’s all.”

Lucy continued to smile evilly.

“And that brings us to our next point. Quality time.”

—

George thought that the most interesting thing in the house was the piano.

It was interesting to him solely for the fact that no one ever played it. When he had asked Lockwood about it, he had claimed he was out of practice and didn’t know how to play anymore.

(He was a little liar, by the way.)

George tried convincing him to pick it back up again by listing off all the benefits of playing an instrument. Lockwood rejected him each time.

“Between running my very successful psychical agency and gracing you with my presence, I’m a little pressed for time.”

George reluctantly let that slide.

Lockwood was caught in his lie when George and Lucy had come back from a trip to Satchell’s. They had been low on flares for weeks, and this upcoming job forced them to actually go out and get some.

George had volunteered immediately, already planning his side quest to the grocery store to pick up snacks. Lockwood was such a by-the-list shopper, much to George’s dismay. If it wasn’t a necessity on the list, it wasn’t getting bought.

For someone who loved eating George’s biscuits, Lockwood sure had a lot to say about getting ‘unnecessary things while shopping.’

Lucy volunteered to go with him, not wanting to make him go alone.

This left you and Lockwood alone at home, left to do whatever two people who were in a relationship but not dating did with their free time.

He was really at his wit’s end with you two.

Weighed down by the supplies and very necessary snacks, George nudged the front door open with his foot.

The sound spilled out of the house immediately. It was the beautiful sound of the piano.

Lucy looked just as shocked as George was. The sound of the instrument was unfamiliar to hear inside 35 Portland Row. To the two of them, it was the first time the piano had ever been played.

The song was easily recognizable as your favorite, a tune you hummed under your breath all the time. They had no idea you could play as beautifully as this, and you were obviously extremely talented. The song continued on as the two entered.

The four of you spent almost all your time together, and neither George nor Lucy had ever seen you go near the instrument. Trying to be respectful, George chanced a quick look into the room.

The bags nearly fell from his hands.

At the piano bench wasn’t you. It was Lockwood.

His hands flew up and down the keys, clearly a natural. Lucy would’ve thought it was a trick of the light if she wasn’t witnessing this with her own eyes.

The song came to an end and it was only then that George noticed you standing at the end of the piano, smiling in awe. You began speaking animatedly, probably praising him for his great playing. He could see that your eyes were filled with nothing but adoration.

Lucy thought it was sickeningly cute.

The same look was evident on Lockwood’s face as well, pure fondness in the way he looked at you. He got up from the bench, giving you room to sit down. You sat down in the spot he just vacated, and he moved to stand behind you, a perfectly practiced motion.

He spoke slowly as he talked to you about the instrument, and you tentatively placed your hands on the keys before more notes sounded from the piano. You played the first half of the song before tapering off.

Standing over you, his arms came around your body as he placed his hands on yours. The rest of the song began to fill the room, although it was at a slower tempo.

Still frozen in shock, Lucy nearly dropped a bag on her foot when Anthony spoke directly to her and George. His eyes didn’t leave the keys the entire time.

“Would you two like to sit in on our lesson?”

George showed no signs of embarrassment at being caught. Dropping everything in his hands, he bounded right over to the nearest armchair and got comfortable. Adding her bags to the growing pile, Lucy took a seat on the armrest, only a little sheepish.

“Anthony’s been giving me lessons for a few weeks,” you explained, a giddy smile on your face. “He’s basically Mozart, you should’ve been here to hear him play.”

He smoothed a hand over your back, his eyes crinkling. “Chopin should watch out for you. It took me months to master what you’ve learned in a few weeks.”

You shifted on the bench, embarrassed by his compliment. Lucy piped up with a music request, a song from a couple of decades ago that all four of you loved. You made space for him on the seat, and the three of you watched, gobsmacked, as Lockwood played the song from memory.

So much for not remembering how to play, thought George.

—

You did nothing but shrug at your two friends. “I mean, caring about me and spending time with me? Those are things that we do,” you said, motioning between the three of you. “We can’t possibly all be in love with each other. So what’s the difference between me and Lockwood?”

Lucy grumbled, growing a bit frustrated at your blindness. She pointed to the next two things on the list. Words of affirmation and gifts.

“Lockwood doesn’t exactly wax poetic or spend hundreds of pounds on me and George, now does he?”

—

It had been months of you and Lockwood’s gross yearning, and frankly, George was sick of it. You denied the dating allegations fervently, but George was unconvinced. You two were lying to his face, he was sure of it. All he had to do was catch you in the act.

George was just leaving the bathroom when he heard Lockwood’s voice from inside your bedroom. The door was wide open, the both of you clearly uncaring about whoever was going to be subjected to whatever relationship business you two were up to.

“Hey,” he heard Lockwood say softly.

Wow. George had never heard someone say ‘hey’ so affectionately in his entire life. Clearly this was more serious than he previously thought.

“Happy one year, Anthony,” you said, just as quietly.

George’s jaw hit the floor. The makings of a grin pulled at his mouth.

He knew it.

You two were liars! He could not believe you guys thought you were being oh so secretive about your relationship. He guessed that your freaky affection could not be helped. Although smug at this revelation, he was still happy for the both of you. The love was evident whenever you interacted, and George was just glad the both of you had come to your senses a year ago.

However, he wondered why you were so adamant on denying it. Probably just trying to avoid the favoritism accusations.

Lockwood laughed. “I can’t believe it’s already been one whole year since you moved in.”

You’re kidding.

The self-satisfied look got wiped off of George’s face immediately.

One year since you moved in? You weren’t celebrating a relationship milestone at all.

George felt the need to rinse out his ears with soap. He could not believe what he was hearing. With the way you two were speaking, one year of marriage would have made more sense.

“It’s been the best year of my life, you know. Living here with my best friend.”

“Oh, I’m glad you like living with George.”

The boy in question made a face. He could hear you hit Lockwood on the shoulder.

“You know what I mean. I’m just grateful I know you. And… I couldn’t imagine doing this with anyone else. You’re incredible. And one of my favorite people in the world.”

George suppressed a gag. Love was unfortunately in the air.

“I like you too, I guess,” Lockwood said stupidly.

Your laughter rang out into the hallway. “Come on, I pour out my heart and soul for you and I only get an ‘I guess?’”

“No, you get this, too.”

There was the sound of paper rustling, and then your shocked gasp.

“Anthony, I can’t accept this.”

He laughed lightly. “Yes, you can.”

“This must’ve cost you a fortune. How much was it? I promise I’ll pay you back eventually, just name the price.”

“There is no price. You’ve already paid me back tenfold by putting up with me.”

“I’m serious, Anthony.”

“So am I.” His voice lost the joking lilt to it. “To know you is to love you. And to be able to love you is the greatest gift anyone could ever receive.”

You were stunned into silence for a moment before you spoke again. Your voice was watery. “You’re the most important person in my life. I love you so much.”

“I love you too. You’re my best friend.”

The next day, you came downstairs with a shiny necklace around your neck. George tried not to slap his hand to his forehead.

You and Lockwood had officially made the words “best friend” lose all meaning.

—

“It’s a cute necklace, by the way,” Lucy teased.

Your face was on fire, and the piece of jewelry around your neck felt heavy suddenly. “George, you really heard all of that?”

He rolled his eyes. “That’s what you get for professing your undying love for each other with the door wide open.”

You pressed your face into one of Lucy’s blue pillows, not able to face them.

“It’s not like that.”

The call of your name made you shoot up off Lucy’s bed.

“George? Lucy?”

It was Lockwood, probably finished dinner downstairs.

“We’re coming!” You yelled down, eager to escape the room (and the conversation).

Lucy’s smile only seemed to grow. You feared for your life.

Lockwood was waiting for the three of you at the bottom of the stairs, his eyebrows raised.

The pleasing aroma of his cooking permeated the air.

“Smells nice,” you greeted, your voice coming out breathless.

His hand skimmed over your arm as you continued past him to the kitchen.

Throughout dinner, you found yourself psychoanalyzing every single interaction you had with Anthony. From the way he pulled out your chair for you and the way he gave you his biscuit when George had his back turned.

He just violated the biscuit rule for you. You wondered if this was love.

You even found yourself questioning his cooking decisions. Tonight’s dish was your favorite, and Lockwood knew it. You gave him a scrutinizing look when his back was turned, much to Lucy’s delight.

You found yourself cursing your friends. You could barely function around him on a normal day, and these thoughts they planted into your mind weren’t helping.

You nearly collapsed when he brushed a strand of hair out of your face. He was just looking at you, and you could feel about eighty emotions rush to the surface.

This had to be love. You were so deeply in love with him.

Much too soon, the night was over. The leftovers were packed away, and Lockwood was at the sink, washing the dishes.

The thought of marriage never sounded sweeter.

Uncaring at this point, you wrapped your arms around his back, frustrated. Your thoughts were all jumbled. His body relaxed at your touch, and then he squeezed one of your hands at his front tightly. You didn’t even care that he got your hand all soapy.

You watched from over his shoulder as he finished drying the last dish and placed it on the rack.

Prying your arms off of him, he managed to loosen your death grip around his waist just enough to spin around and face you. His chin rested on top of your head while his own arms came to rest around your shoulder blades.

“You’ve been quiet. Everything alright?”

You made a noise into the hollow of his throat. “Just thinking.”

He leaned the both of you back against the counter. “Figurative penny for your thoughts?”

Being with him like this was like taking a blanket straight from the dryer and cocooning yourself in it. You felt like a cat resting in a sun spot. Encased in warmth all around.

Your sheer love and care for the boy in you arms made you so soft. This was love.

“George and Lucy made me realize something.”

“Yeah?”

Your knees nearly buckled at the sound of his voice. It was deeper than normal, and the way his voice raised slightly at the end made you feel a little insane.

With a start, you redirected your thoughts. He said a single syllable and it reduced you completely to mush. There had to be something wrong with you.

“What’d you realize?”

“That I’m in love with you.”

Your heart was racing. That six word confession had turned you into a bunch of nerves and clammy palms. Lockwood was quiet, beginning to rub circles into your shoulder with the heel of his palm.

He hummed, a sweet sound that had your heart doing flips in your chest.

“Was wondering when you’d figure that one out.”

If your hands were free, you would’ve hit him hard against the chest. Too reluctant to pull back from him, you settled for pinching his side. You tilted your head to the side and pressed your ear against his chest. His heartbeat was loud and only a little bit erratic. He smiled against your hair.

“I’ve been in love with you for longer, I bet,” he mumbled, always making things into a challenge.

“Really?”

“Definitely.”

“You wanna prove it?”

He leaned back, and you both looked a little shocked at how forward your words were.

“Uh, unless you don’t want to—”

He smiled, and the sight of it was infectious. His face got closer to yours and you had to swallow the enthusiasm that was beginning to bubble within you. His next words were practically breathed out into the silence of the kitchen.

“I’m going to kiss you now, alright?”

Not bothering with an answer, you leaned forward and planted your lips against his.

It was even better than you thought it’d be.

You had no idea how long you sat there, his face in your hands while you made up for lost time. A loud cough had you both springing apart.

Your face was burning up and Lockwood’s chest was heaving, but his smile was as smug as ever.

Lucy was grinning.

George looked disgusted. “Please don’t do that so close to the plates we eat off of.”

Neither of you were allowed to leave the room without about five more minutes of teasing.

As you made your way up the steps, you were stopped by a hand on your sleeve. It was Lockwood, and he pulled you back in to press another kiss to your lips.

“I love you,” he said, and his words sounded like your favorite song he learned to play on the piano just for you.

“Love you too,” you echoed back. Those words had been exchanged between the two of you countless times, but this was the first time it held the weight that it did. As you climbed up the stairs, you found that you had a smile permanently etched on your face.

“You know, we didn’t talk about the fifth love language earlier.”

Lucy was at the top of the next landing, a cheeky smile on her face. Less evil than before, her grin was now more amused than anything.

“What were you going to say?”

“I was going to tell you about the time Lockwood bribed me to switch seats with him so he could sit next to you at the cinema. But I think we just had a great live example of how much you two like physical touch.”

Lucy’s laughter resounded throughout the entire house as you chased her up the steps.

notes: ahh the tangledinlove special! pining and yearning that makes me want to collapse. he needs to be real… jonathan stroud what have you done to me.