can you do a conrad fic based off the song i know you by faye webster?? angst to fluff? love youuuuu
Conrad Fisher x fem!reader
summery: As the years went on, it became more apparent to Conrad of his and Y/nâs two year age gap. As he spends his last summer before college in a downward spiral. His mother, his father. But most important, the inevitable end of summer. Where he will go off to college and she will stay in high school.
Summer was always my favorite time of the year. The sand between your toes, the sunshine warming your scalp. Even in the sweltering heat, the summer temperatures only made the cool ocean water more desirable. More than that, it was the season of Conrad Fisher.
Weâd met when I was only seven. He was nine, back when his hair was still shorter and his glasses werenât collecting dust on his bedside table, but instead sat clean on the bridge of his nose. My parents had decided to finally buy the small beach house that had been on the market for almost a year. It was always my momâs dream to live down by the water, so my father had been saving for it just so maybe one day, they could retire by the water, like the old couples do in the cheesy movies. The house that they bought that day sat neatly beside the Fishers beach house. Nothing but a wooden fence to separate the two backyards and a line of bushes in the front.
The first summer down, it was cold. Already, I had kicked and cried about leaving my friends for so long. Both new and old, all with the fear that they would leave and find better friends in my absence. Now, on top of my already distaste of the distance from our home, the sky was gloomy and the temperature refused to surpass the high sixties. It rained almost everyday, and when it wasnât raining, it was about to.
It stayed that way for a week, the same week I spent inside, curled up in my room and looking out the window anxiously. I wanted to swim, at least. I wanted to run in the grass and I wanted to do everything my mother promised. I missed my friends and I missed my bed. Summer wasnât summer to me.
Then, one morning, the sun came out. The cold front moved out and an intense heat suddenly took over. The mid eighties seemed like a dream. I could feel the sweat on the back of my neck sticking to my hair. My shirt sleeves were rolled up and my cheeks were burned. I spent the whole morning running around and playing pretend. I didnât need anything in that moment but the surrounding joys of the summertime weather that had finally came. I was so caught up in this that I didnât see the football go hurling over the fence.
âHey!â His voice was much higher pitched then, he was just a boy. But it still scared me. It was loud, sudden. It made me jump. When I turned to face where the sound came from, he looked apologetic, but he never apologized. He was gripping onto the fence so hard, it was obvious he was either on his tip toes or not touching the ground at all.
I stared at him like an idiot, stuck in place, piecing together the context clues. I understood now that he was my neighbor. I waved shyly then, not wanting to be rude, and he waved back, still gripping the edge of the fence with one hand.
âI lost my ball, could you throw it over?â I was suddenly aware of the brown football by my foot. He pointed at it until I looked.
Slowly, I picked it up to show him. For some reason I felt nervous, unsure. He nodded, his smile never fading. Even then he had the kindest eyes, the warmest smile.
âI donât know how.â I confessed. I knew how to paint, I could ride a bike. I was a quick runner and I could out-spell anyone in my second grade class. But I never learned how to throw a football. My dad had never taken the time to toss a ball around with me like he had once promised my mother to do. So, I never bothered to learn either.
âWhat?â He questioned.
âI donât know how.â I repeated, unmoving.
âYou donât know how to throw a football?â He laughed, but he wasnât making fun of me. It was almost like he couldnât believe someone could lack such a skill!
âThats what I said.â I held it with both hands, looking at the lacing while I spun in around in my palms.
âI can teach you!â He said, a little too enthusiastically.
âWhat?â I questioned him this time.
âI can teach you! I play football, let me teach you!â He persisted, adjusting himself on the fence so he could hang there for longer.
When I didnât move he continued to beg. He begged and begged until finally I walked over the the gate that resided between the sides of our homes. It was rusted and hard to open, but it budged eventually and once I was over, I could see him fully.
He wore a blue baseball tee and athletic shorts. His glasses were fogging up from the heat and his hair was collecting sweat along his hairline.
That day, we didnât leave the confinements of that yard until his mom, that I now know as Susannah, called for him to come inside for dinner. When he begged both his mom and I to stay for dinner, neither of us put up any fight. He called dibs to sit at the end of the table so he could sit beside me, and when dinner was served he gathered my plate for me so I wouldnât feel awkward.
That night, he and Belly, who I met at dinner because she was to my right side, and who was also my age, begged again to let me stay over for the night. Susannah was unsure, not wanting to worry my parents too much. The next morning, he was knocking on my front door bright and early. He claimed we still had more to learn, but we spent the entire day down by the beach with his surf board and buckets for sandcastles. Suddenly, with Conrad beside me, I didnât mind being so far from home anymore. Summer became summer.
Kicking the sand as I went, my footsteps left a trail of divotsïżŒ on the beach, marking where we had already been. The sun was just peaking over the horizon now. The air hadnât gathered the usual summer humidity levels yet. It was the perfect time to be down here. Yet, today the waves were flat and the tide was too far out to really enjoy it. Regardless, Conrad and I always came down. No matter what.
It was one of the many traditions weâd gathered over the years. The yearly made up games became calming walks. The burning passion and competitiveness between us still burned, but in other ways. Our early morning enthusiasm never dimmed, it simply shinned for something else.
It was silent between us, but not awkward. Usually during this time we would talk about everything we missed. Though we practically slept in the same bed each night during the summer, his home in Boston and my families apartment in New York was much too far apart for us to constantly be together.
We would talk about school, our dreams, our friends and family. We still did all of that, but I couldnât help but notice how he spoke less and less of his friends and more and more about us, Brown, and his mom.
Part of me worried for him, honestly. He called me just a few months ago. He had decided to quit football. I was shocked. How had Conrad, a boy with more passion for the sport than anyone I knew, somehow lost all the burning desire for it? Not only that, but it was that passion that brought us together in the first place. It was foolish to have been so caught up on the news, it was inevitable that we wouldâve met. But part of me wondered if it would have been the same. I couldnât help but wonder if his sudden disappearance from his clubs and sports made him drift away from them.
I still remember the call, when he told me everything. His deepest secrets, the ones that he kept from his own blood. When I laid down my concerns for him, how blandly he had stated it. I needed to know if there was something that happened. Something had to have happened. Conrad brushed it off then, he told me he had grown up and grew out of it. I knew that was a lie. He was just raving about it last summer. How excited he was to be back on the field. He described the the Friday night lights as the closest feeling to the summer sun he would ever be in the colder months. Something had happened.
So, when the line went silent, I reminded him of how he could run circles around anyone he wanted, but not me.
âConrad,â I had started, âI know you.â And he knew what I meant. It was like I was watching him crumble beneath my fingers, even if I couldnât see his face. He told me about his fathers infidelity, his mothers resistance towards freeing herself from their relationship. More than that, now that he was a senior, the reality of moving away for school was a looming storm cloud scaring him. But he never mentioned the loss of his friends.
âHows Brett and Johnny?â I asked, suddenly aware that the farther we got down the beach, the less we had to say. We already covered it all over the phone, too eager to wait this year. It felt wrong, so I dug in the one blind spot this year.
âOhâŠuh, I donât really talk to them anymore.â He said is so casually, scratching at the back of his head. I expected to be partly right, but not right on the money. I stopped in my tracks, confused.
âWhat? No! Brett and Johnny?â Drifting away from childhood best friends is inevitable in most cases. The interests you share as children develop into passions and mature hobbies that often differ from one another. You are led down another path, but the kind smile they give you in the hallway during passing period reminds you how close you once were. You chat in the classes you have together and you catch up every so often.
âYeah.â He took a deep breath like he was going to continue, but he didnât. He stopped himself, he never stopped himself. Especially when it came to Brett and Johnny. His pals, his buddies!
He used to talk my ear off about them every summer! Begged Susannah to let them come with him. He told me of everything they did during the school year and he taught me their schoolyard games and we made the same stupid bets. It was a boyish love, I was so sure they would be the ones to stick together.
âIâm sorry.â I felt like it was my fault, somehow. When I connected the dots, his fathers affairs, his mothers giving heart, his brothers attitudes, his never ending stresses, I was left with a scribble of nothing. Just lines that resemble something that should mean something, but donât. His friends wouldnât leave him for something so small. I was missing something. I knew it.
He stopped himself, he was tense. He couldnât even look at me. I wanted to slap it in his face that I knew something was missing, something bigger. I knew him. But the look in his eyes he hid almost completely behind his gentle gaze warned me not to push. If I unsurfaced it, he might not survive. So I let him hold back, just this once. I hope the squint in my eyes assured him I still, couldnât have circles ran around me. I could simply read the room.
The longer summer progressed, the quieter Conrad got. It wasnât just his friends that lacked in conversation. It was everything. He walked beside me more often than not with his head down and his hands in his pockets. He never talked about school, or his mom. He never asked about me anymore, what we should do. He lacked any ability to care, it seemed.
His eyebrows are forever furrowed. That kind smile replaced with an empty expression. During the day he was uninterested in every way. He never participated, never cared enough to even try. Yet, when night rolls around and I slip in through the window, Iâm his again. He doesnât really speak like he used to. We donât laugh hardly enough. But he reaches his arms out just the same, and welcomes me into his bed. And when he thinks Iâm asleep, I catch him pulling me in just a little bit harder than before.
I canât help but wonder where it really started. I think back on it, and the first signs were all there. So small it was hard to know if it was really him changing or if he was just growing. Quitting football, losing his friends. Losing his father, in some sense.
But every time I try I always see that same look in his eyes. The one warning me not to push. The one that forced me to listen.
It wasnât like he was being cold towards me. But there was an obvious difference in our nature. Shorter walks, longer wake ups. He was tired, and now so was I. But not of him, never of him.
âConrad?â I asked in the silence. His room was darker now that he had ditched his nightlight all those years ago. The moon didnât quite illuminate it the same as the glowing yellow did. I felt his body next to mine, his arms hovering over my body. His breathing was steady and his body unmoving other than the gentle rise and fall of his chest.
âI wish you would tell me whatâs going on with you. I just want to help.â I sighed, under my breath. It was so quiet, even the waves in the distance seemed louder. I spoke this way just incase he was awake, in case he was lying. I never really knew anymore. He might as well have been sleepwalking these past few weeks.
When a silent pause passed, I understood there would be no response. He wouldnât open up, and there would be no resolve. Conrad was and will always be my best friend. Heâll come around, I knew it. He had to. I doubt myself just a little when I remember his resistant look and unwavering attitude. I begin to think that itâs me. I have lost that special spot in Conrad that made him feel like he could always be as vulnerable as he wanted with me. I am not enough. I begin to think the day he comes back to me will never come, and he will be off to college with his new life and forget all about the girl who learned how to find his favorite constellations by heart just so they could point and laugh all summer about how they drifted quickly across the sky.
âConrad!â I called out. My feet his the sand harshly. The uneven surface sinking quicker the harder my feet hit only slowed me down. My outstretched arms would never be enough.
He was already up the steep hill. Nearly crossing through the hedges and over the fence to his backyard. He was a storm. Untamed and wild. His fists clenched, not from anger but frustration. The sound of the bonfire faded into the distance, and my lungs were hot and sticky with smoke and the salt air.
âConrad, stop!â I yelled again, straddling the fence clumsily. With an extra hop I barely cleared it having no time to gain any composure when splitting it.
Finally, the speed of my legs compared to his long strides balanced, and my hand was close enough to grab at him. He didnât spin, but I could see the bruises on his knuckles and the radiating heat from his clothes. He was hot, worked up too. I just needed to see him, finally pry him open.
âConrad, whats going on with you?â I begged for him to tell me. I wasnât at all disgusted with him, I held no judgement. But it wouldâve been so much easier to defend him if I had a reason.
âGo home, Y/n.â He was angry, his hands pushing back his hair so much, I thought he might rip it out.
âWe used to talk about things, remember that? When we could talk about everything? Why shut me out? Why now!â I expected some sort of sympathy. Anything that would explain his distance and let me back in.
âGo home, Y/n.â His voice was steady, but strict. When he shook his arm, my hand came off so quick it slapped against my thigh. It hurt but I would never tell him. Make myself look more immature than I felt already. Just a dumb girl trying to understand his complex feelings.
Maybe he didnât expect me to actually do what he said. He didnât see that I would actually turn on my heals and head for home. He let out a choked breath, and just barely over the gentle breeze I could hear him sniffling.
My parents were out of town until Tuesday. I was so excited for this weekend. I could barely wait for tonight. The first Friday for just us in months. I bought his favorite cookies. I rented our favorite movies, threw our favorite blankets in the dryer.
I sit in my bed thinking about this, about how I did so much for him all summer. Stayed with him, stayed true. Held him like an oath. What was I beginning to become to him? Nothing more than his other friends, it became clear.
âY/n!â Knuckles hit my window, followed by the soft calling of my name. It was persistent, I was ready to yell at Jeremiah to go home.
The window was Conrad and Iâs sacred space, in many ways. When we were younger, my parents were stricter. Too scared to let a boy so immature into my room. So each night, Conrad would climb the railing on the back deck until he was high enough to crawl up the garage roof. It was lower than the rest of the house, and ended just outside my window. He would tap very softly until I would turn on my light and rush over. Weâd talk and talk and talk until our parents realized it would be safer to just let us be.
Now, Jeremiah came knocking more than Conrad. Always wanting to sneak out with Belly or Steven. Conrad slept in his bed, and if I didnât come, he wouldnât come retrieve me.
But, after all these weeks, there he was. Hair a mess and puffy eyes. He was sitting just outside my window like a dog with a bird at my door. Waiting for some praise.
âCon?â It was pathetic how quickly I unlatched the handle that kept the window stuck shut. So quick to let him in again.
His limbs were long and clumsy clanking through the small window frame. It took longer the more he grew. It was a harder fit. He was breathing heavily, hand on his chest, balled up in a fist. He looked bewildered, panicked.
From the uneven breathing and the rapid pace, along with the paleness growing more and more in his usually rather tanned skin, I knew it was more than fatigue.
âConrad, hey, Conrad.â I knew him, deep down. Even if distant behavior couldnât get rid of what I already knew. He could never erase us, or my ability to know him so well.
âJust talk, say anything. I just wantâŠneed to hear your voice, please.â He rushed, voice raised but not yet shouting fully. I knew he liked to be talked down from these attacks, he used to have some when he was growing up. I never really knew what to say, though. No matter how well I knew him, it felt different.
âAbout what?â I asked, my hands guiding him to my bed. The blue stripped sheets wrinkled under our weight, the white duvet tossed lazily at the foot of my bed.
âAnything. The beach.â He blurted out, eyes wide and staring back into mine. I couldnât help but notice how the moon made them look even more blue. Just as deep and swimming in color. My hands were shaky, and my mind was racing. Suddenly, I was speaking.
âI think I like July the best.â I breathed, trying to remain calm. I let my hand slide off his shoulder and into his lap. My palm that rested on his thigh flipped only to show that he could take it if he wished to. I wouldnât mind.
âJune is great too. I like catching up with you, finally seeing you again. But the sand is the warmest in July. I love being able to know that. I love being able to walk next to you with my hands in my pockets one second and being thrown over your shoulder the next. I love when you race into the water in your nice clothes. How we swear to our parents we wonât do it again and we do. I love our traditions, I love that no matter how old we get we still do them. I love how you teach me everything you love so I can love it too. I love that nobody really knows about them but us.â I feel his hand now. His steady fingers intertwine with mine. His breathing has slowed juristically and his eyes have sunk back into the usual droopy state. But the moon still shines in his eyes the same, they still swim with color. I am still sotting next to Conrad.
âTalk to me.â I whisper in the silence. He squeezes my hand three times.
âWhat if things are never the same?â He wonât look at me, thats when I realize just how serious he is.
âWhat do you mean?â My thumb rubs against the back of his hand. His skin is warm and soft. I want to kiss it, make it better. Know him fully again.
âIâm already losing my mom, what if I lose you too?â And suddenly I know him. I see how his mothers obvious illness is affecting him, even if she wonât admit sheâs sick again. He had to have known, which meant I did too. I can see how his fatherâs infidelity makes him blind with rage, and I see how anxiety eats away at his insides until he is nothing more than a once occupied space. Over his family, over me.
We both know he is leaving soon. Only going farther away from me. Heâll be in college and I will be a senior. Its in our nature to see the world differently as we grow. I see him thinking about Johnny and Brett. Wondering if weâll have the same fate.
âYou know me.â I remind him, then. I squeeze his hands three times, I remind him how much I love him. Iâm afraid Iâll never stop. âAnd Iâll never forget you.â My hand leaves his to brush the hair out of his face. I let my palm rest against his wet cheek selfishly.
âHow can you be certain?â His weight rested in the palm of my hand, skin being molded under the soft motion of my thumb against his cheek.
I paused, biting my tongue. I knew the answer, but I couldnât find the words right away.
âWhen weâre old and have to leave the earth, Iâll still remember all Iâve learned. From you.â I felt him smile. His eyes scrunched up delicately, knocking the stray tears away from his eyes. They pooled around my hand. I let them lay. Still.
âI love you, always know that.â I reassured him, my gaze locked in his eyes. Stuck.
âI love you too. And I know, I know you.â Summer would always be summer as long as I had Conrad, and I knew he felt the same.
I knew him like no other. It was a scary reality, trusting someone with something so delicate, so special. But when that anxiety takes over I get to remind myself that its only Conrad. The boy who tossed a football over the fence and taught me how to be a kid.
I wonder if he threw it over on purpose.
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