Mackie

Dontcha just wanna grab…

and shake him????

"Yes," Remus gasped, slapping his hands on the hospital reception desk. "I'm his husband. Remus Lupin."

Behind him, James and Peter slammed to a halt.

"His what?" James choked out.

Remus didn't even look back, already taking the visitor pass from the nurse. "Thank you. Room four?"

"Down the hall to the left," she smiled.

Remus started walking fast. James jogged to catch up, grabbing his elbow. "Remus… husband? What the fuck? Did I miss something?"

"They only let spouses in before noon," Remus said, not breaking his stride. "We updated each other's emergency files last year."

"You… you committed medical fraud?"

"It's not fraud, it's…. Look, it just makes things easier."

"Right. Of course," Peter muttered to James. "Of fucking course.”

They found Sirius sitting on the edge of a hospital bed, his arm strapped into a sling. He lit up the second he saw them.

"Moony!" Sirius whined, reaching his good hand out. "They took my jacket. You have to track it down before they ruin it."

Remus immediately stepped right between Sirius's knees, automatically reaching out to adjust the strap of the sling so it stopped rubbing against Sirius's neck. "I'll find it. Are you in pain?"

"Just my pride," Sirius mumbled. He leaned his chin against Remus’s stomach and closed his eyes with a content sigh.

James stared at them. He looked at Remus, whose hands were currently busy gently checking the back of Sirius's head for bumps, and then at Sirius, who was nuzzling into Remus's jumper like a touch-starved kitten.

"So," James said loudly, clearing his throat. "Sirius. Remus just informed me that you two are legally wed."

"It’s easy, Prongs," Sirius answered without opening his eyes. "Spouses get a lot of privileges. It's a purely administrative marriage."

"Administrative," James repeated flatly.

"It’s a simple matter of logistics," Remus corrected simply, right as he leaned down and pressed a kiss into Sirius's hair.

Peter buried his face in his hands, looking disgusted by the sight. "They're going to adopt a child next week and claim it was just easier than getting a dog."

There was a boy playing with his band, Steve doesn’t remember their name, but he remembers watching this kid play his guitar. It was like he was the only person in the entire universe. He kept whipping and shaking his head. Steve is sure that if his hair wasn’t buzzed, it’d be wild and big.

He knows the kid gets picked on, it’s because he stands out. But he doesn’t seem sorry for standing out, he wears it like a badge of honor. It makes Steve’s cheeks burn with jealousy.

They’re burning now just thinking about it, so he pushes his face into the pillow he’s holding. Steve has never felt like this about anyone in his life. He knows it’s not possible though, because the kid on stage was a boy, and Steve is a boy. He’s supposed to like girls.

But as he lays awake in his room, late in the night, he thinks about holding that boys hand. He thinks about touching his buzzed hair. He thinks about standing in the boys space.

Even worse, he thinks about taking up space. He thinks about meeting the boys family, he wonders if he has any siblings. He thinks about meeting his friends. He thinks about going to the movies, and secretly holding his hand in the dark.

But, of course, none of this happens. Steve can’t like boys.

Instead, he loses his virginity as a freshman at an upperclassman’s party. He gets popular. He gets a reputation. He gets girls.

He doesn’t get Eddie “The Freak” Munson because he’s King Steve “The Hair” Harrington.

Eddie hisses when the antiseptic hits the gash on his forearm. “Jesus— ow, ow, nurse Harrington, careful—”

“Quit squirming or I’ll make it worse,” Steve mutters but he’s already easing up and blowing on the cut like that’ll actually help. Somehow for Eddie it does. Eddie watches him work. Steve’s brow is furrowed, lip caught between his teeth in concentration. There’s a bruise blooming on Steve’s own jaw that he’s completely ignoring.

Steve shifts to check Eddie’s ribs and fingers ghosting over a nasty purple splotch. He lingers and Eddie’s mouth runs before his brain can stop it “You gonna kiss it better, big boy?”

It’s meant as a joke. Deflection. His usual armor. But Steve doesn’t laugh. He doesn’t roll his eyes. He just looks up through his lashes, and his voice goes quiet.

“Would that help?”

Eddie’s brain short circuits right there All the smartass replies die in his throat.

“Steve—”

Steve’s thumb brushes the unbruised skin just beside the bruise, careful as ever . “‘Cause I would. If you asked me too.”

Steve: Tell them that I don't know how to roll a joint so they'll do it for me and I can spend a few extra minutes with them

Eddie: Craziest thing I've ever done is throw myself in lover's lake to save- wait, why are you having me roll joints for you when you could ask your crush?

The reliable narrator:

"Scarily obsessed with Shane Hollander?" Cliff chimes in " Yeah, we're all a little worried he moved to Canada to stalk the man."

Everyone at the table gives a half hearted laugh at the "joke".

Ilya comes back, not even smelling like cigarettes smoke and the first thing he says is "Did you see the deke Hollander pulled against the Admirals goalie tonight." and no they had not seen it because they had all, Ilya included, been playing hockey at the time. Which means that from their perspective he had just been outside looking at Hollanders highlights for 30 minutes and suddenly everyone at the table is just a little less convinced. Like Cliff was just joking.

Probably.

Rozanov was almost definitely not stalking Shane Hollander.