lily

nancy and robin had been ganging up on you all week. every time you saw them—between classes or hunched over a table in the library—one of them would bring it up. friday night. the bar.

"you’re coming! no excuses!"

and every time, you found a way out.

the excuses piled up, and you knew they saw right through them. but what were you supposed to say?

"oh sorry, i can't. i’ve been spending every friday night smuggling my boyfriend through my dorm window after curfew, praying the institution doesn't catch us tangled up in my sheets by morning!"

that wasn't exactly conversation material.

still, you could feel eddie watching you across the cafeteria table when nancy brought it up again—her arms crossed, robin chiming in with that sharp, persuasive grin. you gave them the usual shrug. they exchanged a look and dropped it, but eddie didn't.

later, in your dorm room, he cornered you about it.

his voice was quieter than you expected. careful. he said he'd noticed. said he knew you were skipping things you might actually want to do, and that if it was because of him—because of your friday nights together—he didn't want to be the reason you were missing out.

"i’m not going anywhere," he told you, thumb tracing lazy circles on your knee. "you can go out with your friends. i’ll still be here when you get back."

you waved him off. told him bars were loud and sticky and full of people you didn't care to talk to. shrugged like it was nothing, ‘cause to you it was.

he just rolled his eyes, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

"you’re so stubborn." he muttered, but there was no bite in it. just fond exasperation, like he'd long since accepted that you were the most stubborn person he'd ever met—and somehow, annoyingly, he loved you anyway.

the library was your last stand.

you were buried in a stack of notes when nancy slid into the seat across from you. robin followed, dropping her bag on the floor with a theatrical sigh.

"you’re coming tonight," nancy said. no question. no room to wiggle.

you opened your mouth for once of your famous excuses, but robin cut you off before you could even get the words out.

"don’t even think about it. i saw your syllabus. you don't have anything due until next wednesday."

nancy leaned forward, her voice softening. "we miss you. and i know you and eddie have your thing on fridays, but... you can have both, you know. friends and a boyfriend."

you looked between them—nancy’s earnest, steady gaze, robin’s raised eyebrow waiting for another excuse that wouldn't work.

"fine," you breathed out. "fine. i’ll go."

robin pumped her fist. nancy smiled, small and relieved.

"finally!"

when you pushed open the door to your dorm room, eddie was sprawled across your bed. one arm was tucked behind his head, the other holding a battered paperback he wasn't really reading. his eyes found you the second you walked in.

"what’s that look for?" he asked, closing the book and setting it aside.

"i’m going out tonight," you said, crossing to your closet. "with nancy and robin."

he blinked. then a slow grin spread across his face. "no shit. they finally wore you down?"

"don’t look so pleased."

"i’m very pleased." he propped himself up on his elbows, watching as you rifled through hangers. "you deserve to have fun, sweetheart. go get drunk. do a bad shot. dance like a dork."

you shot him a look over your shoulder. "i don't dance."

"you will after three cheap beers."

you pulled out a black dress—something you rarely wore, a little lower-cut than your usual rotation. eddie went quiet as you changed, not bothering to hide the fact that he was watching. you could feel his eyes on you as you sat down at your tiny desk mirror, digging through a makeup bag that had seen better days.

he didn't say anything while you did your eyeliner. didn’t say anything while you brushed a little color onto your cheeks. but when you stood up and reached for a pair of silver hoops, sliding the first one through your ear, you heard him shift on the bed.

a low, appreciative whistle cut through the quiet.

"jesus, sweetheart." his voice was rough, almost reverent. "come here. i gotta tell you somethin'."

he crooked his fingers, beckoning you closer with that lazy, wolfish grin that always made your stomach flip.

you felt heat creep up your neck, but you held your ground, fumbling with the second earring as you giggled. "no! you're gonna make me late."

"i know i’m gonna make you late." he sat up fully now, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed. "that’s kind of the point."

you finally got the second hoop in and turned to face him, hands on your hips. "eddie."

he held his hands up in mock surrender, chuckling low in his throat. "i know, i know. i’m just playing with you." his eyes slowly traveled over you once more, like he was memorizing the sight. when they met yours again, the teasing had softened into something warmer. something sincere.

"but really." his voice dropped. "you look beautiful."

you felt your cheeks go pink. "yeah?"

"yeah." he stood up, crossed the room in two steps, and tucked a strand of hair behind your ear—gentle, careful, like you were something precious. "they’re lucky to have you tonight. but i’m luckier, 'cause i get you back when it's over."

you bit your lip, fighting a smile. "you gonna be okay when you get back to your apartment alone?"

"please." he snorted, stepping back toward the bed and flopping onto it dramatically. "i’ve got my guitar, i’ve got my cigarettes, and i’ve got a six-pack in the mini-fridge. i’ll be living the dream."

he winked at you. "go have fun. call me if the drinks are shit."

you grabbed your purse, paused at the door, and looked back at him—all messy hair and warm eyes, stretched out on your bed.

"i will," you said softly.

and for once, you were actually looking forward to the night.

the three of you slipped out of the dorm like thieves, giggling while you slipped into the cool night air. bu the time you reached the bar—a dim, sticky-floored place called the rusty nail that robin swore had "character"—you'd already nearly tripped over a curb and laughed so hard your ribs ached.

robin shook her head as she took in the sight of you in your dress, grabbing your arm and pulling you toward the door. "eddie is so lucky. so, so lucky. i hope he knows it."

"he knows it," you said, and the thought made you smile a little wider.

inside, the bar was everything a college dive should be—dim lighting, sticky tables, the smell of stale beer and cheap perfume. a jukebox warbled in the corner, and a handful of people were scattered across the bar stools and booths. the three of you claimed a high-top near the back, close enough to the little stage area where a microphone stand sat waiting, flanked by a pair of speakers that had definitely seen better days.

nancy ordered the first round—three shots of something amber and a pitcher of beer—and by the time the second round came around, you were all loose and loud and happy in the way only a friday night with your people could make you.

"so," nancy said, swirling the last of her drink, "i’m taking a break. a real one. no dating, no 'talking,' none of it. i’m done."

robin nodded. "for how long?"

"at least until midterms." nancy shrugged. "i keep getting distracted. and i'm tired of feeling like my brain is split in half—half for school, half for whatever guy is currently being an idiot."

"hell yeah," you said, raising your glass. "to being your own priority."

nancy clinked her glass against yours.

robin groaned, dropping her head onto the table. "well, i went on a date with this girl from my psych class. she seemed great. funny, smart, nice smile. we went to that coffee shop on fourth street."

"and?"

"and she spent forty-five minutes talking about her cat." robin lifted her head, looking traumatized. "forty-five. minutes. i know everything about that cat. i know its favorite brand of wet food. i know its sleep schedule. i know that it once got its head stuck in a pringles can."

you burst out laughing, nearly choking on your drink. "that’s not that bad—"

"no, i mean—i like cats. i do! but i went on a date with her, not her goddamn cat."

"did you tell her that?"

robin gave you a flat look. "i told her i had to go home and do some laundry."

nancy wiped a tear from her eye. "that’s such bullshit.”

"it worked, though."

the three of you dissolved into laughter, the kind that made your stomach hurt and your face ache. the pitcher ran dry, and nancy signaled for another round.

as the night stretched on, the little stage at the front of the bar came alive. a guy with a guitar climbed up and played a few covers—nothing special, but the small crowd that had gathered cheered anyway. you knew eddie would’ve played better. still, a couple of girls followed, doing a slightly off-key duet.

robin nudged you, a glint in her eye. "you know... there's a microphone up there."

you scoffed, shaking your head even as a smile tugged at your lips. "no way. absolutely not. i’m not getting up there."

"chicken," nancy sing-songed.

"drunk," you shot back, pointing at her. "you’re drunk, and you're both trying to corrupt me."

"we’re all drunk," nancy said, raising her fresh beer. "that’s the point."

you laughed, leaning back in your chair, watching the next person step up to the mic—a middle-aged man in a flannel who launched into a surprisingly soulful rendition of an old country song.

the jukebox felt louder, the laughter easier, and your limbs felt like they belonged to someone else—someone lighter, braver, a little unsteady on her feet.

robin was mid-story about her psych professor when you pushed back from the table, the chair legs scraping against the floor.

"—and i swear to god, when he turned his head like a little animal—where are you going?"

you didn't answer. you were already moving, weaving between tables with the careful precision of someone who was absolutely not in control but refused to admit it. the floor tilted gently beneath you, and you let it carry you toward the table in the corner where a group of seniors had left their drinks unattended while they argued over a pool game.

you put your hands on the edge of the table. hoistes yourself up. found your footing in a pair of heels that had no business supporting anyone at this angle.

and then you danced.

it was sort of raunchy. messy, joyful, running your hands through your hair kind dancing. it was the kind that came from some deep place that didn't care about looking cool, but you did anyway. your hips swayed, your head tipped back, and a laugh escaped you.

the bar noticed.

a guy in a trucker hat let out a sharp whistle. someone else whooped. a few people clapped, pounding their hands on the sticky tabletops. you grinned down at them, drunk on the attention and the beer and the sheer electric thrill of being alive on a friday night.

robin cupped her hands around her mouth. "that’s my friend!"

nancy was laughing so hard she'd buried her face in her arms.

the song on the jukebox ended, and the stage lights—two flickering bulbs in rusted cages—caught your eye. the microphone stand sat empty, waiting. the guitar player from earlier was packing up his case.

you didn't think. you just jumped off the table, stumbled, caught yourself on a chair, and made your way to the stage.

the bartender—a grizzled man named frank who'd seen weirder things than a drunk girl in a little black dress commandeering his stage—just shook his head and waved a rag in your general direction. "don’t break the mic."

you grabbed the microphone, the metal cool and familiar in your hand. the speakers hummed. a few heads turned.

and then you opened your mouth, and the first words of i love rock 'n' roll came out raw and raspy and a little off-key, but loud.

a few people in the crowd started to clap along. the bartender sighed, but he was smiling. someone turned up the sound system, and an instrumental track kicked in from the jukebox, syncing up just enough to make it work.

you swayed on your feet, gripping the mic stand like it was the only thing keeping you upright—because it was. your voice climbed, roughened by the alcohol and the joy of it, and by the time you hit the chorus, half the bar was singing along with you.

you stumbled sideways, nearly toppling off the stage, and caught yourself with a giggle that bled into the next line.

robin watched from the high-top, her expression a mix of pure delight and dawning concern. she turned to nancy. "okay. she’s really drunk."

"i know. i’m glad she’s having fun, but i feel like she’s gonna hurt herself."

as if to prove their point, you nearly pitched forward off the stage again, saving yourself at the last second by grabbing the speaker. the crowd cheered anyway.

robin slid off her stool. "i’ll go call eddie."

nancy raised her glass. "tell him she's putting on a show."

the payphone was mounted to the wall near the bathrooms, its cord curled like a question mark. robin fumbled a quarter out of her pocket, fed it into the slot, and dialed the number she'd memorized from the sticky note on your fridge.

it rang twice. three times.

a click. eddie’s voice came through, a little distracted, like he'd been in the middle of something. "hello?"

"hey. it’s robin."

a pause. the sound of a guitar being set down. "robin? everything okay?"

"yeah, yeah, everyone's fine. just—" she glanced over her shoulder at the stage, where you were currently belting out the bridge with your eyes closed and one arm thrown dramatically to the ceiling. "your girl had a little too much over here. she’s... she's having a good time, but i think she needs a ride home before she tries to crowd-surf or something."

there was a beat of silence. and then, unmistakably, the tinny echo of joan jett bleeding through the phone line.

eddie’s voice came back, warm with amusement. "is that her singing in the background?"

"uh huh."

a low chuckle escaped him, rough and fond. "wow, she's actually not bad."

"she’s something," robin said, watching you nearly trip over a cable. "look, can you come pick her up? i’d drive her, but i’ve had three beers and nancy’s had four, and i don't trust either of us."

"yeah, yeah, i’ll get there in a bit." a rustling sound, like he was grabbing his keys. "rusty nail, right?"

"yup."

"keep her from breaking an ankle. i’m on my way."

the line went dead.

robin hung up the phone and turned back to the chaos, just in time to see you take a bow—wobbly, triumphant, arms spread wide—as the song crashed to its end and the bar erupted in applause.

she shook her head, grinning despite herself. "your boyfriend's coming to get you," she called out.

you didn't hear her. you were already launching into the opening riff of bad reputation.

the bass still thrummed through the floorboards when eddie pushed through the back door of the bar. his eyes swept the room, past the pool tables, past the knot of people by the dartboard, until they landed on the small stage.

and there you were.

the song had just ended, the last note bleeding into scattered applause, and eddie felt a small pang of disappointment. he’d been hoping to catch you singing. but he'd missed it by seconds.

still, the sight of you stopped him where he stood.

you were leaning down to accept a drink from some guy at the edge of the stage, your hair falling forward as you wrapped your fingers around the glass. coke. a couple of cherries floating among the ice cubes, stems poking up like little flags.

"oh, thanks!" you said, your voice carrying that warm, syrupy sweetness that always did something to his chest. you smiled at the guy—bright, genuine, the kind of smile you gave everyone—and eddie’s lips twitched. even through the pleasant haze of whatever you'd been drinking, it clearly hadn't occurred to you that the guy might have been hitting on you. you just saw a nice person handing you a soda. endearing didn't even begin to cover it.

then your gaze drifted across the room and landed on him.

your whole face lit up.

"eddie!" you called out, your voice cutting through the ambient noise like a beacon. you raised your free hand, waving at him with the kind of unguarded enthusiasm that made a few heads turn. "that’s my boyfriend! hi!"

a ripple moved through the crowd. some of the guys near the bar shot eddie looks that ranged from jealous scowls to grudging nods of approval—the kind of damn, good for him acknowledgment that he'd gotten used to since he started showing up places with you on his arm. he felt a grin tug at his mouth, equal parts pride and amusement, as he made his way toward the stage.

"uh huh, hi," he said, his voice warm and a little rough as he stopped in front of you. he looked up, taking in the flush on your cheeks, the slight glassiness in your eyes. "you ready to get down now?"

your face crumpled into a pout. "what? no! i’m having fun, eds."

he knew that pout. had seen it a hundred times—when he tried to take the last slice of pizza, when he suggested turning off a movie you were invested in, when bedtime rolled around and you weren't done with your night yet.

"i know you are," he said gently, stepping closer until his boots were almost against the stage lip. "but it's getting late. why don't i take you home, yeah?"

you held his gaze for a long moment, considering. then, almost lazily, you plucked one of the cherries from your drink by its stem, brought it to your lips, and slid it into your mouth. you sucked on it slowly, thoughtfully, your eyes still on his, completely oblivious to the effect it was having on him.

eddie’s jaw tightened. he kept his hands at his sides and told himself to behave.

be a gentleman, she's drunk and you're taking her home like a good boyfriend.

finally, you sighed as you took the cherry out. "fine."

"alright." he reached out, his fingers brushing yours as he gently took the glass from your hand. "give me this." he set it down on a nearby table—still half-full, the remaining cherries bobbing forlornly in the melting ice—and let you keep the one you were working on. you didn't protest, just held the stem between your fingers.

you reached for him, and he caught your hand, steadying you as you stepped down from the stage. but instead of letting you walk, he hooked an arm under your knees and another around your back, lifting you off your feet in one smooth motion. you let out a surprised laugh, your free hand curling around his shoulder as he cradled you against his chest.

a few people whistled. someone catcalled. eddie just shook his head, a lopsided grin on his face, and carried you toward the door.

on the way out, he spotted robin and nancy at a corner booth, nursing what looked like matching cocktails. he paused, shifting your weight slightly. "you two gonna be alright getting home?"

nancy nodded, her smile knowing and a little amused. "we usually grab a taxi. go. take care of her."

"always do," eddie said, and meant it.

the night air hit you as he pushed through the exit, cool and clean after the stuffy bar. the parking lot was mostly empty, the streetlights casting pools of orange light across the asphalt. his van sat near the back—a 1990 dodge ram, boxy and red, with a few dings in the paint and a bumper sticker from a show three summers ago. it was a far cry from the rattling old van he'd driven in high school. this one had actual working seatbelts. air conditioning, even, that worked all the time instead of when it felt like cooperating. it was practical—room for the band's gear, room for amps and drum cases and tangled cables after late-night gigs.

but eddie had made a habit of pointing out, with a wink and a shit-eating grin, that the space had other uses too.

he carried you around to the passenger side, careful not to bump your head on the door frame as he set you down on the bench seat. you were still holding that cherry, he noticed. still working on it with focused determination.

he shut the door gently, rounded the hood, and slid into the driver's seat. the engine turned over with a low rumble, and he glanced over at you—your head tipped back against the headrest, your eyes half-closed, that cherry stem still dangling from your fingers.

"comfortable?" he asked, his voice softer than he'd intended.

you hummed in response, a sound that could have meant anything, and eddie felt something warm and quiet settle in his ribs. he put the van in gear and pulled out of the lot, the bar's neon glow shrinking in the rearview mirror as he drove you both home.

eddie guided you through the door of his apartment with a steady hand on the small of your back, your feet stumbling just slightly over the threshold. the familiar scent of him—leather and cigarette smoke—wrapped around you as he kicked the door shut behind you both.

"dorm’s out," he said, his voice low and careful, like he was explaining something to a spooked animal. "people would've caught me sneaking you in, no question. you're staying here tonight. i’ll drop you off in the morning before anyone's awake, unless you just want to stay here. it’s the weekend anyway."

you murmured something in agreement, not really tracking the logistics, just letting the warmth of his hand guide you. he led you to his bed, and you sank onto the edge of the mattress, the springs groaning under your weight. a guitar leaned against the wall nearby, and a thin layer of ash dusted the nightstand.

you sighed and let yourself fall backward, the cheap ceiling tiles swimming lazily above you as eddie disappeared into the kitchen. you heard the fridge open, the clink of a glass, the rush of tap water.

when he came back, he was holding a glass of water. he set it down on the nightstand beside you, the little ceramic coaster you'd bought him from a gas station months ago catching the condensation.

"eds," you said, your voice carrying that particular sweetness you knew he couldn't ignore. you rolled onto your side, looking up at him through your lashes. "can you help with the zipper?"

innocence dripped from the question like honey, but the glint in your eyes told a different story entirely.

eddie’s jaw went tight. you saw the muscle jump beneath his skin, the way his throat worked as he swallowed. his eyes traced the line of your back where the dress pulled taut, and for a moment, he forgot how to breathe. his fingers twitched at his sides.

but he caught himself. he always did.

"yeah," he said, the word coming out rougher than he meant. he cleared his throat and tried again. "yeah, mhm. but nothing funny, alright?"

he sat down on the edge of the bed behind you, the mattress dipping under his weight. his fingers found the tiny metal tab at the nape of your neck, and he pulled—slow, deliberate, the zipper teeth parting one by one like a held breath releasing. the fabric loosened around your shoulders, and he forced himself to look away from the skin being revealed inch by inch.

when he was done, he pulled his hands back like he'd been burned.

you twisted to face him, the dress slipping dangerously at your collarbone. "but why? you don't want to play with me?"

the sound that escaped him was somewhere between a laugh and a groan. he dragged a hand over his face, mussing his hair further. "you know i do. god, you know i do." he leaned in, and you felt the ghost of his lips against your forehead—featherlight, reverent.

"but you're drunk. when you're sober—when you're you and not a couple of drinks in—i’ll play with you all you want. i promise."

he pulled back, and there was something soft in his brown eyes, something tender that cut through the haze of alcohol better than any glass of water could.

"gonna grab you something to wear," he said, his voice steadier now. "drink that water. every drop."

you huffed dramatically, but you reached for the glass anyway, the cool rim pressing against your lips as you took a sip. the water was cold and clean, and it grounded you just a little.

across the room, eddie was rummaging through his dresser, muttering under his breath as he pushed aside band tees and balled-up socks. the drawer stuck halfway, and he had to yank it, swearing softly when a cascade of loose guitar picks spilled onto the floor. he ignored them, finally pulling out a faded black shirt—the one with the faded slayer logo, the one you always stole—and a pair of shorts.

he turned back, and there you were: sprawled across his bed, bare-shouldered, water glass in hand, watching him like he was the only thing in the room worth looking at.

eddie’s heart stuttered.

he crossed back to the bed, the borrowed clothes folded over his arm. he stopped at the edge of the mattress, looking down at you—sprawled out, bare-shouldered, holding that glass of water like a prop you'd forgotten you were holding.

"alright, you," he said, his voice soft but carrying that familiar edge of teasing. he tapped the bottom of the glass. "set it down. doctor’s orders."

you gave him a mock salute, the motion sloppy and exaggerated, and placed the glass on the nightstand with a clumsy clink. "yes, sir."

he huffed a laugh, shaking his head. the mattress dipped as he climbed up beside you, his knees bracketing your hip. his hands found your shoulders first as he pulled the rest of the dress down.

"arms up," he murmured.

you lifted them, and he guided the fabric over your head, the dress slipping away like water. he folded it once, twice, and set it aside without looking at it. his eyes stayed on you—on your face, specifically, pointedly avoiding anywhere else.

you sat there in your bra and underwear, the room’s dim light painting soft shadows across your skin, and eddie’s jaw tightened. but his hands stayed steady. gentle.

he grabbed the shirt and worked it over your head. your face emerged through the collar, hair mussed, and he couldn't help the small smile that tugged at his mouth. he smoothed the fabric down your sides, his knuckles brushing your ribs with the lightest touch.

"now the shorts," he said, reaching for the shorts. "lift up for me."

you did, a little uncoordinated, and he guided the waistband up your legs, over your hips, adjusting the lace so it sat right. his fingers lingered for just a second at your hip, a quiet reassurance, before he pulled his hands away.

"there. decent." he said it like a joke, but his voice was warm. "almost a shame to cover up, but—" he caught himself, clearing his throat. "anyway. are you good? comfortable?"

you nodded, already sinking into the pillows, the fabric of his shirt bunched around your neck. he’d crawled up beside you, propping himself on one elbow, and looked down at you with an expression so soft it made your chest ache.

he leaned in and kissed you. just a brush of lips—slow, tender, tasting faintly of the beer from earlier. but he didn’t care.

you tilted your chin up, chasing more, and he felt the shift in pressure, the way your mouth parted against his. he chuckled, the sound vibrating through his chest and into yours.

"behave," he murmured against your lips.

you giggled, the sound light and buzzy, and nodded. but your hand found the collar of his shirt, fingers curling into the fabric, holding him there before he could pull back even an inch.

he looked down at your grip, then back up at your face, his gaze tender. "what are you holding onto me for?" he murmured.

you shrugged, the motion small and sleepy. "nothin’. just wanted to cuddle with you before i knock out." your voice dipped softer. "maybe watch some tv or something."

his heart clenched. something hot and tender swelled behind his ribs, and he had to look away for a second to collect himself. when he looked back, his eyes were softer.

"yeah?" he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "that all you want?"

"for now." your smile was sleepy, sweet, a little bit teasing even through the haze.

he kissed you again—slower this time, like he was savoring the shape of your mouth.

"alright," he said, the word a quiet surrender.

he shifted, letting you settle against his chest, your cheek finding the worn fabric of his shirt. his arm wrapped around you, hand finding your hair, fingers threading through the strands with an absent, practiced tenderness. with his free hand, he fumbled for the remote on the nightstand, clicking the tv on to some late-night rerun—static and color bleeding across the screen.

not even fifteen minutes later, your breathing had gone slow and even, your fingers slack against his shirt. the tv flickered unwatched, some commercial jingle playing to an empty room.

eddie didn't move. he just kept running his fingers through your hair, watching the rise and fall of your back, thinking that this—right here—was better than anything he could’ve done on a late friday night.

CHAPTER 10 - Nothing

The air was so cold, you were so cold, barely warmer than you had been last night. Maybe you should have just stayed outside.

Why did you come here? 

It had been cold the last time you were here as well, you didn’t know if there was heating, and you thankfully weren’t here long enough to find out.

Why did you come here? 

You’d at least managed to find a bathroom behind one of the doors out in the hall, the other keeping its mysteries sealed shut. You didn’t care about its contents enough to pry any further. 

Why did you come here? 

A brief rummage through the mess of boxes and crates had at least found you some basic supplies. Water, expired nutrition rations, basic medical supplies.

Why did you come here? 

A gold-plated pistol.

Why did you come here? 

With the supplies you’d found and the ones you’d brought with you, dragged along behind you on the floating carrier, you could at least survive a few weeks. 

Why did you come here? 

If you wanted to that is. 

Why did you come here? 

What was the point? What was the point of trying to survive? It had been two weeks since you’d severed your golden cord. Two weeks since you’d last seen — him. 

Why did you come here? 

Two weeks since — since you thought your life couldn’t get any worse. Yet somehow, as you lay here shivering beneath bundles of blankets, you found yourself wishing you were back where you were two weeks ago. 

Why did you come here? 

At least two weeks ago, you had someone who cared enough about you, to show you how much you’d hurt them.

Why did you come here? 

Being here was hardly better than being outside, but at least here you could order the food and supplies you needed to survive.

Why did you come here? 

If you decided that there was anything worth surviving for.

Why did you come here? 

You knew he’d know you were here if you did use the terminal, but it didn’t matter, because he’d know already. 

He’d have known the second you crossed the perimeter, just as he had the first time you’d broken into this bunker — the bunker belonging to Peter Englert. 

𓏴 𓏴 TWO WEEKS AGO … 𓏴 𓏴

After a few hours, your muscles had finally stopped begging to be stretched, begging to be moved at all as you’d kept your body curled tight and unmoving, as if curling into a tight ball of defence would prevent any further damage from being done. You’d not slept, not in the time since he’d revealed the monster, or since he’d cried apologies against your back, or until now when he’d finally reentered the room. 

As he’d entered, he’d left a cavernous distance between you, a visual representation that still failed to compare to the distance of the rift his actions had created between your hearts. 

You didn’t meet his gaze, your eyes needing to face the threat but not daring to look any higher than his chest. The brief glimpses you got of him were enough to confirm that you had in fact heard a gunshot during the night, a new ghost of a handprint making its home on Higgs’ forearm. 

The air hung tense in the moments it took him to speak, your view of his chest allowing you to see why, his chest incrementally rising faster, its falls incrementally more deep and ragged. You knew a look to his face would show you tears, but you didn’t care enough to look.

When he finally did speak, you could tell he was speaking with sobs locked in his throat. 

He only spoke enough to ask you two questions. 

You only gave two answers, one spoken and one given as an action. 

The first question was about your family. “In that dream I had, ‘bout those memories of yours as a kid, I felt four different pairs of hands. How many pairs did I kill with that nuke?” 

“Three.” You’d been able to recall how many members of your family had been killed, but you still weren’t able to remember anything else at all about them, your temple once again beginning to throb the harder you tried. You didn’t ask why he wanted to know. You didn’t care.

The second question, was how you ended up waking up in your bunker later that day.

“This — this ain’t a threat, I just wanna give you a choice. Option one, there’s a shower in the other room. You can clean —” His hands had been shaking as he’d drawn them into tight fists. He didn’t finish whatever thought it was he had about why or what you needed to clean. “— an’ there’s clean clothes for ya. Then I’ll drive you back to your bunker. It — it ain’t a quick journey. Or two —” His hands had still been trembling as he’d reached into his pocket and pulled out an automatic syringe.“You can wake up in your own bed, clean ’n’ safe. Either way, you won’t ever have to see me again.” 

You knew of course, that those two options weren’t really what he was asking, his words not speaking the actual truth of what he was giving you the option of, because you knew what he was actually asking, was how much more time you wanted to spend conscious in his presence. 

In the moment, you’d answered instinctually, outstretching your hand to take the automatic syringe that he was offering, not giving too much thought to the consequences. However upon reflection, you knew you’d made the right choice. You wanted nothing more to do with him, and sure, you had no way of knowing that he didn’t violate you while bathing you, but you didn’t care, if he was going to do it, you’d rather not remember it. In fact, the spiteful part of you actually hoped it physically pained him to have to bathe you, that he’d broken down when he’d been forced to clean up the mess he’d made. 

So upon reflection, you’d made the right choice, however at the time, there was brief moment where you thought you might regret it. Because when you’d outstretched your hand to take the syringe, he’d withdrawn it, causing you to instantly panic upon thinking it was some kind of rouse, some kind of cruel test. However that panic didn’t last long, instead quickly morphing into something that made bile rise in your throat, as his hand returned with a pill bottle instead. 

“Take this first.” He placed it on the floor in front of you. A bottle of water followed. 

You felt bile rise in your throat as you realised what this was, in this context, just a single pill alone in a bottle, only the one pill needed to do its job. Your body trembled as you clenched the bottle in your hand, your hesitation purely due to your flood of emotions and in no way because you were considering not taking it. 

The desperation in Higgs’ voice was evident. “Please I — I need to know you’ve taken it.” 

A few moments after you’d swallowed, you pushed the plunger of the syringe down and felt the drug slowly enter your veins. As you felt yourself succumbing to sleep, you allowed yourself what you hoped was a final glimpse of your “fated one.” However as your eyes raised to meet his, he didn’t even allow you that, averting his own as tears of black kohl began to stream down his cheeks. 

𓏴

Some time later, you’d awoken in your own bunker. A quick inspection proved Higgs had done what he said he’d do, your body clean from head to toe.

Two weeks had passed since then, and little did you know, you were about to find out that somehow, your life could get worse. 

𓏴 𓏴 TWO DAYS AGO … 𓏴 𓏴

“We’d like you tell us what you know about the man known as Higgs Monaghan? You might also know him as the Particle of God.” 

The overhead light was harsh, intentionally harsh as you sat opposite the man whose fingers were tapping away at the terminal in front of him. 

When you’d been called into Bridges HQ, you’d been denied the reason, and as you were led through the endless maze of corridors, the disgusted side-glances you got made you suspect you were the only one who didn’t know the reason. Your suspicions were then all but confirmed when two men with ‘Agent’ before their names, had entered the room. 

“Have you met this man?” Pressing a few buttons on the keypad on the desk, one of the agents brought up about a dozen holographic images of the man in question. Your heart began racing at the sight of him, although you weren’t quite sure it was purely out of fear. 

“Y-yes.” 

“Under what circumstances?” 

Your heart sank. How do you even begin to explain? You of course knew that Higgs was a terrorist, the UCA’s most wanted terrorist, but how could you possibly begin to explain that the reason you knew him had nothing to do with that? How could you explain your connection in a way that made sense?

“I — uh it’s — it’s kind of difficult to explain.” 

“I suggest you find a way to explain it.” 

How? Even if your cord had still been there, no one else could see it. You knew Sam obviously could, so maybe you could’ve asked if anyone here had DOOMs but — but that no longer mattered. The cord was gone. You had no tangible proof of your reason to be associating with the UCA’s most wanted criminal, and you had a feeling that the men sitting opposite you now, were going to be very hard to convince of the truth no matter what you said. 

“I — I don’t know —” You were failing to come up with a way to explain, and you also couldn’t seem to let go of the fact that you seemed to be in an increasingly hostile situation with no explanation. “Why? Why do you want to know? Are you accusing me of something?” 

“Are you defending him?” 

“No! Of course not but I —”

“— then tell us how you know him.” 

“It’s — it’s complicated. I really don’t know how to explain it.” 

You really didn’t, and these two agents seemed very determined not to let you even try. You were starting to feel more and more defensive, as if they’d already decided your fate before you’d even given your answer. 

“Are you an acting member of the Homo-Demen’s?”

“No! No of course not! I’d never join them.” 

“Your coordinates show that you frequented three locations where there have been known Homo-Demen’s encampments?” 

“I — yeah I — I wasn’t there willingly. He brought me there.” 

W-wait, your “coordinates”? 

“You were at one of those locations for more than two weeks.” 

“Yeah well he kept me — wait, how do you know that?” 

“We also have information from a trusted source that you are engaged in a personal relationship with the man known as Higgs Monaghan.”

Your heart sank even further. Sam. You thought you could trust him. “Whatever he said was a lie. And how do you know I was there for two —” 

“She. And I’ll have you know that we trust her word much more than we do yours.” She? Maybe that friend Sam mentioned? Maybe he told her and she —  “I strongly suggest you attempt to explain what your relationship with this terrorist is.” 

“I don’t have a relationship with him, trust me.”

“Then I suggest you explain what the situation is.”

Fuck, you had to try. “He — he abducted me to those locations, those encampments. I wasn’t there willingly. I — I have DOOMs and when it first appeared it kind of — connected me to him, emotionally and physically. There was a golden cord that physically connected us, but only he and I could see it, and other people with DOOMs.”

The looks on the faces of the men opposite you let you know that they didn’t believe you, but you continued regardless. 

“When it first appeared it kind of let us feel each others emotions. I didn’t know who it was connected to, so one day I followed it — but once I knew it was him, I wanted nothing to do with him I swear. But the cord sort of — it sounds crazy but it sort of made him feel like he loved me, so he kept trying to convince me that I loved him back. But I didn’t — I don’t. So he kept abducting me to those encampments. The time I was there for weeks was because he injured me, so that he could pretend to take care of me. Please, I know it sounds crazy but I don’t have a relationship with Higgs Monaghan, I swear.” 

The two men looked at each other and exchanged a glance that instantly made your heart sink. “Effective immediately, you are no longer a porter for Bridges, the company serving under the United Cities of —” 

“— what?!”

It was as if time stood still, the mouth of the agent speaking still moving but now in slow motion, his words not reaching you as you felt your entire world turn upside down in an instant. 

“— you no longer have the right to claim any land or property that belongs to —”

“— wait what? No please I’m telling the truth —” You could tell your pleas were failing to reach him, your own ears still only hearing snippets of what he was saying as you slowly felt yourself splinter and crack. 

“— you will no longer be allowed service by any Bridges staff or facility, or any of the —” 

His words still mumbled, the snippets you heard were well and truly enough for his meaning to be known. You now meant nothing to Bridges. 

“Y-you said that if I told you that I wouldn’t be in any trouble?”

The agent scoffed. “You really thought that we’d let a known terrorist conspirator continue to pretend to serve their country? You should be grateful that we’re allowing you to leave the building.” 

“Please I’ve — I’ve worked as a porter for almost 15 years. Doesn’t my loyalty mean anything?”

𓏴 𓏴 THIS MORNING … 𓏴 𓏴

No. Apparently it didn’t. 

It meant nothing that you’d worked tirelessly for 15 years. It meant nothing that you’d risked life and limb delivering cargo through rain and shine, through timefall and BT territories. Your loyalty to Bridges meant nothing.

And without Bridges — you had nothing. Now considered a risk to the UCA, you were denied access to any Bridges or UCA facility, including Knot cities. You had nowhere to live, your name blacklisted from being able to order anything at all, food, water, supplies — nothing. 

So you turned to the people who you knew you could trust, fellow porters, friends, who you’d risked your life for countless times, who’s dreams and nightmares you knew as well as your own. Your found family, people you loved. 

But as it turns out, your loyalty to your fellow porters, your friends, also meant nothing.

People who you’d risk your life for, had risked your life, casting you aside the second word of your blacklisting hit their cuff-links. People who you’d consider your found family, now laying punches into your face instead of listening to your version of events. 

“Please just listen to me, they’re wrong, I —” Your hands had risen to protect your face.

“— you think I’d believe you over them? Why come crawling to me? Why don’t you do crawling back to your terrorist boyfriend huh?” 

People whose birthdays you celebrated, whose injuries you’d tended to, who’s couches you’d slept on, people who were now kicking their heels against your ribs. 

“Please stop —”

“— this is what you get for being a terrorist fucking traitor! I can’t believe I ever trusted you.” 

People who’d cried on your shoulder, who you’d spent entire nights laughing with instead of sleeping. Those people, the people you loved — were now people who wouldn’t even listen to your version of events, wouldn’t listen to you explain that Bridges was wrong, wouldn’t let you even attempt to explain your golden cord. 

Those people were now slamming their doors shut in your face, laughing as they enjoyed watching the pain they were inflicting upon you, enjoyed watching you suffer for your apparent betrayal. 

All those years of friendship — it all meant nothing. 

You — you meant nothing. 

And you had nowhere to go.

Nowhere you wanted to go. 

But there was one place you knew you could go. 

As you’d walked through the freezing cold night, your floating carrier rattling behind you, you’d told yourself you were only going there so that you didn’t freeze to death out here. 

The irony most certainly wasn’t lost on you, the irony of you being burned by Bridges and finding yourself laying in the cot of the only other person who you knew hated Bridges more than you, the person who’s hatred you’d dismissed but that had now become your own. 

What were you without your job? What were you without your friends? Y-you had nothing. You were nothing. 

However as you’d lay down on the cot, bundled in blankets to fight the cold, you hated that the scent of the cots previous owner reminded you of a time that you weren’t nothing. 

𓏴 𓏴 NOW … 𓏴 𓏴

He warned you before entering, using the terminal outside to alert you of his arrival as if he was a guest to his own bunker. While you appreciated the gesture, you no longer saw him as a distinguishable threat amongst all the other things that recently brought your life to ruin. You were actually surprised it had taken him so long to show himself. 

Higgs stood leaning against the doorway, as if there was an invisible force preventing him from entering the same room as you — there was, himself. The expression on his face let you know that his need to lean was genuine and not just an aesthetic choice. He looked exhausted, the usual flickering blue spark in his eyes long gone, his golden tattoos seemingly lost their shine, his body seemingly lacking the energy to stand, even his voice was now devoid of all its life. 

“Why’re you here?” 

He didn’t look at you as he asked the question that you’d been asking yourself the entire time. 

Why did you come here? 

“I have nowhere else to go.” You returned his energy, barely having the will to speak at all. “Bridges — they —”

“— I know.” Higgs took a long pause, his inhale and exhale long and ragged, as if he were too exhausted to even breathe. “Saw your name on the blacklist.” 

“Then you know why I’m here.”

“No. No I don’t.” 

“I have nowhere else to —”

“— that doesn’t mean you come here.” There was emotion in those words, more than one, all boiling together in one big pot of emotion so hot, that each bubble caused its scalding hot liquid to splash against his skin. Pain, anguish, heartache, confusion — all for himself. “It — it don’t mean you come here to my — to me — after I —”

Higgs’ lip quivered as he rested his head back against the wall, his eyes shutting tight as he attempted to maintain his composure. You watched his fingers fidgeting, small flecks of black polish floating down to the floor below as they were picked from his nails. After a few moments of silence, the opening of his eyes revealed that he’d failed, his composure lost as tears slowly began making their way down his cheeks as he finally met your gaze. 

“It don’t mean you come to me.”

Even with the several meter distance between you, you could see the anguish swirling in his eyes, their blue darkened beyond anything you’d ever seen, their spark gone and replaced with a maelstrom of pain and anguish that you could tell he was letting consume him. As his tears continued to fall, you realised you were almost willing to let them consume you too — so you averted your gaze before they could.

You shook your head slowly in frustration, unsure if it was at him for thinking you’d actually come here for him, or at yourself for letting yourself come here in the first place. “I didn’t come here for you. I came here so I didn’t die out there.”

Why did you come here?

Higgs let out a small huff through his nostrils that you assume was accompanied by a slight smile, a false one, one that was in no way because he was amused but reflected his attempt to mask the real hurt your words had caused him. He’d known better than to assume you’d come here for him, but a small part of him had still held hope. 

He knew you’d been blacklisted, meaning you’d have lost your home and access to any Bridges or UCA facilities. And he knew that meant you were fucked, his hatred for both organisations partially stemming from the fact that they basically held a monopoly on all the resources one needed to simply survive. Food, water, safe shelter, medicine — all unattainable without their influence. He knew all that. But when his bunker sensors had alerted him to your presence, he couldn’t help but feel that wound in his chest start to ache once more. And he hated himself for it. 

He wanted to think it meant you were willing to forgive him, and even though he knew that wasn’t the case, he hated that part of him that still hoped it was. 

“I’ll fix the heating — an’ I’ll have supplies sent —”

“— don’t bother. They’ll be wasted.”

The air hung heavy with the meaning of your words, and you felt the exact moment when Higgs was overcome with a feeling other than exhaustion. If you’d been looking at him, you’d have seen it too, his hand abruptly rushing to his chest in an attempt to soothe the throbbing ache that your implication had caused.

“You ain’t dying here.” 

Not a question, but a statement said with a determination that you instantly felt raise your heckles, as if he had the right to choose how and when you died. However any anger you were starting to feel was soon snuffed out, your exhaustion and rapidly declining will to live, winning the battle of how your next words would be spoken. So while you’d usually throw them out with a sarcasm intended to add salt to the wound, they came out with almost no life at all. You were far too tired for any of that.

“Why not? I’ll be dead soon anyway right?” You met Higgs’ gaze once more, letting your heavy head rest back against the cool metal wall. You pulled our blankets tighter around yourself in a comforting embrace. “You should know, you’re the one intent on hastening our extinction. What is your timeline on that exactly?” 

Too tired to add sarcasm to those words, you let them loose with blunt exhaustion, not caring if they wounded or not. However the way Higgs’ entire body seemed to jolt in pain as your words hit him, implied that the lack of sarcasm may have actually made them sharper. 

He instantly averted his gaze, his chest abruptly beginning to heave unevenly as if you’d just struck him square in the chest with an agonising blow. He shook his head, his tattooed brow furrowed as he attempted to reconcile the hurricane of thoughts your words had summoned. 

“That’s not — I just —” He felt himself spiralling, unable to summon a satisfying answer to that question. 

“Just what Higgs? Don’t want to see me die? You’re happy for everyone else to die but me? Is that it?” 

Once again devoid of sarcasm, as you watched your words deepen his downward spiral, you realised that if you’d wanted to really wound him in the past, maybe this is how you should have been speaking to him the entire time. Higgs obviously found your sarcastic tone easy to interpret, because the lack of it had now caused him to sink to the floor, his back sliding down the wall slowly as he gently thudded to the ground. He held his head in his hands, his fingers running through his hair and massaging his scalp in a way that made it look like he was attempting to massage his thoughts into an order that made sense. 

“Y-yes, I guess that is it.” His voice was undeniably distressed. “Is that so wrong?” 

“Yes Higgs, it is wrong. How do you possibly rationalise loving me at the same time as wanting to end the world?”

For a few silent moments, both you and Higgs focused on the way he was picking the skin around his fingernails, his fingers trembling as they undoubtedly drew blood. 

“I — I’ve been asking myself the exact same thing since our cord first appeared.”

You hated the way his use of the word “our” made your heart spasm with a pang of guilt, as if it was your fault that the connection was gone. “And?”

“And I ain’t ever been able to find the answer.” 

As you watched the anguish continue to flicker across his face, you saw the exact moment then he seemingly came up with at least a sliver on an answer, one that you assume wounded him deeply as he proceeded to briefly lose all sense of composure. 

His fidgeting ceased, his knuckles whitening as he drew his fingers into fists so tight, that you assume he created half-moon shaped wounds on his palms. His chest began heaving as if the wind had been knocked from him, his entire body moving in time with his deep ragged inhales and exhales. His face screwed up as he attempted to stop more tears from falling, his head thrown back as he attempted to swallow the sobs that were threatening to break free. 

It took a few minutes for him to regain enough sense of himself to speak once more, and when he did, the turmoil was evident in his voice.

“M-maybe I — I would’ve just been happy with — with havin’ someone to meet the end of the world with.” 

You shut your eyes as you let your head fall back against the wall, a smirk spreading across your lips that you were too exhausted to bother hiding. You were in no way amused, you were simply too emotionally exhausted for your emotions to make sense any more. You took a few deep breaths. 

“Well it’s too late for that now isn’t it.” You had no energy left to project that statement as an attack, simply saying it as a matter of fact. 

Higgs let out a single chuckle that you knew was made out of defeat and not amusement. “Yeah —” Higgs sniffled, speaking with an equal amount of exhaustion. “— yeah, add it to the long list of things that I’ve gone ’n’ fucked up.” 

A few minutes of silence passed, silence filled with the low hum of the bunker’s inner workings, and the occasional sniffle from the man still unwilling to breach the doorway into the room. However, as you heard the ruffling of clothing as Higgs slowly stood, your eyes flickered open just in time to see witness him finally breach it. He reached in just enough to pick up the golden pistol from the table by the bed. 

“Leave it.”

“No.” Higgs held the pistol firm as he returned to standing just outside the doorframe. “No you don’t get to give up, you have to survive —”

“— you have no fucking right to tell me to survive when you’re the reason I’m struggling to find a reason to.”

The emotion you’d spoken with for the first time reverberated through the air, a mixture of emotions that were unable to be distinguished from one another. Some directed at yourself, some directed at him — but all hanging in the air as the onus turned to Higgs to respond. And he did, his defensive mask now cemented back onto his face — the face that didn’t dare meet your gaze as he spoke with no life whatsoever. 

“Well then consider me takin’ this pistol, and the supplies that’ll be delivered here tomorrow, to be my final assault against you.” 

Before you could respond, he was gone, chiral dust slowly falling its way to the floor where he’d once stood. 

Why did you come here? 

That question kept rattling around in your brain.

You’d told yourself that it was so you didn’t die out there. But that wasn’t the truth. 

You told him that it was was so you didn’t die out there. But that wasn’t the truth. 

And as you watched the chiral dust form a small pile on the floor, you realised you knew exactly why you’d come here.

Because you meant nothing to Bridges, always meant nothing. 

You meant nothing to your friends, always meant nothing. 

You meant nothing to yourself, always meant nothing. 

You meant nothing to yourself and to everyone else in this entire goddamn world. 

But there was one person that you never meant nothing to. 

And you pushed that person away as if they meant nothing. 

TO BE CONTINUED ♡