Mae - 21

“Maybe I just don’t like making out,” you sounded defeated and Steve hated it, frowning as he watched you chew your candy mournfully, your back pressed to the side of his unmade bed. “That’s normal, right? Like, some people just don’t like things like that and—”

“Hey, hey,” Steve knocked his foot against yours, legs stretched out across his bedroom floor. The pack of playing cards had been abandoned beside some unopened twizzlers and Steve’s can of cherry soda. “Look, of course that’s normal. And— and if that’s how you feel, that’s totally okay, alright?”

The boy hesitated, worried his bottom lip between his teeth and wondered if he should keep talking. You watched him, brows raised expectantly. 

“I just think—” Steve cleared his throat, his pointer finger dragging patterned across his carpet. He shrugged, all faux nonchalance. He didn’t want to sound like a creep, not to his best friend. Not to you. “I just think that maybe you’ve not had a good kiss, y’know?”

You didn’t answer, not right away. And Steve didn’t try and backtrack, or explain himself, he just waited, watching you think. His bedroom window was open, the sounds of the early evening slipping through. Someone’s backyard pool filter, their sprinklers out the front, the quiet spin of a kids bike going down the sidewalk.  

You didn’t look at Steve when you finally asked, “well, what is a good kiss?”

You felt stupid, asking such a thing at your age but maybe you’d grown up picking all the wrong kinds of guys. Impatient boys, greedy boys, selfish boys. Boys who turned into men who didn’t have the time of day to take it slow with a girl like you. Boys who thought they were men, who used too much teeth and tongue and pressure and tasted like cheap party beer and the leftover smoke of their cigarette. 

Guys who got too handsy too quick, guys who didn’t care that when they pulled away from your lips, you swiped the back of your hand over your mouth and tried not to frown. 

Steve shifted a little, cheeks turning pink as his eyes found yours. “Well,” he gestured at you, awkward. His gaze settled on your lips before he blinked and looked away. “I mean, it helps when you really like the person, y’know? The uh, the chemistry of it all.”

You swallowed, throat feeling tight, chest feeling too warm. You remember Nancy talking about those kinds of feelings when she first kissed Jonathan, a dopey, soft smile on her lips as she recounted it, telling you of the buzz under her skin, the flips that her stomach did when he leaned in to meet her, eyes closing. 

“Sure,” you agreed. You don’t think you’d ever felt that way about the boys you had kissed. “Right.”  

“But I guess you’re supposed to take your time with it? I mean, at first, when you’re getting to know someone.” Steve smiled, soft, reassuring. His knee knocked yours. “You find out what they like.”

“What they like?” You asked, voice cracking a little. You didn’t know where to look, what to do with your hands. You picked up a green sour patch and bit its leg. “What does that mean?”

Steve looked bashful, miles apart from the boy you’d know in high school, with a girl on his arm in the hallways, a different one in his lap at a party that weekend. 

“I’d, uh, I mean— person A would go slow with person B, right? They’d start soft. Gentle, I guess? You gotta— they’d have to figure out how the other person likes to be kissed. Not everyone shoves their tongue down your throat, y’know.”

You huffed out a laugh but it sounded weak, too breathy. You wanted the boy to keep talking, you wanted to watch his pink cheeks and his pretty eyes dart across your face, like he was searching for something. 

You wondered if he’d find it. 

“Not everyone?” You whispered. 

“No,” Steve shook his head, his smile wry. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees and he was closer now, closer than before and you could smell his cologne, the cherry soda fizz that hung in the air along with Mr Jackson’s freshly mown grass. “No, no, not everyone. I’d give the girl a peck at first, yeah? Just something PG-13. Then, when she relaxes and you know, she moves closer, kisses me back, I’d—”

Steve broke off, blinking like he was getting rid of something hazy. He’d been looking at you as he spoke, words coming too easy, the air between you both warm despite the setting sun. He licked his lips, suddenly nervous, awkward again, a bashful thing that made him suddenly even more endearing than you thought he ever could be. 

“You’d what, Steve?” You blinked, feeling warm, wondering if the boy could tell. You didn’t know what to do so you moved, leaning forward until you could fold your legs underneath yourself and your thigh bumped Steve’s shin. “You’d what?”

Steve’s eyes searched yours, his gaze falling to your lips and back again. You thought he found it then, that thing he seemed to be looking for. Because he cleared his throat and let one hand fall to the carpet between you, his fingers brushing over your socked toes and you almost jumped at the contact. 

The silence was too loud now. 

“I could show you, if you wanted.”

Someone’s lawn mower started up a few yards over, white noise buzzing in the distance as you tried to take in what Steve had just said. He was watching you, head tilted to the side, cheeks still rosy and when you looked at him carefully, you could see the barely concealed panic in his brown eyes. 

He pressed his lips together and tried to smile, tight and nervous and he was picking at the carpet, fingers fidgeting as you sat there dumbly. You heard the shake in his voice when he tried to say, “I am—,” he choked on his words, panicked. “—so, so sorry, I shouldn’t have—”

“Steve,” you stopped the boy with a hand on his shin, your warm palm against the denim. “We’re friends, right?”

The word seemed to burn on your tongue, like it tasted like a lie, like it was as dangerous as one. You waited, breath held, wondering if you wanted Steve to agree or not. 

“Yeah,” he nodded, suddenly so serious. “Yeah, yeah, ‘course we are.” He worried at his bottom lip again, looking at your own. “Best friends.”

You nodded, tongue feeling too big for your mouth to speak. Words felt clumsy, your skin too warm. Buzzing. Fizzing. You weren’t sure if it was you or the air. 

“Show me.”

You thought Steve would maybe hesitate, maybe he’d back out or shout, ‘got you!’ like those prank shows Dustin liked to watch. You thought he’d maybe lay down some rules, maybe he’d tell you how this didn’t mean anything and really, he was only doing his sad friend a favour. 

He didn’t do any of that. In fact he didn’t say anything else at all. Steve just let out a breath and nodded once, almost to himself before he let his hand curl around the back of your calf and he tugged, gentle. 

He lifted his chin, a casual ‘c’mere’ that had your heart thundering and you wondered if this confidence, this way of acting so sure of himself, was how he got all the girls. 

A quiet sort of assertiveness that made your stomach flip inside out. 

You unfurled yourself from your sitting position, shuffling to your knees as you moved across Steve’s bedroom floor, bare shins burning against the carpet. You leaned back on your heels, brought yourself down to Steve’s level where he sat against his wall, legs stretched out before him. 

He didn’t warn you when he brought his hand to your face, fingers cupping your cheek and his thumb brushed the corner of your mouth and you were suddenly left wondering when Steve’s hands had gotten so big. You’d watched him grow, from a middle school kid to king Steve the senior. You’d seen the new muscles, the height, the hair. You’d never noticed his hands before but now they were on you, it’s all you could think about.

Dizzy. You felt dizzy. 

“Okay?” Was all he asked, voice softer and quieter now he was so much closer. 

You nodded, face too warm and licking across your bottom lip like a reflex. You weren’t sure where to look. Or where to put your hands. Most kisses you’d shared had happened in the crowds at parties or in the front seat of a boy’s car after a date. You usually lay your palms on their shoulders, holding on and wondering if every boy took these opportunities to grope your ass like a pile of dough. 

“We can stop,” Steve told you. He looked nervous and if anything, it made you feel more anxious than ever. “Whenever you want, ‘kay?” 

You nodded again, unable to really speak, too scared that your voice would crack or something equally stupid would happen. And maybe Steve knew this, maybe he knew you so much better than you ever thought he would, because he smiled and nodded too. 

“Okay,” he announced, quiet and soft and he was moving closer, noses bumping, his eyes fluttering shut. “Here goes.”

“Wait.”

Steve paused, gaze back on your own and he looked concerned, he looked worried and before he could ask you what was wrong you were sucking in a panicked breath and asking: “what if I’m the bad kisser?”

“What?” Steve let out a laugh, breathy and disbelieving and he was still so close, his hand on your jaw and his thumb rubbing absentmindedly over the apple of your cheek. He was shaking his head, smiling, looking too pretty and suddenly this seemed like a monumental thing, something gargantuan. “No, there’s no way.”

You squirmed on the floor, shifting further and then closer and Steve loosened his hold on you but you didn’t go anywhere. You just blinked at him, pained with worry. “How could you know?”

Steve paused as he thought and you wondered if he had an answer, if he was going to say something truthful or he was simply thinking of something sweet to say to placate you. Instead, he looked into your eyes and seemed to search for that… thing, again. 

I— I just—” Steve didn’t say anything, he didn’t give you an explanation or a reason. 

He simply pressed his lips to yours. 

It was chaste and sweet and entirely innocent, lips closed and nothing close to scandalous. But then he parted from you just a breath, looking at you from heavy lidded eyes, watching you from beneath his lashes. And when you didn’t move, you didn’t panic, Steve leaned in again, kissing you the same way until he nudged your chin up with his hand and his lips slotted between your own. 

He moved slowly, carefully, with a practised ease that made your toes curl and it was still sweet, it made your tummy warm and your head spin and Steve’s lips were soft, tasting like cherry soda and sugar. 

You caught up after a beat or two, your hand that wasn’t braced on the floor reaching up to cling to where you could reach. Your fingers found the collar of Steve’s t-shirt, fisting the soft material and doing everything to make sure he didn’t move away. You moved with him, lips meeting and parting over and over until Steve sucked in a breath and tilted his head to the other side, pressing closer, a little deeper. 

After another soft peck, he pulled away, eyes still closed and his thumb on your chin as he whispered, voice hoarse. “See? Nothin’ to worry about.” He brushed your hair behind your ear, pressed his fingers under your jaw. “And now, a guy should be testing the waters, right?”

“They should?” You whispered back. Your eyes were still closed too, your fingers sneaking up past Steve’s collar to stroke at the skin at the base of his throat, experimental, adventurous. “How’d they do that?”

You were sure you felt the boy smile, sensed it. A warm breath across your lips as he moved closer again. “Like this—” 

Another kiss, the same as before, once, twice and then Steve was parting his mouth over your own and letting the tip of his tongue lick over your bottom lip. It was a fleeting touch, a zap, a buzz, a tingle down your spine and you gasped without thinking about it, lips parting for the boy and you followed suit, tongue moving past Steve’s lips to meet his own. 

He groaned then, a vibration against you, his hand skating back from your cheek to thread into your hair and he let his tongue move over your own, lips clicking every time they parted. It was slower than you’d been kissed before, something sensual about it despite being sat on your best friend’s bedroom floor and it made your insides somersault, the skin where Steve slouched burning. 

“Told you,” he murmured, breath heavy as he spoke. “Nothing to worry about,” he repeated and when you finally opened your eyes to look at him, face blazing with heat, Steve was looking at you like he didn’t know what to do with himself. 

“Mhmm,” you agreed, barely listening, eyes still on the boy’s mouth, fingering the collar of his shirt, not ready to let go yet. “You must be a good teacher, or something.”

Steve looked distracted, Adam’s apple bobbing, gaze on your lips too. You weren’t sure he had stopped looking at them. “Yeah, yeah. Or something.” He swallowed, throat tight. “Do you wanna stop? Or—?”

“No,” you said, maybe too quickly. “Do you?”

“God, no,” Steve agreed just as fast. “You can keep going— just— what do you want…?”

Steve’s words died on his lips as you moved suddenly, rising to your knees only to push Steve back to the wall. His hands fell to his sides, hovering in mid air as he stared, watching as you swung a leg over his knees and sat carefully on his lap. You were cautious, more on his thighs that closer to anything else but you tried to breathe evenly as you took in the position. 

“Okay?” You asked him, voice caught sticky in your throat with nerves but Steve nodded, head bobbing hurriedly. You sucked in a breath, smoothing your hands over Steve’s shoulders before you did as he had, smoothing them up the sides of his neck and holding his jaw carefully. “What do I do now?”

‘Whatever you want,’ Steve wanted to beg. But apparently this was a lesson of sorts and he  had something to teach you. So he cleared his throat to make sure his voice wouldn’t crack and held your hips, hands gentle and polite. “You, uh, you find out what I like.”

You nails scratched at the back of his neck, unconsciously. You licked your lips. “How do I do that?”

Steve’s hands flexed on your hips, climbing to your waist, holding you a little tighter. Something seemed to shift then, his eyes lighting up. He looked like he was ready to fight, like you’d asked him if he were up for a challenge. It made you grin. 

“Kiss me.”

 So you did. 

You did as Steve had at the start, kissing him soft and slow and chaste, pulling away before he could catch you, teasing, nose bumping his and breaths mixing, cherry soda to fizzy candy. And just before Steve was about to groan, frustrated, you shifted closer, chest pressed to his and you parted your lips, catching his bottom lip between your own. 

It was a greedier kiss and Steve let his head fall back against the wall with a dull thunk, opening his mouth for you, nails digging into your sides when you licked over his tongue, exploratory, gentle. You felt him nod, the tip of his nose smushed to your cheek and you smiled, amused at his praise. 

“Like that?” You asked, breathless, barley parting from him to speak. 

“Yeah, like that,” Steve agreed, sounding just as wrecked. “Keep going, please.”

He didn’t have to ask again. Fuck, he didn’t even have to ask as nicely as he did because you were back on him in a heartbeat, kissing your best friend like you didn’t want him to remember anyone else. 

“Slower,” he whispered, muttering instructions against your mouth and you didn’t feel scolded, you didn’t feel embarrassed you just followed Steve’s instructions, pulling back slightly to kiss him softer, lips moving with his slower, slower, slower. 

You heard him groan, felt his chest rumble and his hands squeeze at you in silent praise and you knew then he liked it like that, liked to be teased. You nosed at his cheek, did as he had done and pushed your thumb under his jaw to bring his mouth up to yours, his head tipping back, back, back. You pecked over his cheeks then, over the bridge of his nose and at the corner of his lips until he was panting, waiting for you. 

“Yeah?” Was all you asked. 

“Yeah,” he hummed, feeling like he was vibrating. He let his eyes shutter closed, waiting for your next touch. “Yeah.”

You felt bolder, brazen, pushing your lips back to Steve’s and when you pulled away this time, you nipped at the boy’s bottom lip, pulling at it gently with your teeth and until it popped softly back into place and Steve swore, he cursed, he grunted and his hips shifted under yours. 

“You like that,” you noted with a smile and it wasn’t a question. 

Steve didn’t speak, he couldn’t. Instead he stared up at you and nodded, dazed, throat bobbing as he swallowed tightly and tried to get himself under control. 

You moved into each other again without discussion, an unconscious need that didn’t need a conversation. Your hands went to his hair, holding onto the messy ends at the nape of his neck as his travelled the expanse of your back, fingertips lifting the hem of your shirt every downstroke, his skin on yours. It was enough for you to make soft noises against him, nudging closer and Steve helped, his hands pulling at your waist until your chest pressed against his and were seated over his crotch. 

You felt him then, hard and pressed underneath his jeans and it made you kiss him like you had something to prove, mouths moving together, open and panting, tongues touching teasingly, teeth grazing against lips to try and make the other moan louder. 

And when Steve’s garage door opened, a groaning, grating sound below his window, it was an interruption that told you both his father had arrived home. 

You slid from his lap, chest heaving and eyes heavy on Steve’s pink cheeks. His lips were shiny from your work, his hands leaving your waist at the very last second, your butt hitting his carpet rather ungracefully as you backed away, suddenly so aware of the line that had been crossed. 

You were burning still, an ache between your legs that hadn’t quite been satisfied and your lips buzzed from Steve’s kisses, the slow, careful way he’d pressed his to your own. He’d paid attention, you realised, picked up on every noise you made, every shift against him, the way you kissed him back eagerly when he did something you liked. And you’d done the same, taking in his gasps and sighs, stomach flipping when his hips bucked and his chest moved a little quicker than before. 

Your fingers touched your bottom lip before you pressed the back of your hand to it, as if to hide the evidence. Steve was still staring at you, panting, doing nothing to hide the obvious bulge in his jeans. 

And when his front door opened and closed and you could hear his fathers footsteps lead into his office, Steve stayed quiet. Only when the sound of the door clicking shut filled the silent house did he smile, boyish and all charm.

Snow was droning on and on, giving a speech about something you couldn’t care less about. It was all lies, anyway, and you were only gonna end up in some rich man’s bed tonight, so you’d prefer to go through that interaction as drunk as you could be. With that thought, you downed the rest of your flute.

“Ah, careful, Princess.” Before you even saw the person, you knew it was him. His voice was so easily recognizable, even though you had never met, not even after living in the same district, then the Victors’ Village, or even at these little Capitol parties. 

Finnick.

You turned, a faux smile on your face that he fully reciprocated. “Snow wouldn’t want the Capitol’s pride and joy to be under the influence,” he said, teasing but with an undertone that put you off.

You didn’t give a damn what Snow thought, but you weren’t gonna say that, especially not in his own home. Instead, you gave him the smile you gave the rest of Panem and directed the topic of conversation away from the President. “I won my Games, Finnick. Trust me, I’m not a lightweight.” Oh, but you wish you were. You wish you could get so drunk that you’d forget who you were entirely.

A part of you felt bad: twenty-three other people died while you walked out of the arena, and yet you wanted nothing more than for your life to end. A part of you wondered if the great Finnick Odair ever felt this way, either, but it wouldn’t be good small talk to ask.

Finnick’s grin only widened. “Pleasure to meet you, Y/N.”

Your eyes just so imperceptibly narrowed. “Likewise.”

He started to walk away, but he suddenly paused like he forgot something, leaning closer to you. Your breath got caught in your throat when you felt his on your neck. Your eyes locked, and all of a sudden, you wondered how it was possible that you never noticed how beautiful his eyes were. 

“May the odds be ever in your favour, darling,” he whispered, and then he walked away without giving you another glance.

That night, Finnick didn’t leave your mind. It wasn’t until there was a resident of the Capitol lying on top of you that you stopped thinking about him. When you were in that position, you stopped thinking about everything, really.

When you walked out of your hotel room, done with your little job, Finnick was brought back to the forefront of your mind as your eyes met his. He looked like he was in the same state as you, also having been leaving a room. He looked surprised to see you.

You stared at him for a moment, but then you let yourself disappear down the hallway before he could say anything.

You knew what that meant; you knew it wasn’t his own room that he was leaving. When you got to your own room, you realized you were much more alike than you thought. You supposed that you couldn’t be surprised; Finnick was desirable, so of course Snow would put him up for sale.

You were in the exact same boat.

Since that night, you saw him in a different light.

You two didn’t talk when you got back home, no, but at your next Capitol event, you decided that you’d refuse to leave him alone, to leave someone who was going through the same thing as you to their own devices. That’s what you told yourself, but deep down, you just didn’t want to suffer in silence, either.

So you went and found him after a night with another Capitol pig. Standing outside, hands in his pockets, he looked so calm, but you saw a storm brewing in his eyes that only few could ever decipher.

You went and stood next to him, even though it was freezing cold out. He glanced over at you, and then his face became surprised, not surprise at you being there, but at you being there with him. Neither of you said anything; it was either that you were too afraid of a jabberjay overhearing or of yourselves. You just stood there in a comfortable silence.

You’d learn that, with Finnick, sometimes doing nothing could mean everything.

The two of you went on to do this every time you were there until, slowly, you graduated from just silence to holding each other. Oh, Finnick Odair was a cocky asshole, but when you were in the Capitol, he wasn’t him and you weren’t you. You were just two people that needed comfort, and that was enough.

You still didn’t talk, though, and when you were at home, you didn’t communicate at all. That was why you were surprised when you answered your door to see him standing on the other side.

Finnick went back to being Finnick, striding into your home without so much as an invitation. This caused you to roll your eyes, but they suddenly widened at his words. “Caesar Flickerman is on TV, saying that we’re dating.”

If you were drinking something, you would’ve spit it out. “What?” An incredulous look was painted onto your face.

Finnick, on the other hand, was a little more stoic, not exactly the charmer he was on television or in Capitol balls, but you could easily guess why—and if you hadn’t, then he was gonna tell you, anyways. “You know what this means.” He looked you in the eye, jaw clenched. “Two of Snow’s best—the Prince and Princess of Panem—dating? It’s the last thing he wants.”

“Finnick-”

“No, he won’t be able to sell us if we’re together, and if he can’t sell us, then he’ll start killing the people we love.” This was the first time either of you were even acknowledging the situation you were in.

You felt stung for some reason, even though you didn’t love Finnick—and he didn’t love you. But, deep down, no matter how much you tried to repress it, you knew there was something between you, so hearing him speak to you this way, like you were just nothing, hurt.

However, you got over your feelings quickly, the same way you always had. You moved your thoughts away from your heart and started thinking with your head. You were quiet for a second until you let out a soft gasp, like a light bulb went off in your head.

This time, you made eye contact with Finnick effortlessly. “What if this is exactly what we need?” You asked, a glint in your eye that he hadn’t seen before.

The blond scoffed. “I don’t see how our families dying is exactly what we need, Y/N.”

“No- no, Finnick, you already said it.” You grabbed onto his shoulders. “The Capitol- hell, everyone already thinks we’re the Prince and Princess of Panem. If we give them what they want, then- then we’d be unstoppable.” You paused to let him weigh in, but he only stared heavily at you, not a trace of what he was thinking on display, so you continued, “Snow and all of those Capitol motherfuckers will eat this shit up, Finnick. And then we’ll be free.”

You were trying not to show any emotion, either, but you couldn’t help it. At the mere thought of freedom, something you never thought was possible, you felt so many different things at once. While you were holding your feelings on your sleeve, Finnick was less easy to read.

But, in seconds, you knew exactly how he felt.

“We will never be free, Y/N.”

He walked out after that, leaving you alone in your living room. He’d never know it, but you stayed in that same spot for three hours, staring at where he once stood. His words had awakened something in you, the part of yourself that’d been thrown into the Hunger Games at only fifteen-years-old. 

At the time, you thought you were going to die. You were hopeless, but after you won, you realized there was hope after all. You could still make it. Even as Snow allowed your body to be violated, your mind to deteriorate, you still had hope. But Finnick’s words brought back that frightened little girl in you that you thought died.

You’d later realize just how lucky you were that he buried her again. He came back and told you that he’d do it, and as easily as he brought that little girl back to life, he drowned her.

It wasn’t easy at first, pretending to be in love. You didn’t know the first thing about it, but Finnick helped you as if he’d been doing it all his life.

“C’mon, Y/N, it’s gonna be fine-”

“No, it’s not gonna be fine. Caesar’s gonna call us out immediately- and if he doesn’t, then Snow will-”

“Y/N.” Finnick cut off your nervous ramblings with a stern calling of your name. Even him saying your name was still weird to you. You weren’t used to so much conversation with the victor, but now you were gonna have to pretend to love him. “We’re gonna be fine.”

You weren’t convinced, and he saw that with the twitching of your fingers. You knew Finnick was a great actor, and normally you were, too, but this situation was unlike any other that you’d ever been in. It was foreign territory for you.

“Look,” he grabbed onto your hand, “whenever you get nervous up there, you just hold my hand, alright? You’re not alone in this, okay? I’m right here.”

If you didn’t know any better, you’d say your heart skipped a beat. If you didn’t know any better, you’d even say you felt a spark when his skin met yours.

For a second, you pretended that you weren’t pretending. You pretended that you were holding hands because you were two kids in love, not because you had to survive. You pretended you were never in The Games, that you never killed so ruthlessly just to live without truly living. You pretended that you weren’t you, and Finnick wasn’t Finnick, and you were holding hands just because, not because you were about to go on TV and lie.

But that second ended far too quickly as you pulled your hand out of his grasp, nodding. “Okay,” you took a deep breath, repeating his words to yourself, “we’re gonna be okay.”

“Of course, we are. Now tell me again how we met.”

When the time came for the actual interview, you never let Finnick’s hand go.

The experience became more familiar to you as you went on. It was the same as any other show you’d put on for the Capitol. When you were younger, you dreamed of being a storyteller.

Now, you told stories of a life of yours that’d never existed.

Finnick and you were thrusted into the public eye, reciting the same stories day after day. It almost felt like it was actually real, and sometimes, you wished it was.

He’d look at you with a look of love in his eyes in front of all of the cameras, touching you tenderly. Oh, he was a wonderful liar. He even made you believe it for a second, too. But you knew that no such thing would ever happen.

Finnick Odair would never fall for a girl like you. Even if you were slowly falling for him.

During nights alone, you’d marvel at the turn of events. Finnick was once a man that you hated, but now look at you. You didn’t even know if you were faking it anymore. But it is fake, you’d remind yourself. He doesn’t love you, and you won’t love him.

You weren’t gonna let yourself love him. Truth be told, you were never gonna let yourself love anybody in the first place. Loving someone only made a new liability, a new weakness for the Capitol to exploit, but you could not love Finnick.

You’d been through a lot; your heart had taken many blows and survived, but you knew loving Finnick would only one day break it into a million little pieces. Still, it’s not like he made it easy.

You were lying in your bed- your shared bed with Finnick. Since announcing that you were dating, you moved in with him. You both decided it’d be easier to hide it all that way, easier for the public to believe, too. Sharing a bed was his idea—“just in case,” he’d said.

You wanted to object, but what would you even tell him? That you were afraid of falling in love with him? You would never even put the mere idea into his head. So you went along with it.

It was funny, though: you never went to bed alone, but that’s still how it felt. Being next to him, under the covers… it didn’t make you as warm as you hoped it would.

He didn’t live with anyone else. From what you gathered, Mags, your shared mentor, was his only family. His parents died of sickness early on; Mags took him in and kept him alive, all the way up until he was sent to The Games. Finnick didn’t get sappy with you often, but you knew that he couldn’t lose her.

What he was doing for Snow, he was doing for Mags. You thought Mags was the only person he cared about, but you learned that this wasn’t true. There was one other person who he was close to, who he’d do anything to keep safe. That person was Annie Cresta.

You met her once. She was beautiful and sweet, so you understood immediately why Finnick was in love with her. He never talked to you about her, but you could tell just from how he looked at her that she was the light of his life, even if she herself wasn’t aware of that.

Annie was good, the perfect girl for Finnick. She didn’t come with all the baggage you had, she wasn’t as rude, and she always knew what to say. You would’ve wanted them together, too, if it weren’t for the fact that Finnick was becoming your Annie. He was becoming your person, and so it killed you to know that not only was he in love with another girl, but he was also unhappy.

He’d never be happy with you. While you wished you could spare him the torment and just let him be with her, you had people you cared about, too, and he was now also on that list. So your job was to keep you all alive, not happy.

The door to your bedroom opened, interrupting your train of thought. You faced away from the entrance, but you knew it was Finnick. He had perfected soundless footsteps, even though you weren’t in an arena anymore. But you supposed you were still fighting for your lives, anyway.

He climbed into bed, letting out a big exhale when his back hit the mattress. You didn’t greet him, nor did he greet you, even though he knew you were awake. You’d gone through this whole song and dance already. You had to pretend in front of the cameras; you weren’t gonna do that in here, too.

The two of you were silent. This wasn’t a silence like before when you stood together in the Capitol after those horrible nights. This was a silence that was suffocating.

Things were never the same after you decided to go through with this charade. Maybe you were almost friends before, but now you were allies at most, just there to help the other survive. Oh, you wished you could be friends, but life was never so kind.

As if he could hear you begging for companionship, he whispered, “Y/N?”

Your breath hitched. “Yes?”

There was a beat of silence before his response. You wondered what his face looked like, but you wouldn’t dare turn around. “Can we- can we just be together tonight?”

Out of all the things he could’ve said, that didn’t even make your list. You sharply inhaled. Finnick didn’t sound like Finnick at all. He sounded small, and vulnerable, and scared, all states that he’d never let you see him in. But he was.

“What do you mean?” You didn’t turn around. “We are together.”

So unlike Finnick, he stammered, “No, I mean- can I- I want to hold you.”

If this were the dance you compared it to in your head, then you’d be stumbling over your own feet. He’d never asked about anything like that before. In fact, Finnick never even seemed to like you or this predicament much. Sure, you interested him, and maybe you were friends, but you knew that if he could’ve pick anyone else to dance this dance with, he would’ve.

You wondered what brought him to this point. Maybe it had something to do with Annie, but at that moment, you couldn’t bother thinking about it. He’d never know it, but you could never say no to him.

So you turned around and let him wrap his arm around you. But little did he know, you obliged not just to comfort him, but also yourself.

You’d fall asleep in Finnick’s arms every night after that. 

You’d always been so independent, so alone, that you forgot what it felt like to lean on someone, even if it was just for a little while in the dead of night. But when Finnick held you, sleep came easier and nightmares came less.

He had no idea that he became your knight in shining armour; he never meant to, but he did. Soon after you started “dating,” Snow left you alone. You still attended Capitol parties, still mentored kids every year, but you no longer found yourself in bed with members of Snow’s cabinet, and neither did Finnick.

It was easier once it stopped, but you still had to grapple with the pain of what had already happened to you; all of this didn’t even take into account The Games. Sure, you were done, but you still had to come back once a year and prepare a kid to kill or be killed. Nothing dredged up old memories like that did.

Doing it with him was what got you through it. When you lost a kid, Finnick was there to hold you and reassure you and himself that it wasn’t your fault, that you couldn’t have done much more to stop it. At times like those especially, you had to reel yourself in and remind yourself that, yes, he cared for you, but he wasn’t in love with you.

There were times that every bone in your body told you the exact opposite, that Finnick’s actions told you the exact opposite. Sometimes, he’d kiss you for the cameras and made you fall for it, too.

God, you were a team, such a great team. Would it be so horrible of you to assume you could be more?

You’d later realize that, yes, it was.

Because at the reaping for the 70th Hunger Games, Annie Cresta’s name was called and your little fantasy of a relationship with Finnick was shattered to pieces.

His usually calm demeanour was broken as he ran toward her as soon as you both got on the train, engulfing her in a hug and soothing her while she sobbed. You just watched from the sidelines, a frown on your face. You wished you were frowning because your dear friend Annie was just chosen to be in a fight to the death, but you were frowning because Finnick had never hugged you like that.

There were no cameras here; this wasn’t for show. He never looked at you like that when there weren’t any cameras around.

You felt like you were intruding on a private moment, even though you were just standing there, even though you were supposed to be his girlfriend, not Annie. A girlfriend would’ve probably cleared her throat, interrupted the interaction, but you couldn’t find the courage to do that.

Instead, you waited for the moment to end and walked over to her yourself when Finnick stepped away, giving her a tight hug as if she hadn’t just brought you to the brink of tears. But that didn’t matter. Annie could possibly die, so your little feelings for Finnick were pretty insignificant at the moment.

You tossed those very feelings to the side, directing all your attention to preparing your tribute. Finnick was trying to explain everything, but he was too worried, so you took over for him, pushing forth all your efforts while he focused on the boy that’d been reaped from your district.

You always tried your best with the tributes, always, but this wasn’t just any tribute. This was Annie Cresta, your friend and the love of Finnick’s life. You needed her to make it out of this alive—Finnick wouldn’t survive without her.

You gave her every piece of advice you could think of during that trip, digging through your memory for things you might’ve even forgotten. You wished you could help the boy in the same way, but there could only be one victor in these Games, and it had to be her.

Remember that these are games, Annie. Don’t worry about the killing once you’re in the arena; you need to treat it like a game, like the other tributes are just pieces that need to be knocked off the board, you told her. You hated every word that came out of your mouth, but she needed to hear it. She needed to overcome the shock now so she didn’t get choked up during the actual Games like you did.

When the time finally came for you to send the tributes off into the arena, you hugged yourself, taking deep breaths to try and calm down. You imagined that it was Finnick’s arms that were around you, but you weren’t gonna ask him to comfort you. He was the one that needed comforting, but you knew he wouldn’t accept it, so you didn’t offer.

Instead, you worked your ass off to get Annie sponsors, to get people to like her as if they didn’t already. You didn’t sleep for days, and neither did Finnick until he accidentally fell asleep for a few hours one day.

You both watched as she took the tips you’d given her, using them in her own way. She was small, but she was smart and she picked up on how to play the game quickly.

Only when the last tribute was dead did a sigh of relief finally leave you. Your shoulders slumped as you sat in front of the TV. Finnick’s muttering fell upon deaf ears as static filled your brain. She made it, you thought. She’s okay.

But that didn’t make life any more okay.

After all, nobody ever really won The Games.

“Annie- Annie, it’s alright-” 

“No, it’s not!” You heard something break, like it had thrown it to the ground. When you walked further into your house, your guess was proven right. Finnick and Annie stood in your living room, the former worried and the latter frantic, pieces of a broken vase all over the ground.

“Nothing is okay, Finn! Nothing! Do you hear me- nothing is okay!” The redhead was pacing around with your so called boyfriend trying to stop and calm her down. They were both so panicked that neither of them noticed you, and you didn’t announce your presence, either.

You only stood from the side, just like on that Capitol train. The Annie that went into that arena was innocent. She was eighteen, but she was still more of a child than either of you ever got the chance to be. Now that she won, she didn’t look so innocent anymore.

She wore a look that was so familiar to you. She was alive, but Annie had never looked more like a ghost of herself.

“Annie, please-” Finnick’s voice cracked mid-sentence. He kept trying to get close to her, but she moved away every time. The tears in his eyes made yours watery, too. You had never seen him look so broken, not even as you stood in the Capitol together those cold nights after being used.

If you weren’t sure of how much Finnick loved Annie, you were now.

“No, no, nothing is okay!” She screamed, tears streaming down her face. She suddenly stopped, letting out a sob before collapsing onto the ground. Finnick ran to her right away, pulling her close and rocking her as she repeated the same thing over and over.

You hadn’t even noticed you were crying until you felt the tear falling onto your cheek, wiping at it immediately and turning around to walk away as quietly as you possibly could. You weren’t gonna just stand by and do nothing while Annie fell apart and Finnick cut himself trying to put the pieces back together. You couldn’t.

You found yourself in the kitchen, putting a kettle on the stove to distract yourself. Your eyes zeroed in on it as you tried to block out the sound of Annie’s crying, trying not to cry yourself. At one point, you succeeded, because you couldn’t hear anything anymore.

You don’t know how long you stood there, but you were eventually broken out of your trance by a hand reaching out in front of you to turn off the stove, moving the kettle. It was only now that you realized how loudly it was whistling.

You turned to see the hand belonged to Finnick who now poured the hot water into your expensive tea cups. They were a gift given to you by a patron of the Capitol, an old man with kids and a wife. He was somewhat of a regular of yours, and so he gave you that tea set to try and make himself feel better for what he was doing, along with many other gifts.

You never told Finnick any of this. You wondered if he would so readily pull them out if he knew where they came from.

He wordlessly put the tea bags into the cups, sliding one over on the island to where you stood. Then he brought the cup to his lips, taking a sip of the scalding liquid like it was nothing. You ignored your disbelief and the rational part of your brain, picking the cup to do the same thing.

When the tea met your tongue, it burned, even as it went down your throat, but you still went back in for a second sip, anyway. This pain was able to distract you from all the thoughts bouncing around in your head, and so that made it feel like it was worth it. You wondered if this was Finnick’s logic, too.

You didn’t say anything for a long while, didn’t ask about Annie or where she went. You knew he must’ve known that you heard what happened, but he didn’t mention it, either. You assumed that she fell asleep.

You wished you could fall asleep so easily, too.

Your song kept playing as you both danced around the same topics, standing together silently as your world crumbled. You danced, and danced, and danced, until your tea cups were empty, but the song was still playing.

Finnick’s voice cut through the silence of your music effortlessly, even though he was still so quiet.

“Sometimes, I think she would’ve been better off if she died.” You slowly brought your head up to meet his eyes, but they were aimed at the cup in his hand. He looked nothing like the Prince of Panem, the charming man who always had something witty to say. No, he looked beaten down, just as lifeless as Annie. Maybe you looked as lifeless as you felt, too; maybe you were all so unaware of how broken you seemed.

You didn’t know what to say to his confession. So you didn’t say anything at all.

You’d never know where that conversation would’ve went, because in seconds, Finnick collected your cups, put them in the sink, and then he left you standing there.

His words from before echoed through your head. We will never be free, Y/N.

And maybe he was right.

Annie was back home, but she never really came back from that arena—none of you did. Hell, you were thrusted into a life you never wanted, a victor’s life, as soon as you were out. You thanked God that Annie wasn’t gonna have to go through what you did; the way she was spinning out made her undesirable. At least a good thing came out of her losing it.

Oh, you were starting to find a silver-lining with everything. You had to—otherwise, you’d lose it, just like Annie. You had to find some sort of good in this situation because, otherwise, what was the point?

Time supposedly healed all wounds, but you felt like you were still bleeding. You just learned to conceal it better than others.

Before The Games, you had friends. Now you really only talked to Finnick, and you two didn’t talk much, either. Every now and then, you’d see Annie and Mags, but they weren’t your people. And your family… well, how close could you be with them after what happened? You weren’t the same girl your mother raised.

She could barely even look at you anymore.

But you couldn’t think about any of this. If you did, you’d fall apart, and you couldn’t do that. You had a role to play, an image to protect—for your safety, for your family’s safety, for his safety.

You couldn’t afford to break down like that in your living room and throw things. You wanted to, so badly, but you didn’t have that luxury.

So your song kept playing, and you danced along with it.

Finnick’s walls went back up, too. His charisma was like a light bulb that briefly flickered, but it was back now. He was dancing, too. But, without even realizing it, you both held each other tighter at night, as if you were trying not to lose the other to the tornado that was your life.

However, when you woke up, you both pretended the tornado didn’t even exist.

Annie wasn’t one for pretending. Oh, she got wrapped up into the tornado the second she was declared a victor and there was no saving her anymore. Yes, she would’ve been better off dead, maybe you all would’ve been, but if you thought about this for too long, if you let the song stop, then you’d get caught in the cyclone, too.

You pretended for a year, attending Capitol galas with a smile on your face, getting interviewed right next to Finnick with his hand in yours, acting like you were the picture perfect couple. He spoke about you like he knew you like the back of his hand, but truth be told, he didn’t know you at all; he barely ever tried to. You didn’t blame him, though; it was hard to try to talk to someone when the music was so loud.

Then came the 71st Hunger Games, and you were mentors again. Meeting the tributes, it was almost like the music stopped- almost. The girl was quiet but angry, and she reminded you so much of yourself. The boy kept cracking jokes that she didn’t laugh at, jokes that were probably inappropriate for a time like this, but you knew he wasn’t doing it to be an ass. This was his way of coping.

He reminded you of Finnick.

Looking at these kids was like looking into a mirror. On the last day of training, he finally got a reaction out of her, made her smile with a faint blush on her cheeks. Oh, these kids should’ve been laughing together in the diner back home, not on their way to die.

They were too young and too innocent. It makes you wonder if things would’ve been different if you and Finnick had met before The Games. Would that have made soothed the heartbreak?

You didn’t know. But when you saw that boy crying as he held her in that arena, blood pouring onto him from her stab-wound, you knew that heartbreak was what he felt.

Too young. They were too young.

The boy died too. He didn’t even put up a fight.

These kids were just kids, and they died young.

Just like you and Finnick did.

You sat in your room at the Capitol, swirling your scotch around in your glass. It was a crystal glass so beautiful you knew it could’ve only been crafted by hand, but you didn’t want to admire it; you wanted to throw it at the wall.

Their names were Delta and Aalto. Aalto was the more talkative one; he said he dreamed of opening his own bakery one day, right in the middle of the district with food that everyone could afford and enjoy.

He’d never get to do that now.

And Delta- she didn’t know what she wanted out of life yet. She never got the chance to figure it out.

It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair at all.

The door to the room opened, making you look up from the liquor in your hand to see Finnick walking into the room. He looked defeated. Of course, he was better at hiding it than you were, but you knew how to read him better now, after all these years.

The bed dipped as he sat down next to you. You held your glass out, almost like a peace offering, and he took it without much thought, downing it in one go.

You sat there together the same way you had many times before, not saying a word. But this time felt different. It felt like there was something you were supposed to say. So you turned to look at Finnick, trying to see if he felt the same weight, only to see that he was already looking at you.

You could tell just by his eyes that he felt it, too. He opened his mouth, then closed it like he’d lost his train of thought. When you met him, you never thought you’d see the day when Finnick was speechless.

Look at how wrong you were.

You opened your mouth after a few seconds, wanting to articulate your feelings in some way, but Finnick’s lips slammed against yours before you get anything out. Without thinking, you kissed back; it felt like second-nature to you.

This wasn’t the first time you’d kissed, but he had never kissed you like this, so passionately, not a camera in sight. He was kissing you like you were air and he’d been holding his breath for so long, like you were the treasure he’d been searching for and he didn’t want to let go.

It felt like nothing you’d ever experienced.

When you eventually pulled away for air and opened your eyes, you were brought back to the real world. There was something you were supposed to say. But you quickly disregarded it, pulling him back in for another kiss before he could notice the way you were looking at him.

Yes, there was something you were supposed to say. But you couldn’t put it into words.

So you hoped that this kiss said everything that you couldn’t.

You were both grieving, and you were both there. And you knew that Finnick didn’t like you like that, so you weren’t gonna get your hopes up. This meant nothing, even if it felt like everything for you when it was happening.

He was the only person you’d ever done anything like this with before. You did things with those people Snow set you up with, but that didn’t count. You were doing this because you wanted to. You didn’t know if this was his first time or not, but you weren’t gonna ask. You did everything but talk for the rest of the night.

When you woke up, it was still dark out and Finnick was still asleep. You stared at him for a few seconds, his fluffy blond hair that you messed up, his swollen lips. He looked so peaceful like this; you couldn’t bear to wake him up and ruin that, bring him back to this nightmare.

So you got up as quietly as you could, wrapping yourself in a robe and closing the door to the bedroom, walking into the living room. The rooms the Capitol provided the victors were beautiful, but never beautiful enough to make you forget about the ugly reason that you were here.

You sat on the couch, exhaling and leaning back. You were gonna sit there in silence, but your song kept playing, and the record was skipping, and you were starting to get a headache, so you turned on the TV.

Without having to change the channel at all, you were immediately met with the news, Caesar Flickerman’s face on the flat screen. It wasn’t long before you realized why he was so excited: the Hunger Games were over. Someone won.

Caesar’s attitude made your mood go sour. He was behaving like twenty-three children weren’t just killed. It didn’t matter if they died of starvation, dehydration, an animal, or actually another tribute—it was all murder, and the Capitol was the perpetrator. It disgusted you that there were people who found enjoyment in watching these Games, Caesar Flickerman included. They’d pretend to be sympathetic, but at the end of the day, you were all just circus animals to them.

The victor’s face came onto the TV, and you immediately recognized her from the rankings. Johanna Mason. Caesar kept talking, explaining how Johanna had managed to cause so many people to be enamoured of her, and you suddenly felt sick.

Snow was gonna jump at this opportunity. He was gonna use her, too.

You turned off the TV, going back to your room and getting back into bed like you’d never left. Your song came back on, and you went back to preferring to listen to it instead of your own thoughts. You weren’t gonna think about Johanna much longer; there wasn’t any point.

There was nothing you could do.

The next time you woke up and it was actually morning, you were surprised to see that Finnick was still there. While you were sleeping, he managed to snake his arms around you. 

You didn’t get up, even though there were Capitol duties to attend to.

You stayed in bed and pretended that you were a normal couple, that maybe Finnick actually felt something for you, that you weren’t in the Capitol right now, that the world wasn’t so fucked up, that you weren’t so fucked up. But you didn’t pretend for long, eventually getting up and facing the world that you didn’t want to be apart of but had been sucked into.

He didn’t tell you this, but he was pretending, too.

You both went to the gatherings you had to go to, talked to the people you had to talk to, kept smiles on your faces, and shook Snow’s hand, even though it made you want to puke. You endured it all—you both did. The Prince and Princess of Panem…

You realized it was true what they said, heavy is the head that wears the crown. This figurative crown was weighing you down; you wondered if it’d be so coveted if people got the chance to feel how you felt.

Then you went back home, even if it didn’t really feel like a home to you. It was still all you had. But Finnick kept surprising you.

Your dance suddenly changed. The song was still playing, but the dance was different, almost like that night you’d spent together had actually meant something.

You started having dinner together every night. Before, you often forgot to eat, but now how could you? You were beginning to look forward to your daily dinners; there wasn’t much more to look forward to in the life you led.

He made it hard for you not to fall even more in love with him.

You two still didn’t talk during dinner, but it almost did feel normal, like you were a family- like you could be a family.

And then the dance changed again, and that dream felt even more real.

You pulled your chair out at your dinner table, sitting down across from Finnick. You were both dressed “down” in more comfortable clothes, but you knew there was some people in the district that still couldn’t afford them. That bothered you, but when you had dinner, most of your worries were pushed to the back of your mind.

When you two had dinner, you just enjoyed the dance.

You were a few minutes into dinner when you noticed that Finnick wasn’t eating but he was staring at you. He hadn’t stared at you like that since when you first met, so curiously, like you were a secret he wanted to be let in on.

You couldn’t ignore his stare, even if you tried. However, you tried to act nonchalant. “Is there something you want to say?” You quizzed, twirling another bite of pasta like you were unaffected by his gaze.

Finnick responded in the same beat, so much like the Finnick that was charismatic and lively, not the quiet one you normally lived with. “Something I want to ask you, actually.”

“Oh,” you said, immediately kicking yourself at how stupid you sounded. “Well, ask away.” He didn’t need to be told twice.

“What’s your favourite colour?” 

You were caught off guard by his question, blinking like you were trying to figure out if you just imagined him saying him that or if he really did. He blinked back at you but never faltered.

“What?”

He repeated himself, slower this time. “What is your favourite colour?” You blinked again when you realized he was being totally serious. “You know, colours, like a rainbow-”

“I know what colours are, Finnick.”

“Ohhhh.” His eyes got big as if he thought you actually didn’t know what a rainbow was. “Sorry, you were just looking at me like I had said the most absurd thing you’ve ever heard. So what’s your favourite colour?”

You couldn’t stop the corners of your lips going up as his grin just got wider. God, you hadn’t seen him smile like that in so long. It actually looked real.

You thought about it for a second, looking right into his eyes when you came up with an answer. “It’s blue, not really dark or light either. Sort of green- it’s close to grey, too.”

He looked at you for a few seconds before blurting, “Y/N, that sounds like the least vibrant shade of blue I’ve ever heard of.”

You laughed. “It’s vibrant to me!” He laughed, too, shaking his head like you were crazy. That shade of blue that you described was more vibrant than any other blue you’d ever seen. You could never tired of looking at it whenever you looked into Finnick’s eyes.

When the laughter died down, you asked him the same question. “Okay, now what’s your favourite colour?”

He shrugged. “Don’t have one.”

You scoffed, “Oh, come. on. You have to have a favourite colour; you can’t be that boring.”

“That boring? I’m not boring at all,” he argued, a look of faux offence on his face.

You snorted. “I beg to differ.”

“I can make you beg a lot more if you don’t take that back.” Your eyes immediately went wide and, against your will, a faint redness spread on your cheeks.

“What?”

“You heard me,” he said, crossing his arms. He looked pleased at the reaction he got out of you. “Take it back.”

You scoffed again, but you weren’t sure if it was because of your stubbornness or because you wanted to see how far you could push him. “I’m not taking anything back.”

He just stared at you for a few seconds before flashing that famous smirk of his, dimples appearing in his cheeks. “Really?”

You crossed your arms, too, nodding. “Mhm.”

He chuckled. “We’ll see if you still feel that way in the morning.”

And then he spent the rest of the night showing you just how boring he wasn’t.

The day after, you didn’t wake up dejected but instead with a smile on your face. You didn’t get out of bed at all, staying in Finnick’s arms. You felt giddy, like a school girl. There were no thoughts of his lack of feelings for you, Annie, or The Games. You just laid there and enjoyed the moment.

It didn’t even feel like you were pretending.

When Finnick woke up, you did it all over again. You ended up staying in bed all day together, cancelling your plans.

And when the time came to get out of bed, to go back to the real world, the music didn’t go back to normal. It was more upbeat now. You kept waiting for the other shoe to drop, for the beat to drop, but it didn’t.

Finnick didn’t pretend like you two sleeping together never happened. In fact, you two kept doing it almost every day. You actually had conversations during dinner. You learned basic things about him that you hadn’t known in all of the time you were living together.

He made you laugh often. You stopped crying so much.

Is this what happiness feels like? you wondered. If it was, you never wanted anything different. Whatever Finnick felt for you, it didn’t matter. As long as he kept making you happy, it didn’t matter.

You were so in love with him that it stopped mattering if he reciprocated your feelings. You didn’t want anything to ruin this, what you had. Your relationship was the most special thing you’d ever had, even if you didn’t know what to call it, so you were gonna do your damn best to hold onto it.

The things he’d say in front of the cameras felt real, then the things he did when you were alone made you believe it even more. Whatever this was between you, it felt real.

So real.

You were stirring something on the stove when two arms snaked around your waist, tickling you, making a squeal fly from your lips. “Finnick!” You screeched, trying to suppress your giggles as you turned around. The culprit (who was shirtless) didn’t look guilty at all, a shit-eating grin on his face. You shoved his shoulder. “I am trying to cook us breakfast.”

He snorted. “Yeah, trying and failing.” You shoved him again, causing him to laugh. “I’m sorry, you can’t cook!”

You crossed your arms and narrowed your eyes. “I’ll have you know, I can cook very well, actually.”

He wrapped his arms around you again. “You know, you’re cute when you pout.”

“I’m not pouting!” You exclaimed, but a blush still arose on your cheeks that Finnick noticed right away. It was almost like he was always watching for those types of things, always trying to say or do something to get you red.

“You’re even cuter when you blush.” 

Your blush worsened, but you weren’t gonna give him the satisfaction of your defeat. “I’m not blushing. We’re in a kitchen, and it’s hot.”

He pulled you closer to him, grin widening. “Don’t lie to yourself, sweetheart, about your blushing or your cooking.” He glanced behind you. “Oh, look, burnt food.”

Your eyes went wide, immediately turning around. You groaned when you saw the brown eggs and the trail of smoke coming from them. “It’s all your fault, Finn, you distracted me.”

He gave your head a kiss, rubbing his hands up and down your arms. “Sure, darling, whatever you say.” Luckily, you were turned away from him so he couldn’t see how your cheeks reddened. You still weren’t used to the pet names, even though Finnick seemed to adore them. “Let’s leave the cooking to me from now on.”

You lightly scoffed, “Whatever.” He kissed your cheek before you started walking away, planning to sit on the couch while you waited for him to cook the food. You didn’t have to look at him to know he was probably smug.

“Who messes up eggs?” he muttered under his breath once you were a few feet away.

“I heard that, Finnick!” you shouted, but he only let out a loud laugh.

You shook your head at him, plopping down onto the couch in the adjoining living room and turning the TV on, but it was really just background noise. You found it much more enticing to watch Finnick cook. The way he moved so swiftly looked effortless; he knew what he was doing, that was sure. And it didn’t help that he was shirtless.

You discreetly stared at him for a while—or, you thought you were being discreet. Without looking up from what he was doing, he teased, “You know that I can feel you ogling at me, right?”

You went red as a tomato. “Shut up, Finnick!” you shrieked, turning back to the TV as if you even knew what was playing. His laugh boomed and you turned up the volume to tune it out, only causing him to laugh even louder.

Even though you were thoroughly embarrassed that he’d caught you staring at him, a smile still found its way onto your face. Around Finnick, it was hard not find a reason to smile.

You’d be content if you didn’t do anything for the rest of your life but wake up to him every day.

You spent many more mornings like that together, and lunches, and dinners, and everything in between. You exchanged jokes and playful banter constantly. Finnick really did make your cheeks hurt.

But he knew when to be serious.

There were still nights when you’d wake up from nightmares, and he’d comfort you back to sleep every time. When you caught him in a nightmare, you’d try your best to repay the favour, even though that didn’t happen often. He rarely wanted you to see him like that, so he hid his nightmares, but you did everything you could to keep him happy while he was awake to make up for it.

When you went to the Capitol, all of the darkness crept back in, squeezing in through the cracks of the walls that you’d built—for both of you. But you kept each other grounded. You weren’t alone.

Once, he had to talk you back from the edge as you had a panic attack in the bathroom. He locked the door and stayed there with you until you calmed down. You told him that you saw someone you hadn’t seen up close in a while, an old patron, and that just opened the floodgates. You saw his hands ball up into fists; he tried to hide the anger on his face, but you saw it and you understood it. 

He was angry at the Capitol, and so were you. He’d been through the same things you had, and that made it so much easier to cope, to have someone that understood. He understood for you and you understood for him, and so when things were bad, they at least became more okay. As long as you were there for each other, things were okay.

Meeting Johanna Mason at a later event nearly brought you right back to the brink. Her family was dead, she’d told you. And you wished you hadn’t understood so fast. You wished that none of you ever had to understand these things, that you could’ve stayed kids for longer before childhood was ripped away from you.

It’s not fair, you cried to Finnick. He killed her family. She said no, and he killed her family.

He let you cry on his shoulder, rubbing his hand up and down your back as he whispered, I know. It’s not fair, I know. But it was the world you lived in, and, unfortunately, neither of you had the power to do anything about it, even though you were the so called Prince and Princess of Panem.

So you did what you could. You were there for Johanna like how you were there for Finnick when you still didn’t know him. Both of you were there for her, teaching her the moves to your dance so she could dance with you while you were all at the Capitol together.

She was brutally honest, maybe even rude to the average onlooker, but it was what The Games did to her. Finnick and you understood that, and that led to you both forming a friendship with her. Coping with other people, people who understood, was the best painkiller that not even money could provide.

The Games were the hardest, but you went through that together, too. You trained those tributes with everything you had. You tried your best, but sometimes, not even that was enough to keep them alive. Finnick and you would grieve together. At times, he was more rational than you, reminding you that it wasn’t your fault, that these were games made to kill.

Whatever you went through, you went through it together. The good days, the bad days, the laughs, the tears—you were together every step of the way.

Things went like this for years. You really were a team, and nothing could convince you otherwise this time. You loved him more and more each day, but you never told him that; you didn’t need to, and you didn’t need him to love you, either. Being there, being together was good enough.

Your song never got old. You were so in sync as you danced. Oh, you never would’ve thought that Finnick Odair of all people would not only make your life bearable, but also joyful.

You were fake boyfriend and girlfriend, and yeah those lines started to blur, but you also became best friends over time. 

Finnick and you lied together in bed, the TV going on in the background. Your head was on his chest as he pet your hair. It was your seventh time doing this mentor thing, but it never seemed to get easier.

Your tributes were promising, but they still died early on, even though you both got them as many sponsors as you could. Mentors were usually down in the lobby, talking to sponsors and watching The Games with everyone else, but after your tributes died, there was no point.

So you went upstairs, and you both just lied there. It was one of those times where neither of you had to say anything. You were together, alive together, and that was enough.

Listening to Finnick’s heartbeat could calm you down in any situation. You must’ve been doing something to help him, too, because his heartbeat was steady. You stayed like that for a bit until he moved a bit, murmuring under his breath, “What?”

He sat up, making you sit up, too, while he grabbed the remote, turning the volume up. You glanced at it and the scene immediately caught your attention. You heard the last bits of what the announcer was saying, that a rule about two victors was being annulled. Your brows furrowed; you must not have seen the part where any such thing was declared.

You recognized the tributes who you quickly realized were the last people left standing. They were the kids from district 12, the Girl on Fire and the boy in love with her.

You scoffed. “Of course, they want the star-crossed lovers to battle to the death.” You were about to turn away, refusing to indulge in the Capitol’s bullshit, but Finnick grabbed onto your arm.

“Wait.”

You stopped, turning back. The girl, Katniss, had a bow and arrow in her hands. Peeta was a few steps away from her. They were both staring at each other, Katniss looking like she didn’t know what do, but Peeta looked like he already accepted that he was going to die.

You didn’t want to watch this, watch two people fall apart on television, but for some reason, this had captured Finnick’s attention.

One of us should go home, he said. One of us has to die; they have to have their victor. Katniss was already shaking her head.

No. She dropped her arrow to the ground, walking forward. They don’t.

You tilted your head, but you understood what was happening when she pulled a handful of berries from her pocket. “Holy shit.”

Peeta grabbed her hand, rejecting the idea immediately, but she whispered, Trust me. He must’ve really been in love with her, because he did. She poured some berries into the palm of his hand, making you lean closer.

“You don’t think they’re gonna…” you trailed off, puzzled. There were people that’d killed themselves in past games, but this had never happened. There was always a victor.

Peeta hesitated, but looked sure when he looked back into Katniss’ eyes. Together? he mumbled.

She repeated his words. Together. She looked up for a second, and then you suddenly recognized the look on her face. This was a bluff.

They counted down from three, and just as they were gonna bring the berries to their mouths, the announcer frantically cut in, Stop- stop! He cleared his throat. Ladies and gentlemen, may I present the winners… of the 74th Annual Hunger Games.

Relief flooded into Katniss’ eyes as she embraced Peeta in a hug. Shock flowed through you, and Finnick’s expression was no different.

Once you had processed the information, you couldn’t help the grin that grew on your face, disbelief and pride filling you at the same time. “They just screwed the Capitol.”

You turned to see him smirking. “Hell yeah, they did.”

And this made your Hunger Games experience just a little bit better.

Neither of you were surprised that Seneca Crane was found dead days later. He made a grave mistake, letting two victors win. Snow wouldn’t have that, and you could guess why.

What Katniss and Peeta did was causing chatter, sparking hope. People in district 4 were more hush-hush about it, but outlying districts, like 11, had gone into revolts. The Capitol must’ve been stressed, and knowing that brought you some sick form of comfort.

Katniss and Peeta were spinning their actions, making them out to be this act of love, like they couldn’t bear to live without each other, but you and Finnick saw right through it. After all, if there was anyone who could spot a fake relationship, it was you two.

However, the two love-birds flew from your mind when you got home. You were brought back to your little world, living life alongside Finnick. The urge grew to ask him what you were, if you were still in a fake relationship just like Katniss and Peeta or if this was real, as real as you felt it was, but you didn’t wanna mess up the one good thing you had going.

The truth was, you don’t know how long you would’ve made it without him.

Finnick was your lifeline, and he had no idea.

The next time you were at the Capitol, you were in the Presidential Palace for the so called biggest party of the year. It was always hosted right before the Hunger Games, so being there gave you many things to be anxious about.

But, like always, you concealed it, smiling and shaking hands with the people you came across, even as you were disgusted. Some of these people, the very people who paid for your body at sixteen, were there with their families. You wondered how they could have children and still do what they did.

You were a child, too.

Normally, Finnick would be there to calm you down, but he snuck off somewhere without telling you.

You were wandering around, trying to find him when a head of brown hair streaked with red came into your view. “Hey, Princess.”

A sigh left your lips, both out of relief that you found someone you knew and discontent at the nickname. “Hey, Jo.” You would usually make conversation with her, but you were pretty distracted, glancing around behind her. “Have you seen Finnick anywhere? I’ve been looking for him for a while now.”

When you looked back to her, a look you couldn’t decipher flashed across her face, but it was gone in an instant. “No, can’t say I have.”

For some reason, you got a weird feeling from her. It was almost like she knew something that you didn’t.

“Hey, why don’t we go grab a bite while we wait for him?” She suggested, gesturing to the buffet. “I’m starving.”

You shook your head, dazed. “I’ll catch up with you- I’m just gonna go to the bathroom.”

She perked up. “I’ll go with you.”

You were quick to decline. “No, that’s fine; go eat. I’ll be back in a sec.” She was hesitant  for reasons you couldn’t fathom, but she eventually nodded, agreeing to meet you later.

You walked through the halls, passing the bathrooms and not even sparing them a glance. You didn’t really know why you lied about where you were going, but in that moment, it felt like instinct. You trusted Johanna, but you were catching the same weird vibe from countless other people. All you wanted was to find Finnick and have him tell you everything was alright.

You didn’t have to look long before you found him, outside along with many other partygoers. But he wasn’t alone. Standing next to him was a man you’d just recently seen on TV. You just couldn’t remember his name.

You made your way over to them. They cut themselves off as soon as they saw you, not letting you overhear a single detail of whatever they were talking about. You stifled the reappearance of that weird feeling that was starting to feel a lot like suspicion. “Sorry to interrupt, gentlemen.”

Finnick waved you off, “No, it’s fine, sweetheart.” He pulled you into his side, kissing your temple. “This is Plutarch Heavensbee.” A lightbulb went off in your head as you looked to the man.

He was Seneca Crane’s replacement.

What the hell was Finnick doing talking to him?

“It’s an honour and a pleasure to meet you, Ms. Y/L/N,” he greeted, holding his hand out. There was something about him that was throwing you off, not just your revelation of who he was, but you still shook his hand.

“Pleasure’s mine, Mr. Heavensbee,” you replied, smiling your umpteenth fake smile of the night. But you had an inkling that no one in the Capitol was as genuine as they seemed.

Plutarch didn’t try to stay and make small talk like the rest of the people you encountered at the Capitol, bidding you both farewell and wishing you a good night. Something told you his departure had something to do with your arrival.

Once he was out of earshot, you turned in Finnick’s arms. “Was that the new head Gamemaker?” He nodded, but didn’t offer any explanation. You furrowed your brows. “What were you talking about?” 

Finnick shrugged nonchalantly, but for some reason, he seemed tense. “He wanted to meet the youngest victor of The Games.”

You found that hard to believe, holding back a scoff. “Well, he didn’t seem too interested in meeting me.”

A smile arose on his face as he wrapped his arms back around your waist. “That is because you, darling, are not the youngest person to ever win.”

This time, you did scoff, but the tense atmosphere dissipated. “You’re a dick.”

“You love me.” Your heart nearly stopped, but you kept your composure. You did love him, more than he’d ever know.

You shook your head, acting unaffected. “C’mon, Johanna’s waiting for us by the buffet.” You tried walking away, but your faux façade of annoyance was broken by Finnick latching onto your hand and walking forward with you, chuckling.

And then the entire matter of everyone’s weird behaviour was pushed to the back of your mind.

Returning home from the Capitol was always peaceful, like a weight being lifted off your shoulders, but this time was unlike any of those other times. When you got home, the so called peace that the Capitol so delicately crafted was ripping at the seams.

The chatter from before, from when Katniss and Peeta defied the Capitol, was louder than ever. They had just gone on their victor’s tour, right before you left for the Presidential Palace, and they had apparently sparked a reaction in just about every district they visited, yours included.

You found out that district 4 had been in a revolt since Everdeen and Mellark came and gave their speech. The people were outraged. The news talked about seafood shortages due to bad weather, but the Capitol just didn’t want to let Panem know what was going on, that people were refusing work, that Peacekeepers were murdering innocent people left and right for the smallest of incidents.

When you were all caught up with what had happened, you were furious, too. You wanted to march out onto the streets and give the Capitol the finger, but Finnick pulled you back. 

“What are you gonna do, Y/N?” he questioned, not even giving you the time to answer. “You don’t even know.”

Your voice was vicious as you responded, a tone you’d never given him. You were angry, and you both knew you weren’t thinking clearly; you just didn’t care. “I don’t know right now, but I’m gonna do something, Finnick.” You tried pulling your arm away, but he was much stronger than you.

“I’m not gonna let you go out there and get yourself killed.” You could tell by his demeanour that he was angry, but not for the same reasons that you were.

You shook your head. “You of all people should understand where I’m coming from.”

His eyes went hard. “You must not know me well if you think I’d let my girlfriend kill herself.” That shut you up.

His girlfriend.

He called you his girlfriend.

You got over the shock and, suddenly, you were even more angry than before. While you could pretend all you wanted to that you lived in candy-land, the cruel reality was still there. Finnick didn’t love you. He was only playing with your emotions.

Tears built up in your eyes: sad tears, angry tears—they were everything tears. You felt everything. “I’m your girlfriend now?”

He scoffed, “Oh, come on, Y/N. You can’t be serious right now.”

“I am so serious right now.” 

At your deadpan, he finally let go of your arm, running a hand through his hair. A part of you felt bad that he was so stressed, but you were stressed, too. He looked like he was trying to figure out what to say when he looked back up at you. His voice was no longer harsh, but small. “Y/N, please.”

You swallowed. 

“I’m just asking you to trust me.” He grabbed onto your hands. “Please just trust me.” He was begging you.

“Trust you to do what?”

“I just need you to trust me, Y/N, please.” He held your hands tighter. “Trust me.”

Oh, it didn’t matter how angry you were, if your thoughts were set in stone. Finnick would still be able to mold you like clay. Every time.

“I trust you.”

There was something different about him, but you were too distracted to try and figure it out.

There were so many things going on.

You were with Annie when it happened. Oh, that must have been some cruel joke from the universe. You were walking through the town square, on your way to Victors’ Village with pastries from the bakery in your hands. You were slowed down by the all of the people congregating together, watching the screen.

President Snow was announcing the third Quarter Quell, and they were eating it up. You weren’t gonna do that, entertain his lunacy. You’d go the Capitol and play your role, but you weren’t gonna watch these broadcasts anymore. You weren’t gonna play along.

Finnick could explain it to you later so you’d be able to prep your tributes. The Quells were always made out to be the hallmark of The Games; they were always harder. You felt for whatever kids would have to go through them.

You felt a lot more once you realized who these tributes were gonna be.

You weren’t listening to what Snow was was saying, but his words cut through any sort of mental block you had. “On this, the third Quarter Quell Games, the male and female tributes are… to be reaped from the existing pool of victors in each district.” 

Your stopped walking as if you’d hit a wall, the stuff in your hands falling the ground, but it was almost like you didn’t hear it. You stopped hearing anything, not Snow explaining the condition or everyone’s gasps. Your ears rang. Everything was muffled like you were underwater.

You were done. You were supposed to be done. You went through those Games, you won, and now you were supposed to be done.

He was gonna make you go through it all over again.

You were so shocked that you pinched yourself, like you were a child and this was some nightmare, and even though you didn’t wake up, even though you knew you were awake, you were still caught in a nightmare that you’d have to die to escape from.

Your senses came back to you and you spun around, pulling Annie into a tight hug the second you saw the tears streaming down her face. She muttered the same thing over and over into your shoulder.

“This can’t be happening, this can’t be happening, this can’t be happening.”

She couldn’t go through this again. The Games broke her beyond repair. She couldn’t mentor because of it; she could barely ever attend any of the Capitol parties you and Finnick frequented. She would die in that arena, either mentally or physically.

You couldn’t let that happen.

Your song played on a loop in your mind, making the decision for you. You were reminded that, even though your dance may have changed, Finnick didn’t love you. He loved Annie, and he would be destroyed if she died.

You couldn’t let that happen.

You couldn’t let Mags go back into the arena, either. He needed her. These were the only people he cared about; you couldn’t let them go through this.

Then and there, you decided your fate.

You were gonna be the one to go back into the arena, and no one was gonna stop you.

When you and Annie had made it to your house, ignoring all of the looks of pity thrown your way, Finnick looked just as beaten down as you, but not surprised. You didn’t have time to analyze that.

He hugged Annie first, shooting you an apologetic look, but you didn’t understand what it was for. You knew what Annie meant to him.

You weren’t so deluded that you’d believe you came before her. Besides, she needed to be consoled more than you did. You were calm. Annie was lost right now, but you knew exactly where you were headed.

That night, once Annie left, your clothes came off, and you and Finnick had the softest sex you ever had. It was gentle, and you let yourself feel loved one last time. You let yourself be selfish and have this one thing, just one last time.

You knew that the odds of coming out of that arena were slim, so you kissed Finnick like you were gonna die the very next day. I just might, you thought. And then as you fell asleep in his arms, you pretended that everything was alright. You pretended that your dance wasn’t gonna end so soon, that you weren’t gonna sign your life away when you woke up, that Finnick really loved you, that he loved you just as much as you loved him. You pretended one last time.

The next day, you and all of the other victors walked to the Hall of Justice, escorted by a dozen Peacekeepers. There were so many male tributes. As terrible as it sounded, you were praying that it’d be one of them that was chosen, not Finnick. If he was, then you would throw away any chance you had of winning.

If he went in with you, then he’d be the one walking out.

Cassia Locke stood in the middle of the stage, in between the male and female victors. You found it funny, almost: you were victors, but now the Capitol was gonna rip that refuge away after they’d already taken everything from you.

Cassia was just another mutt in your eyes. She was district 4’s Capitol escort; she was meant to be an advisor, but she didn’t do that well, not for you or the other tributes you mentored. But you supposed you couldn’t be too surprised. Her job was to make spectacles, not survivors.

However, she almost looked human for a moment, glancing at the women sympathetically before she pulled out a folded paper from the bowl. You stood on edge; there were only three of you. Unbeknownst to you, Finnick also stood straighter in trepidation.

She cleared her throat, announcing, “The female tribute for the 75th Annual Hunger Games and third Quarter Quell is… Annie Cresta.”

Annie’s face fell, but you quickly stepped forward. “I volunteer as tribute.”

“Y/N, what are you doing?” Annie whispered, putting a hand on your shoulder, but you brushed her off and ignored her.

Cassia nodded. “Very well, then.” She moved back to the bowl. “Now for the males.”

You glanced over to see that Finnick was already looking at you, an unknown emotion written all over his face, though you realized what it was quickly. Betrayal.

You were confused why. If anything, he should’ve been relieved.

“The male tribute for the 75th Annual Hunger Games will be…” she unfolded the paper, “Finnick Odair.”

Your heart dropped. That wasn’t supposed to happen. 

The universe must’ve hated you.

Finnick’s mask was back on. Any trace of emotion on his face was erased and replaced with the cocky, charming façade that he’d perfected. He smirked as if he wasn’t just chosen for the most brutal “game” there ever was, like there was nothing to be worried about.

He was so good at pretending. Maybe even better than you.

You both walked toward the centre of the stage simultaneously, routinely. You’ve danced this dance before.

“Ladies and gentlemen, our tributes for the Hunger Games.”

Right after that, Peacekeepers came from the side, trying to grab at your arms, but you shook them off. “We know where to go,” you said. You don’t know if it was the your tone of voice or the look on your face, but they actually listened.

You were escorted into an inactive chamber, the same one you were brought to for your first Games. Memories flashed through your mind before you shook them away. You couldn’t get PTSD right before you went into this.

Finnick was stoic as he stared you, but before either of you could say anything, Mags and Annie came rushing into the room. Annie took you by surprise, immediately engulfing you tightly.

She was still crying, but manage to blubber out through her tears, “Why- why would you do that?”

You rubbed her back. “Annie-”

“Why would you do that for me? It was supposed to be me. Supposed to be me, supposed to be me.” She kept repeating herself over and over, shaking in your arms.

From the corner of your eye, you saw Finnick and Mags watching you. “It’s gonna be okay, Annie,” you told her, but you knew it was a lie. “I’m gonna be fine.” You weren’t.

As if she knew this, she only cried harder. You didn’t know what else to say, so you just kept rubbing her back, hoping that she’d calm down. Eventually, she stopped shaking, but tears kept flowing from her eyes like a waterfall. She tried to wipe them away, but they just kept coming.

She sniffled, going over to hug Finnick, then hugging you one last time before she left. “Take care of each other- please,” she asked, and you weren’t thinking of doing anything but.

You nodded, assuring her that you would do just that. Mags hugged you, saying the words she couldn’t express through her gaze. You could tell that neither of them wanted to leave, but they had to. 

Only one of you was gonna come back, and that was gonna be hard to come to terms with.

They left, and then it was just you and Finnick. The music kept playing, and playing, and playing, and you weren’t sure you could take it anymore. You didn’t want to hear this song ever again if it could be your last time listening.

If you could have it your way, you’d dance together until the end of time. But forever was never promised, not in the world you lived in.

The silence, however, felt like it lasted a forever in the moment, so you broke it. “Can you say something?” Finnick just kept staring at you in a way he had never looked at you before. The music got louder. Tears came to your eyes. “Please.”

Maybe he took pity on you, because he did say something. You just weren’t sure if it was any better than the silence. “Why would you do that?” His voice was cold.

You felt cold.

You swallowed. “Finn-”

“Why would you volunteer?” He stepped closer to you, so much venom seeping through his tone that you thought you were gonna be sick. “Annie was going to go-”

You cut him off, throwing your hands up. “You saw her, Finnick. She’s a mess.”

“She was going to be fine-”

“She can’t go through The Games again!” You shouted, losing it. Why was he berating you as if you didn’t just save the love of his life? “It would kill whatever part of her is left.”

“She would’ve been fine. You would’ve been fine-”

“God, why do you care about what happens to me? Annie’s gonna be okay—you’re gonna be able to come home to her and build the family you’ve always wanted-”

He snapped. “You’re my family!” You recoiled like he just hit you with his words. It was like you’d been doused in cold water. Finnick sighed, running a hand through his hair. There was a beat where neither of you said anything, letting his revelation soak in.

But you didn’t know what that meant.

When he spoke up again, his voice was quieter. He didn’t look like the Finnick that smirked up on that stage; he looked defeated, not triumphant. “You’re my family, Y/N. Don’t you get that?” He looked back up at you. “I could’ve protected Annie in that arena, and you would’ve been safe, here—not there with me.”

You shook your head. “There is no protecting someone in an arena- you and I know that best.” You let a tear fall, smiling sadly. “You’re gonna come home, Finnick-”

“Stop.”

“You’re gonna come home and you’re gonna live a long life with Annie-”

“Stop it.”

“You have people to take care of. I don’t.”

“Y/N, stop it.”

Another tear. “You deserve this-”

“Stop it.” Finnick grabbed onto your shoulders. You didn’t even know he got so close. “I’m not gonna let you die in there. Do you hear me? You’re not dying.”

“Only one of us is coming back, Finn. It’s gonna be you.”

You don’t know if your eyes were just really that blurry or if there were actually tears in his eyes, too. “No, you are coming home-”

“Finni-”

He grabbed you tighter. “We are both coming home.” The dam in your eyes broke, and all of the tears you were trying to hold came flooding down your cheeks.

Why was he saying these things? He knew it was impossible.

“We are both coming home, Y/N, I swear,” he promised, but these were promises he couldn’t keep. These were things he couldn’t control. Why was he lying to you- why was he lying to himself?

You wanted to say all these things, to scream, to tell him that it wasn’t true, that you were going to die. But then you remembered every other time you lied in bed together, every time you kissed and held each other. You’ve been lying to yourself all along, pretending you could have a future together when, deep down, you knew that wasn’t the case.

So you held everything in, pulling Finnick to you and hugging him with everything you had. You were gonna let him pretend, just this last time.

You were gonna dance together one last time.

You spent the entire train ride in each other’s arms, only getting up to eat and go to the bathroom before getting back in bed. You didn’t have mentors—you were the mentors. You’d been here before already, and that was surreal in and of itself.

You thought you already won. But nobody ever won, did they?

Those games killed everyone, victors included.

The press was insane, but just as you expected it. You were the Prince and Princess of Panem; they didn’t want to watch you die. Turns out, people in the Capitol did have hearts; clearly, they weren’t all too functional.

This visit, in more ways than one, was completely different from any other time you’d been in the city. Instead of the graceful show you normally put on, waving and smiling, you were much more mute. You were gonna die, anyway, so what was the point of continuing to be a puppet? 

Finnick was still his usual self, smirky and arrogant, but even his anger snuck through the cracks of his act. All of you were angry, all of the victors. You could tell just by the mere glances you’d gotten of them, by the news coverage. Nobody wanted to go into an arena and kill people, not even the Careers (who you’d admit were pretty crazy).

However, this was all still a show to the Capitol, with you as the unlucky cast. And the show had to go on.

You and Finnick were separated to be prepped by the “glam teams.” The first time around, you remember being scared, but now you were just bored.

You were sitting idly in the dressing room, waiting for your designer when a man walked in, making you raise a brow.

This was a designer, but not your designer.

“Wait, I know you.” You tilted your head as his face became more familiar to you. “You’re Cinna- you designed those outfits with the fire.”

Cinna nodded in a way that you perceived as both humble and prideful at the same time. “It’s wonderful to meet you, Princess.”

This elicited a bitter chuckle from you. “Please, call me Y/N.” You then stood up to shake his hand when your curiosity sparked. “Aren’t you Katniss’ designer?”

“Yes, but I’m also going to be designing your outfits, as well,” he replied. “The head Gamemaker requested it. You are the Princess, after all.”

The corners of your lips went up. Most people you met at the Capitol would beat around the bush, but this guy didn’t seem shy. It was refreshing. You teased, “Ah, and since I’m a princess, I get Panem’s best to dress me?” 

Cinna chuckled a bit under his breath, but didn’t confirm or deny your comment. He dived straight into his plans, explaining what he wanted to for you with a twinkle in his eye that you noticed most artists had when speaking about their work. “I want to stay true to the district 4 theme, but I want to make a statement.”

“Yeah, I had a feeling.”

He smiled. “We’re gonna show the Capitol that they can’t control you.”

And then your little smile turned into a grin.

Cinna did not disappoint. You were in a golden, long-sleeve, grid shirt with holes where the squares were supposed to be; your velvet skirt was a dark blueish-green, skin-tight; and atop your head was a golden crown, decorated with blue jewels.

Of course, it wasn’t a normal outfit, but you were gonna save the theatrics for the parade.

Finnick was around somewhere, likely causing trouble while you were walking around, looking for Johanna. However, you ended up running into someone else.

“Peeta,” you called, and he turned around. He immediately reminded you of Finnick, a mask of charm hiding him. Although Peeta had only been at this for a year, he already knew how to play the game, unlike Katniss who was rather unapproachable.

“Y/N,” he greeted. He scrambled for something to say for a few seconds. “I heard about how you volunteered for that girl. It was really brave.”

You hummed, almost sarcastically. “You don’t have to suck up to me—it’s not like I bite.”

He got red, making you stifle a laugh. “That’s, uh- that’s not what I meant-”

“It’s fine, I get it,” you waved it off. “It’s probably intimidating to be here around all of us, just a year after you won.” He didn’t say anything, just awkwardly smiled. “You know, you don’t have to be scared. You have a lot of power ‘round here; you just need to learn how to wield it.”

He gave you a confused look, so you elaborated, “There’s power in the masses, Peeta. The people here love you.” You paused. “Use that.”

A look of realization crossed his face, and so you decided that you said all you needed to say. He thanked you, but his mind looked to be elsewhere. You nodded, then walked off to find your carriage.

Sure, the Capitol could try and treat you all like pieces on a chess board, but if you got rid of the board altogether, then there would be no game to play. You spoke to Peeta to help him realize that. It didn’t matter if you were all meant to be on different sides; until you got into that arena, you were all one team, and you were gonna try your hardest to stop The Games before they began.

If that didn’t work, then you would just have to concede. One way or another, you would make sure that Finnick made it out of that arena alive. Peeta reminded you an awful lot of him, and while you would otherwise be rooting for him, you would choose Finnick if it came down to it.

You met Finnick at the chariot not long after leaving Peeta. He was shirtless, wearing a skirt similar to your top, rope around his wrists like bracelets. If you weren’t about to go into this stupid parade, you would’ve probably been making out already, but you were far too worried to think about that.

You had Cinna to thank for calming your nerves, giving you something to look forward to. Once the parade had started and you were coming through, you pressed the button of the device he had given you and then your top went up in flames, disintegrating until you were just in a black bralette, revealing the swirls of blue they painted on your arms, resembling waves. The rope around Finnick’s wrists caught fire, too, burning up until there was nothing there.

The crowd cheered, chanting your names. The faintest of smirks grew on your lips, but you really had to stifle your enjoyment when you saw Snow staring your carriage down.

What you did symbolized freeing yourself of the shackles of the Capitol, of these stupid Games. They could try, but they wouldn’t control you. 

You would’ve usually felt some sort of fear- hell, you were never so defiant just in fear of what they would do to you. But what more could they do to you? They were already going to kill you. You didn’t care anymore.

After the parade, you ran into Johanna who gave you a good laugh as she told you how she stripped in the elevator. You would’ve paid good money to see it, that was for sure. You also talked to a few other victors on your way back to your suite.

You’d been friends with many of these people for years and now the Capitol was just gonna try and pit you against each other. None of you were looking forward to that—you were friends. But that didn’t mean you couldn’t make any allies.

Alliances didn’t last forever in the arena, but they lasted long enough. Considering your status, almost everyone wanted you and your “boyfriend” as allies; they certainly didn’t want you as enemies.

The next day was spent at the training centre, a brand new one made specially for the Quarter Quell. The thought made you roll your eyes. The Capitol would spend their money on things like this and yet there were still kids out there starving. What kind of world was that? One that you were okay with leaving, so long as Finnick would remain in it.

On your way in, you passed Cashmere and Gloss throwing knives at holograms. They were good, you noted, but not better at it than you. Johanna was off practicing by herself—though you were sure that she was doing it more so to release her pent-up aggression. Wiress and Beetee, Nuts and Volts as Jo called them, were by themselves, much less violent than everyone else here and much more strategic. Finnick was tying knots, looking more bored than anything. And you… you weren’t doing anything.

You leaned back on a wall, watching the other tributes instead of joining them. You didn’t care about the rankings or making yourself look dangerous. You didn’t have anything to prove; you did that already, and you really didn’t need to “practice,” either.

You’ve danced this dance before.

However, not everyone was so aware of just how well you danced last time.

“Not practicing?” You turned your head, seeing the newest victor walking up to you, donning her famous hairstyle. The corners of your lips quirked up in amusement. 

She must have been told to make friends. You couldn’t imagine it was working out so well if she was coming to you.

“Don’t need to, Everdeen,” you replied, shrugging. “I don’t need the spotlight; got enough of that.”

She lightly snorted. “Yeah, I know what that’s like.” And you didn’t doubt that. Katniss had definitely captured the attention of Panem with her actions, and she certainly acquired the attention of the Capitol. Snow couldn’t have been her biggest fan.

In another life, you could picture you and her being friends, but you knew it wasn’t gonna happen in this one.

“You’re lucky, you know,” you said. You knew she didn’t see that way, and maybe it was a little bitter of you to say that, but it was true. At least she hadn’t been under the spotlight long enough for it to burn her like it’d burned you. 

She scoffed, “How so?” The girl had restraint, you’d give her that. She clearly wanted to say a lot more than that, but she was smart. She knew better.

You shrugged again. “You just are.” And you left it there. If she wanted all the dirty details about you, she could try her luck with one of the other victors, but you doubted she sensed the real meaning of your words. She hadn’t been dancing long enough to even hear the song yet.

A dramatic sigh then escaped your lips. “Ah, though I suppose even your luck can only run so far, Girl on Fire. So sorry about your wedding.” The sarcasm in your voice was toned down just enough that it wasn’t so evident but evident enough to make your point.

She gave you a tense smile, although you weren’t sure if any of Katniss’ smiles ever weren’t tense. “Thanks,” she responded with zero sincerity in her tone. “I’m sorry you and Finnick never had one, either. Would’ve been a real royal occasion.”

You hummed, smiling your royal smile back at her. The Kat has claws, you thought. But you didn’t really feel like standing here and trading subliminals with her all day; you’d have enough of that with everyone else, anyway.

You left it at that, going to walk away before pausing as if you’d forgotten something. “Tell Haymitch I said hi.” You gave her a once over. “He’s done a good job.” And then you walked away.

Finnick’s voice rang through your head: May the odds be ever in your favour, darling. You almost felt like recycling that line and repeating it to Katniss, but you had already messed with her enough. 

Your demeanour was in stark contrast of how you normally behaved. You may have been more agreeable or kind at home, sweet on cameras, but in this territory, you had an entirely different reputation. Sharp, cunning, unpredictable—ruthless. That’s the way it needed to be if you wanted to survive, or at least survive long enough to do what you needed to do.

So, you supposed that you had a mask, too.

You all did.

When you got back to your suite later in the evening, Finnick informed you of Katniss’ display with her bow and arrow, how she had renowned victors quaking in their boots, but people were even more scared of you, and you hadn’t even done anything at training.  

You basically had the entire pool of tributes to choose from for an alliance. You were choosing Johanna, of course, and Finnick already had his mind made up on his pick.

Making his way over to you, he tossed you something that you swiftly caught before sitting down on the armchair across from the sofa you were sitting on. You looked down, opening your hand to see a golden pendant, a medallion with a rose in the middle.

You raised a brow. This wasn’t a present. “A rose?”

“They’re a Capitol favourite.” Precisely why you hated them.

“Alright, and why are you giving it to me?”

Finnick brought his wrist up, showing you a golden bracelet made of vines while wiggling his fingers. “They’re gifts,” he told you, “from Effie Trinket and Haymitch Abernathy.”

You were familiar with both people. Effie Trinket was crazy, but that wasn’t the dominant thought on your mind. “Gifts for what?”

He answered, “They’ve brokered an alliance with us on behalf of Katniss and Peeta.” At that, you groaned, but Finnick readily cut you off. “This will be good for us, Y/N.”

“They’re brand new to this,” you countered. Sure, you liked the spark that the Girl on Fire had, and Peeta was quite the catch, but they only won a year ago. The Careers would be a better pick, even though you didn’t exactly like them, either.

“Yes, but they’re good; you’ve seen them. And the Capitol’s gonna love it, the two pairs of lovers together. C’mon, you know all this.” You did. You knew that this was one of the best avenues to take, but something in you was against it.

Maybe it was just that Peeta reminded you of the man you were in love with, and Katniss reminded you of yourself. But right now, you had to remind yourself to think with your head, not your heart. You needed to disregard your feelings and do whatever it took to win this.

To you, winning didn’t mean surviving this. Winning meant that Finnick did.

So, with a sigh, you surrendered, agreeing to this little deal. “So, these accessories are, what? Bargaining chips?”

He smirked. “No, they’re symbols. Katniss and Peeta have theirs, too.”

You chuckled, shaking your head and mocking, “So we’re in a little golden alliance, then?”

“It appears so, darling.”

After a little more conversation, Finnick and you headed off to bed, even though neither of you could really sleep. You held each other, though, and so the insomnia was bearable. He told you to stow the necklace away, that you were saving the objects for The Games. Apparently, Katniss and Peeta still needed a little persuasion for this, especially the former.

She was smart not to trust you, but she was equally as naive for the same reason. If you wanted to, you could be judgemental all day, but you didn’t have the time for it, so your mind didn’t linger on the subject.

When you were waiting to be assessed the next day with the rest of the tributes, your mind didn’t really linger on anything. You felt numb: not pleased, not sad, just numb. If you could pin-point an emotion, it had to be anger, but that feeling hadn’t left you since your first Games.

Finnick, on the other hand, looked no different, maybe even a little amused by the tension in the room, too amused for somebody who had to go back to the arena. But Finnick was always one to look a challenge into the eye and, instead of looking away, give it a wink. That was his persona while you were here, in the Capitol, so you’d let him indulge in it if that’s what made him feel better.

You’d do anything for him, even if he didn’t love you back.

He went into the room first. You didn’t know exactly what he was gonna do, but you knew that you were all basically doing the same thing. Plutarch Heavensbee may have been new, but even he knew who you all were. You’ve all shown your skills already, been here already, danced this dance already.

The song was getting old.

You were all giving your own personal fuck you to the Capitol.

When Finnick walked out, he flashed you a smirk that almost made you laugh. You stifled a smile as you walked into the room yourself, but it was quickly wiped off your face as memories played in your head like a movie.

You remembered the first time you did this, coming in and saying your name, scared out of your mind but ready to win, ready to impress the sponsors.

Now, you didn’t have to say your name. You caught their attention as soon as you walked in. You were the Princess. You needed no introduction.

It was funny, though, how that imaginary crown couldn’t save you from this.

The thought of your inevitable death was what fuelled you. You were known for your abilities with a sword, but that wasn’t what you reached for. You reached for the jug of gasoline and a lighter, immediately opening it and pouring in a circle in the middle of the room before stepping into it.

Then you looked right up at all of them and their confused faces, and threw the open lighter to the liquid in front of you, igniting a circle of fire around you.

You stared right at the head Gamemaker as you did it, expressionless. His expression told you that he got the message, or at least your hostility.

You would burn this place to the ground if you had to, even if you got burned while doing it. 

When the flames got smaller, you turned and stepped over them, walking out of the room without another glance or word to the Capitol mutts. As far as you were concerned, they weren’t worth your time—you were running out of that, anyways.

Once the assessments were over, all any of you had time to do was get ready for the show. Caesar wasn’t exactly a face you wanted to see right now. Maybe he saw his enthusiasm as a way of “calming the tributes down,” but it was really just his lack of empathy. You didn’t need him cheering and practically gossiping about your death before it happened. 

As much as the people in the Capitol liked to think of these Games as games, they weren’t. They were your lives. But you really could spend days obsessing over it, days that you didn’t have.

It was time to dance, and there was nothing you did better.

You were backstage, standing with Finnick and Johanna, waiting your turns. Cinna had made you very pretty. He was good at what he did.

You were wearing a dark blue dress with wide straps tied into blue bows at your shoulders and a sweetheart neckline. The bottom half was pretty fitted, but it was covered by a sparkly, golden, A-line, hoop petticoat made of the same material as your top from the parade, gridded with holes like before. And of course, your crown sat atop your head—Cinna insisted.

He really wanted to nail the whole Princess thing, milk it for all it was worth. And you let him, because his designs were great. Part of you wished you could’ve gotten more into fashion; now you’d never get the chance to.

You couldn’t blame Katniss for being so stand-offish. You’d be intimidated, too, if you were new to the club, watching from the sidelines. You, Finnick, and Johanna didn’t really seem all too approachable right now, either, even the ever so charming Odair. They were exchanging jokes and laughing at the interviews, mocking them, while you were rather stoic, observing the interviews watchfully.

Cashmere and Gloss went first, of course. They did theirs together since they were brother and sister. It was odd to you, how two siblings managed to get reaped together out of all the victors district 1 had, but you were paying more attention to the act they were putting on. 

Casmere was sobbing. She’s a much better killer than she is an actor, you thought, but the people in the audience clearly bought it. You’d give her credit, though; you were all trying your best to get this thing cancelled, even if that was highly unlikely.

Next came the two crazy Careers who made Gloss’ acting look world class. Then Beetee went on stage, using logic as a tactic rather than emotion. Smart, but logic wouldn’t sway President Snow’s wishes. The Capitol sent innocent kids off to die every year in a televised event to pay for something that happened years before any of them were born—logic was obviously not their strong suit.

Wiress went next, and that’s basically when you tuned out. She was pretty out of it, not really saying much. Finnick was going after her. That’s what occupied your thoughts.

“Hey, you alright?” Your were snapped out of your daze by the very man you were thinking about, as if he was reading your mind. Those blue eyes that you loved so much stared down at you, concern swimming through them.

Those ocean eyes. You could drown in them.

You cleared your throat, straightening your shoulders. “Yeah, I’m good.” He continued to stare down at you like he was completely unconvinced, but before he could say anything, they were calling his name.

He cursed under his breath then placed a soft kiss on your temple before having to walk out on stage, that famous smirk on his face. He was so good at that, at going from hard to soft so easily, cursing to kissing you.

He was good. He was real good, and he was a much better actor than any other tribute here. He was so good that he could make even you believe his performance.

You watched them from the TV backstage. “Finnick,” Caesar started. “As I recall, the last time we spoke, it was with your other half, who is here today.” The crowd cheered.

Finn nodded, smiling tensely, which you were sure he did on purpose. “That’s right.”

“You and the Princess have so graciously shared your love with us, and we have fallen in love with you both, perhaps as much as you love each other.” You and Johanna simultaneously rolled your eyes. Finnick, though, smiled to the cheering audience, mouthing thank you’s that no doubt made them swoon. “None of us know how to deal with the fact that you are both going into The Games- I certainly haven’t come to terms with it. Tell us, how are you dealing with this?”

You scoffed. If there was something the people of the Capitol liked to do, it was pretending that your tragedy was their own. They didn’t know even half of your pain, any of yours. 

Caesar practically shoved the microphone in Finnick’s face. He looked down, like he was thinking, but you knew he probably had this bit down pat already. “If I’m being honest, neither Y/N nor I have come to terms with it, either.” He now looked right to the camera. “What I do know is that I will do whatever it takes to protect the woman I love.” The crowd cooed as you looked straight at the TV, as if Finnick was staring into your eyes. “And if I… if I die in that arena, then my last thought will be of her lips… and how lucky I was to have met her and have had the opportunity to give her my heart.”

The crowd went wild and Caesar said something in response, but you couldn’t hear it. You were stuck staring into Finnick’s eyes, the eyes you fell in love with. Oh, he was so good. He could dance the dance so much better than you. Because everything he said, he almost made you believe that he meant it.

You blinked the tears in your eyes away when Johanna shook you, telling you they were about to announce your name. You put the mask back on, and it was your love for Finnick that made you do it. You were doing this for him.

An exhale left your lips as you waited for your cue. “And now, ladies and gentlemen, as our Prince exits, I have the honour of welcoming his counterpart to the stage. The winner of the 67th Hunger Games. The Princess of Panem. Y/N Y/L/N!”

The doors you stood behind opened and you walked onto the stage, a stellar smile on your face as you waved to the roaring crowd. You just had to play the role, and everything would be fine.

When the cheers died down, Caesar gave you a sympathetic look, or at least a look that he thought was sympathetic. “Now, Y/N, it is lovely to see you. You look stunning.”

“Thank you, Caesar. It’s always wonderful to see you. I just wish it was under different circumstances.” You glanced to the crowd, catching their pity. For once, that was the exact emotion you wished to inspire.

“Yes, I think I speak for us all when I say that this is not easy.” You tightly smiled, even though you really just wanted to flip him off. “We just spoke to Finnick, he has been quite expressive these past few days in the Capitol, but you, Y/N, you have not been as revealing. Please, we’d like to know what’s been on your mind.”

If Caesar really heard what was on your mind, then he’d be appalled. That wasn’t your goal, even though you’d greatly enjoy that. Instead, you had a different play.

The audience was very quiet in anticipation of your response. You sighed, keeping the tired smile. “I, um… I’ve had a lot on my mind, really. Finnick and I, we thought we had more time, time to get married and even have kids, but now it’s like that time has just been… stolen from us.” Collective awes resounded throughout the crowd as Caesar brought his other hand to his chest, like your words moved him. “It’s- it’s just not fair, simple as that. But I love him, and that love will survive, even if I don’t.”

The audience let their dismay be known while Caesar shook his head. “Oh, my dear, I have seen your love- we all have, and I know that it will never die.” You nodded in agreement, listening to everyone else agree with you.

The acting was easier than you thought it’d be. Maybe that was because it wasn’t all acting, not for you. You knew your role, and you knew it well, but your love for Finnick was not something you had to fake. It was perhaps one of the only real things you had left.

“Now, we are all in for an emotional night, so I’d just like to lighten the mood a little- is that alright?” You nodded again, though you wondered how he would’ve reacted if you didn’t. “Okay, now we all saw your display at the parade- isn’t that right, everyone?” He paused, letting them applaud. “Yes, it was magnificent. Would I be right in assuming that you have something similar planned tonight?”

“Oh, you’d be correct,” you responded, flashing a grin at the whooping crowd.

“Please, please.” He stepped back. “Go right ahead.”

You glanced at Cinna sitting front row before pressing the button of the device he gave you. The golden petticoat then went up in flames, seemingly “ejecting” the skirt of your dress, sending it from above your knees to your ankles as it went from skin-tight to flowy. The very bottom faded into a teal colour, like the sea.

The crowd’s cheers got louder than you thought possible. Caesar wowed, then raised his voice. “Ladies and gentlemen, the Princess of Panem!” You gave the crowd one last wave before making your way up the stairs to stand with the rest of the victors.

You were standing next to Finnick by the time the next tribute was called out and the attention was on them. To your surprise, he grabbed your hand, holding it tightly. But what really surprised you was the slight tremble you felt.

You looked up at him to see him already staring down at you. His mask fell a little, and instead of the at-ease Finnick you just saw, you were looking at a much more serious, stern version. You were confused by what could’ve brought this on, but then he leant down slightly, whispering in your ear, “I told you. I’m not letting you die.” When he pulled away, he didn’t look any less serious.

Oh, what a great liar he could be. There he was, making you believe in things that couldn’t possibly be true. You were going to die. You knew that, and you’d accepted it already. But Finnick hadn’t accepted it at all. He looked like he was believing his own lie.

You don’t know why this had shaken him so badly. Maybe he felt obligated to you, maybe he felt bad for you, but whatever it was, you weren’t gonna make it worse.

You could be a good actor, too.

For him.

You nodded, whispering back, “I know.” This looked to have calmed him down a little. He kissed the side of your head, and then the mask was back up. He kept his tight hold on your hand, and you let him.

You never know when it’d be the last time you held hands, and so you were gonna enjoy this while it lasted.

Even though this was an “emotional night,” as Caesar had dubbed it, you still got satisfaction out of everything the victors were pulling. When Johanna came on stage, she had a totally different approach than all of your sad acts and Beetee’s logic: she said what you all really wanted to say, giving the Capitol a loud fuck you.

You and Finnick had to stop yourselves from laughing amidst your shock. Caesar definitely wasn’t expecting that. You knew Snow definitely wasn’t expecting that, either. You hoped he was watching this right now, and you hoped that all of Panem could feel your outrage.

But if you were surprised by anything, it was the so called star-crossed lovers from district 12. Katniss’ wedding dress was a nice touch; she could’ve convinced even you that they were in love, if you didn’t know any better.

You weren’t the only one with a message to send to the Capitol with your attire. She spun around and her white dress was engulfed in flames, transforming into a midnight blue dress similar to yours. And when she lifted her arms, wings were revealed, and the smile on your lips widened.

“It’s a bird,” Caesar stammered in awe. “It’s like, a- it’s got feathers- it’s a bird- like a-”

You murmured at the same time as Katniss spoke up, “Like a Mockingjay.” You looked up to Finnick, seeing him already smirking. Everdeen was a lot ballsier than you thought.

“Your stylist certainly has outdone himself this time, hasn’t he? Bestowing not one, but two just astonishing looks upon us! What theatricality.” The attention was drawn to your designer. “Cinna! Take a bow.”

You were growing to like this man more and more, knowing that the Capitol must have hated him.

When the cheers died down and Katniss came and joined you all, the event was almost over with just Peeta left. You remembered the advice you gave him; you had high hopes for him, and he did not disappoint. 

He claimed he and Katniss had a secret wedding, reeled them all in, and then he added the cherry on top. “You know, Katniss and I, we’ve been luckier than most. And I wouldn’t have any regrets at all…” he paused, choking up, “i-if, if it weren’t… if…”

“If it weren’t for what? What, Peeta?”

“If it weren’t for the baby.”

Hook, line, and sinker.

The audience clamoured. You slapped a hand over your mouth to hide the upturn of your lips, feigning horror. Finnick was in the same boat, stifling a laugh.

Golden boy was smarter than he got credit for.

People in the audience stood up, shouting while Caesar tried to calm them down. They were calling for The Games to be stopped, exactly what you’d been trying to achieve all night. Caesar whispered something to Peeta away from the microphone, and he walked up the stairs to the rest of you, hugging his apparent wife.

Then suddenly, you were nudged by the person next to you, looking down to see their hand outstretched. You quickly realized what was going on and grabbed it. And then amidst all the fury, you brought your hands up together. Yes, they wanted you to kill each other, but you were all united in the same fight first.

It became obvious that Caesar couldn’t contain the crowd’s indignation any longer, so the anthem played, increasing in volume to try and drown them out, but your actions were still so much louder than words. 

That’s when the lights cut out.

But it would be a lot harder for the Capitol to snuff out the spark you all lit.

While you all did your best, your efforts appeared to be futile. Snow wasn’t against killing children, so you supposed that you all should’ve known better than to think that he’d cancel The Games for Everdeen’s baby.

However, it wasn’t completely useless. You had the public’s support. Sponsors wouldn’t be hard to get, so at least that was something. But all in all, The Games were still happening. One winner. Twenty-three of you would be dead, and you were going to be one of them.

Your last Games, you were relentless, selling your soul to stay alive. And you were gonna do it all over again, but this time, your objective wasn’t staying alive at all. It was making sure Finnick could make it home to Annie. 

Lying there in Finnick’s arms that night for what could possibly be the last time, you realized that you would die without ever having been loved by someone. You were with Finnick, and you loved him, but he didn’t love you back.

These last few days, you had been consumed by fire, knowing that you would burn everything down if it meant your lover would be safe, but it was like it was just hitting you that you’d been warming yourself up with a flame that wasn’t ever really yours.

You knew without a doubt that Finnick Odair was your soulmate.

But you weren’t his.

Tears pooled into your eyes at the thought, and so you quickly buried your head into his chest before a panic attack could came on. You calmed down to the sound of his heartbeat, the heartbeat that you personally would make sure didn’t stop until he was old and his hair was grey.

The next day was a blur between the hovercraft, having the trackers injected into you, and then being separated from Finnick. The only thing you really could remember was how he kissed your cheek before he left.

And then you were in the tube, rising up into the arena. You couldn’t get a good look at it. Every time you blinked, your Games flashed before your eyes. Sun, cold, dirt, blood, screaming, murder.

You inhaled deeply, closing your eyes as the announcer counted down. Pull yourself together, Y/N, you thought.

And then The Games begun.

His moves are precise and dexterous, a second nature he’s developed through cuts and burns. He fine chops with confidence, raking the onions and throwing them in the sizzling skillet. The sound explodes through the busy kitchen. A dirty joke must be told from the man mashing potatoes in the station next to him because he laughs, shoulders shaking, wrinkling his nose in some sort of snort. His head shakes; his hair with it. 

He grabs a towel, covering his skillet with the lid, throwing it over his shoulder. A stained white shirt with short sleeves practically strangles his biceps, showing off tattoos scattering down his arms. They flex as he reaches for a bubbling pan, pouring some cream in his red concoction. His long, spindly fingers grab the pepper, twisting it with two surely rough hands. The fingernails are cut short but clean. Knowledgeable fingers; fast and sure and nibble. There’s a callus at the base of his index finger, a telltale sign of experience. Tough skin that would—

“Are you looking for something?” Matty calls. 

You jump, eyes snapping from his hands to his face. He arches an eyebrow, smiling at you. There’s something almost condescending about the look you don’t quite enjoy, something that has you blushing. You twist your fingers in your apron. “Um, yes. Salt? I’m supposed to fill up the shakers.” 

Matty nods. “Dry storage.” You must be giving some sort of lost look because he turns to his friend, asking, “Can you watch that for me?” 

After a noise of affirmation, Matty throws his towel on the counter, walking up to you. His chin tips to the right, but you wait until he brushes past to follow behind him. You’re practically running to catch up with his steps— once again, fast and sure and confident. It feels like it’s all you've been doing these days: running; trying to keep up with this bustling environment. Everything spins nauseously around you, dizzy and off-kilter, running a hot plate when you’re still scribbling down the order. 

“Daddy didn’t show you around?” Matty asks, although the mean tone clearly doesn’t particularly wish for an answer. That, too, is all you’ve been doing these days: laughing off taunts and teases about your father. 

You huff. “He’s been busy.” 

“I know.” 

Matty stops in his tracks. He turns to you, tilting his head towards the door. Dry Storage is labeled neatly on it. You flush, suddenly feeling quite green for needing to be handheld towards it. You open the door, stepping in. 

“He’s never here much,” Matty continues, leaning on the doorframe, arms crossed. The end of a seahorse peeks out of his white sleeve. 

“He has three restaurants,” you defend. Dozens of quips about your lineage poke at your mind, burned and spiked. It’s because of the uncauterized scabs that you hear yourself retort, “And you should be glad. You guys wouldn’t get into half the things you do if he was here.” 

Matty arches an eyebrow, staring you up and down. Suddenly, the carefully chosen outfit feels silly on you: the shirt too modest, the skirt too proper, the ponytail too tight; like a child playing dress-up. Heat burns at the back of your neck, but you stare at him head-on, unwilling to back down. 

His eyes snap back to yours, grin digging in his cheek like he’s figured you out in a matter of seconds. Like the results were easy and unthreatening. Matty’s voice is low but teasing when he finally answers, “Oh, you know nothing about the things we do.” 

You give him a deadpanned look. “I’m new, not stupid.” 

He nods, humoring you.  “Okay,” he licks his lips, cheeky. “Then what do we do?” 

A sinful thrill pumps up your legs at the sight of him, hot shame contrasting it. He’s condescending you, two steps short of speaking slow and short like you couldn’t figure the words out properly, and you’re clenching your thighs in answer. It’s embarrassing. Still, the low thrum of excitement reverberates up your limbs.

You swallow thickly, redirecting your attention to the overfilled shelves. “What don’t you do?” 

Matty tsks. “That’s evading the question.” 

“I’m not being quizzed.” 

In the corner of your eye, you see him throw his hands in the air. “You’re right.” 

You shake your head, looking through the shelves to busy yourself with something other than the tempting need to stare at him. Though your eyes wash over the cans and boxes, your brain registers none of them, too busy playing back the flash of flexed biceps and curly hair falling down his forehead. 

Matty doesn’t seem willing to let your thoughts order back to functional sense. Instead, he hums, adding, “Three restaurants, yet you’re still working. You’ve been cut off or something? Been really bad?” You practically hear the smirk in his voice. You shake your head, glancing at him. How wrong he is. You open your mouth to tell him such, but he cuts in, “Let me guess.” 

You snort. “Good luck.” 

“You got busted at a politician’s son's powder party? It almost made the news, but daddy bought your name out of the press.” 

You cock your head, amused against your will. “How rich do you think I am? My dad owns middle-rated restaurants, not the Ritz.” 

“Flunk out of college?” 

“I’m actually on the dean’s list.” You hate how proud your voice sounds; it’s silly to care about such things in the real world. Matty cooks and sweats and bleeds all day, and a smile sticks to your cheeks for flimsy things that will immaterialize in a few years. 

“Bought prostitutes?” You give him a look, which he laughs at. “Alright, fine. I give up. What did you do?” 

“Nothing.”

His eyebrows rise. You’re a little glad to unroot him. “Nothing?”

You blush, turning back to inspect your row of dry ingredients. “I just— I haven’t had much to do since I’ve been back from college. My dad thought it might be a good idea to get some real life experience.” 

“Nothing to do in New York?” His tone is incredulous. He coos, “You’re really not bad at all.” Again, you feel embarrassingly your age. A little girl amidst the real world, too fast and large for her to make sense of it. You’re ill-fitting.

Annoyed, you scoff, “Cause I’m not doing coke off someone’s tits in the locker room?” 

Matty grins, elated. “She finally said it.” 

You roll your eyes, electing to focus on the shelves of ingredients instead of the shape of his lips in a lopsided smile. It’s doing too much on your soupy brain, spinning with the inexplicable need to appear older to him, more mature. 

His steps ring through the cramped space. Matty brushes against your back. You tense, freezing on the spot, hyper aware of the heat of his body. He smells like cigarettes. You close your eyes, breathing him in, fragile heart racing against your ribs. His arm reaches above you, grazing your shoulder. The ghosting touch is enough to have you shivering. 

“There,” Matty whispers in your ear, the letters tickling the skin. He grabs the salt. 

He’s off you in the blink of an eye, quicker than you can make sense of. Again, just a few feet behind in a fast paced world, left to catch up in the race. You slowly turn, pressing your back against the shelves, trying to hold yourself up on shaky knees. Matty smirks, still too close to think properly. Between you is the box of salt. 

You accept it hesitantly. “Thanks,” you whisper, trying to focus on his eyes and not his lips stretching over spiky teeth. 

“You’re welcome, princess.” He goes for the door, leaving you breathless from the sudden lack of him. He lingers in the doorframe, turning to add, “If you need anything, just ask me.”

You grip the salt like a lifebuoy. The world spins beneath your feet. “Okay.” 

He’s out the door. You’re out of breath. 

—

You slam the backdoor open, stepping out into the alleyway with a scream. You bury your head between your hands, trying to wipe away the boiling frustration, like a soothing hand on your forehead could make it all better. Fuck this job. You scream again, muffled by your palms. Fuck this fucking job. 

With a deep breath, you emerge out of the safety of your fingers. You exhale, plastering a fake smile on your face. You can’t see, but you surely look clownesque, all red and puffy from anger, grinning like the butt of the joke. 

You turn to get back inside, ready to bite your lip as guests and hosts and waitresses lay into you for being too slow, and too lost, and too stupid. You’re starting to think you might have done something terribly bad after all. This summer job is looking more like some cruel punishment than a special shot at experience. 

Something catches in the corner of your eye. You jump, whipping your head, finding Matty smoking on the stairs of the fire escape, grinning to himself. Your heart races. “I didn’t see you there.” 

“Evidently.” 

You linger in the moment, feet strangely glued to the ground. Matty takes a drag of his cigarette. You follow his lips as the gray smoke pours out of them, drifting around him like some sort of fire signal you’re not decoding. 

He holds his hand out, cig burning bright orange in offering. “You look like you need it.” 

You stare at the offending rolled up paper. You’ve spent twenty-one years of your life categorically refusing any smoke, wrinkling your nose at the very smell. Yet, it somehow seems attractive hanging limply between his long fingers, one bandaged from some cut. 

You nod before you register the action, walking up to him. Matty smiles at that. It’s strange to tower over his sitting body. He always seems larger than life in the restaurant, filling up every nook with his presence. 

“Thanks.” You take the cigarette from him, shivering as your fingers graze over his. You inspect it, incertain on how to handle it, before placing it between your lips. You inhale, then cough, bending away and burying in your elbow. You leave it with a grimace, your mouth coated in tar. 

Matty laughs. “First time?” You flush, hating to look so inexperienced and young in front of him. That’s enough answer for him. “Cute.” 

You scowl. “It’s bad for your lungs.” 

“Why’d you take it then?” 

You feel strangely cornered, like a finger pinned you in place. You up your nose, “It’s impolite to refuse a gift.” Matty snorts at that. 

“You’re real proper.” 

“I was raised right.” 

Matty smiles to himself, laughing. “I’m sure you were.” Your stomach clenches, unnamed thrill waving through you. 

You cock your head, volleying, “Is this where you make a daddy joke?” 

He arches an eyebrow, shit-eating grin on his face. “Do you want me to?” 

“I think they’re getting redundant,” you sigh dramatically. The cigarette resting primly between your fingers, burning away, seems to give you uncharacteristic confidence. You feel oddly cool, like the tipsy girls smoking on balconies at the parties you never stayed long at. Like you could be anyone.

Matty holds his chest, eyebrows furrowed in hurt. “You wound me.” 

“Get some better material, then.” 

He tsks, reaching out for the cigarette. You offer it gladly, mostly to get electrified from the grazing touch; alive because he exists to prove it. 

Smoking seems so easy when he does it, pouring out of his lips and drenching you in the cloudy air. You can’t look away from him, breath hitched. Your eyes focus on his mouth, following its movements religiously. Matty tips his chin towards the cigarette, grossly misunderstanding your fascination. “Do you want me to show you how to smoke it?” 

You resent the idea of inhaling again, smearing your tongue in the awful taste just to embarrass yourself. But you resent the idea of walking away more, finding back the dizzying dance inside. Losing his overwhelming presence, pressing into you even when you’re a respectful foot away. 

Your chest feels tight. You shrug, faux-nonchalant. “Sure.” 

“You have to suck on it,” Matty says, and you’re almost sure he’s emphasizing the word suck on purpose. Now there’s a dirty vision of your knees pressing meanly on the asphalt, wrapping your lips around— You blush to your roots. Matty continues, smug, “Inhale, let it rest in your mouth to cool, breathe in, let it go down to your lungs, blow it out. Easy.” He offers the cig again. 

You grasp it, surer in your fingers this time. “Easy for you.” 

“I’m sure a girl on the dean’s list can figure it out.” Your heart skips a beat, but you ignore it dutifully. It’s stupid to care that he remembers. It’s stupid to flush. It’s stupid to feel embarrassed. 

You try again, placing the butt of the cigarette between your lips, almost nervous to breathe in after being burned. You inhale, but it goes offly down your throat, and you cough again, blinking away the taste. 

You shake your head, giving him back the cigarette. “I don’t think it’s for me.” 

Matty accepts it back, taking an easy drag. The smoke blows around you and the warning signs look a lot clearer in the fog this time. Still, you don’t step away and run to the bathroom to wash the smell out of your fingers. 

Matty eyes you up and down, raking his burning stare over you. “Do you want to shotgun it?” 

The vision of bending down, leaning into him, lips almost close enough to be something — something to prove you’re living, some experience to recount to your college friends — is a tantalizing sight. A thrilling idea, perhaps too much so. You shouldn’t be thinking of him this way. You shouldn’t be pressing your legs together at the very concept. 

“Why not?” You smile. You’re weaker than you used to give yourself credit for. A mind of steel, down a straight and narrow path, arrowing to success in a precise line. 

It’s one bend, you tell yourself. Barely that. A small curve, like a faltered step. 

You close the distance, ready to lean over him, but Matty surprises you. He grabs your wrist, tugging you down on one of his spread knees. You balance yourself from the sudden fall with a grip around his shoulder— strong and big and, shit, now you’re going to be thinking of them all day. 

“Hi.” 

His eyes dance with amusement. “Hi.” 

You sit straight on his lap, prim and proper, almost a caricature of yourself. Matty’s hand travels to your back, spreading across your spine, warm over your flimsy uniform. Maybe to steady you, if you weren’t sitting straight-bolt, fixed. You can’t figure out a reason for it at all, and it leaves you growing hot in his arms. 

From up close, Matty looks disheveled. A faint stubble, eyebags, gray-streaked hair drooping down his forehead, small silver hoops looping from his ears; he’s completely unmade. Near like this, you can smell the sweat sticking to his skin under the cigarette smoke. It should repulse you, but there’s something raw and real about him, something tangible and palpable contrary to the white-collared boys your father has paraded in front of you. You’re not against it. 

“What do I do?” You whisper, because that’s how loud you need to speak for him to hear you crystal clear. 

“Don’t have to do a single thing, princess. Just inhale.” 

His lips wrap around the cigarette. A shot of excitement rings up your spine. You wonder if he feels it buzzing under his fingertips. If he hears your heart slamming dizzily fast against your ribs. If he sees the way your stare hangs onto his mouth. It parts and leans into yours, blowing softly. 

You inhale just like he asked, but it’s more an inherent gasp at the proximity of him than a fully formed thought. Smoke slips past your lips, swirling down your throat as you breathe in. It doesn’t taste so bad like this.

Matty rubs his thumb on your back as a reward. “Good girl.” You bite your lip to contain the pleased grin, too childish in the lap of a man. “Knew you could do it. How’d you find it?” 

“I liked it.” 

“And here I thought you were raised right.” 

You lick your lips. “There’s been some faults.” He grins at that.

“Do you want another one?” 

The thought of his lips nearly pressing into yours again is desperately appealing. You shift on his knee. “Yes.” 

Again, Matty blows smoke into your open mouth, practically shoving the warning bells past your lips. They slide on your tongue, but it tastes strangely sweet when you’re in his arms. You exhale a faint cloud of gray. His hand travels down to your hip, squeezing there. 

Your thighs press together, hand digging into his shoulder. Arousal drips down your stomach, pooling between your legs. He hasn’t done much to warrant this, other than share a ghost of a kiss. The word spins in your mind, hot and exhilarated. You want to feel the stumble between your palms, want to lick the smoke off of his lips, want to wipe your mind from the mere concept of restaurants and guests and plates. 

You think of leaning in. You consider it, clawing at his shoulder, fearing dripping on his thigh. Your fingers tingle. You’re getting a story, an experience, a proof you’re alive— if it’s fucking in a New York alleyway, so be it. At least your heart will beat with something other than nerves. 

You’re doing it. 

Your chin tips towards him, but Matty retreats, leaning back into the stairs. He takes a drag of his dwindling cigarette, blowing it into the air, far away from your readied mouth. Hurt splashes behind your ribs, but you don’t let it show. 

Stealing the cig from his finger, you take the last puff. It falls down to your lungs with more ease and you try to contain your giddy excitement at finally getting it right. Breathing out a plume of smoke in his face, you wash him in gray. 

Adrenaline rushes up to your head. You close your eyes, breathing in the dirty air, face buzzing pleasantly. A smile ghosts your lips. Maybe you’ve been wrong all these years. Maybe smoking is for you. Your tongue tastes like fire. 

“It’s bad for you,” Matty says. Your eyes snap open, locking with his. His stare is dark. 

You arch an eyebrow. “Now you’re concerned for my health?” 

He pinches your hip. “Brat.” 

You press the butt of the cigarette on the staircase railing, throwing its carcass to the ground amidst the others. Pushing yourself up with his shoulder, you find yourself gleeful that he bends his head back to watch you, literally looking up at you. Your fingers linger on his shirt, itching to climb them up to his neck, his jaw, his cheek. Trace the shape of his lips, then taste them yourself.  

“Thanks for the cig.” 

Matty nods. “Sure.” 

You finally let go of him, taking a step back, then another one, before turning around and walking back to the restaurant. Your whole body is feverish. 

You shake your head, making your way back to the table of a prissy elderly couple. Your smile is wide and relaxed. “Is everything good here?” 

—

You clutch your handbag as you step through the dining room. The crew crowds around the bar, hunching over the counter in a laugh and downing back shots, spreading through the unmade tables on squeaky clean floors. You’re unsure on your feet. You’ve never been to shift drinks before, instead practically running back home with your sweaty uniform shoved in your bag. This time, as you slipped into your white flowy camisole, you felt a strange resolve climb up your spine. 

It’s been happening more and more these days. As you get a feel of the land, zigzagging through bustling tables without a second thought, you find yourself chatting with the other waitresses, pestering the host, bumming castaway cigarettes from line cooks. 

Matty spots you from his seat at the bar. A smile splits on his face as he waves you over. “Hey, princess. C’me here.” 

There’s a giddiness you can’t control swirling in your stomach. You walk to him, now more certain in your steps. There’s a sense of belonging when you’re near Matty; when he talks to you; when he makes you a plate and slides it your way wordlessly. Like you’ve been tapped. You’re in because he opens the door. 

You climb up the stool, slamming your handbag on the counter. “You need to stop calling me princess,” you say. 

Matty is already amused, wiping beer foam out of his smirking lips. “Why? It fits you so well.” You narrow your eyes at him. The digs about your father don’t hurt when it’s from him. He makes them bulletless. 

“People will get the wrong impression.” 

His chin rests on his palm, staring you up and down, tongue digging in his cheek. “And what impression is that?” 

You flush, looking away. Your skin burns at the memory of him, feeling his gaze still seeping through your cheek. You inspect the collection of bottles on the shelves behind the working bartenders instead of answering. Painstakingly reading the labels is a better activity for your mind than the whirlwind images of you on your knees, on the floor, gasping, giggling, coming— fantasies you’ve indulged in more times than you can count, although you always close the pandora box almost as quickly as it opens.  

Matty follows your eye line. He leans into you, asking, “What do you want?” 

For all your meticulous label-reading, the letters suddenly become blurry jargon. The bar is far-stretched, out of your depth. A world of unknowns rippling in amber-colored bottles. You bite your lip, hesitating. “I don’t know.”

He arches an eyebrow. “Have you never had alcohol before?” 

It must be written on your face from how quickly he clocks you. Again, you find yourself wishing to grow a few inches taller, be just a little older, more complete. 

You purse your lips. “I just turned 21.” Matty laughs, throwing his head back. It’s a nice sound— rare in the overwhelming kitchen where a swear is better currency. Still, you despise the mocking undertone. Defensively, you cry, “What? It’s the law!”

Matty shakes his head, turning to his bartender friend polishing glasses, a constant sour expression on his face. “George, make her a sex on the beach.” 

George nods, putting down his glass and reaching for a shaker. He twirls his vodka between expert fingers, pouring it in freely. You watch, a little intrigued by his sure moves, biceps flexing as he shakes the concoction with one hand. 

“He’s a show-off,” Matty says. “A sex on the beach does not require all this.” 

“Fuck off,” George retorts, though he sounds little bothered. He pours the cocktail in an ice-filled glass, topping it with an orange and a cherry, before sliding it towards you. “There you go, sweets.” Beside you, Matty rolls his eyes. 

The drink is an orangey pink, seemingly fruity. You give Matty a look. “Did you give me the girliest drink you could think of?” 

“Well, I wasn’t about to start you with straight whiskey, was I?” 

Tentatively, you raise the drink to your lips, self-conscious of his heavy stare on you. You throw a glance his way, locking eyes with him as you finally tip the glass. You take a sip, licking the rim clean, smiling as he swallows thickly. “I like it,” you declare. 

His hand clenches around his beer glass. “Good,” he says, sounding rough. Thrill beats up your thighs. You clench them, crossing one over the other. 

You drink another mouthful. You grin as you lick the pink off your lips, hyperaware of his transfixed watch on them. “Why is it called a sex on the beach?” 

“Some bartender named it that.” 

“That’s not a very precise answer.” 

He scowls, taking a sip of his beer. “Do I look like an encyclopedia to you?” 

“Nah, you’re right.” Matty side-eyes your taunting face, pink grin teasing him. He seems to ready for a cheeky comment, which you provide happily, clicking your tongue, “Not smart enough for that.” 

He arches an eyebrow, spinning on his stool to face you. His knees trapp your thighs. Your skin is on fire almost immediately. Tingles where his legs graze you climb up and up your body, growing wetter at his unimpressed stare. You’ve lost all of your bravado. 

“Miss dean’s list has a lot to say, I see.” You lick your teeth, standing a little straighter. How you want to be good. You shake your head. He peers at you, almost pouting. “No?” 

Again, you shake your head, biting down your smile. A sudden paragon of excellence, you affirm, “I don’t have anything to say.” 

Matty hums. “Better watch that mouth if you can’t walk it.” 

“Why should I when you watch it for me?” Your heart roars under your ribs. Nerves and thrill mixes in your belly, making a heady mix that shoots up your spine. 

Matty presses his knees on your thighs. “Careful.” He smirks down at you, leaning in to whisper, “People will get the wrong impression.” 

You press your legs back. “They could be right.” 

Matty laughs, reaching for his beer and taking a sip. His Adam's apple bobs as he drinks; you clench your thighs together, watching as he licks the condensation off his lips. He narrows his eyes at you. “You know, you got that innocent act, but you’re trouble.” 

You chuckle, faux-offended. “You’re the one who gave me my first cigarette,” you argue. Your eyes find your lonely cocktail, grabbing it. “And my first drink.” As though to prove your point, you swallow a long sip. 

Matty eyes you. Heavy meaning drips from his lips as he trails, “And…?” 

You scoff, swatting his knee. “I’m not a little girl.” Your hand lingers on it. Primly, you add, “I’ve had sex before.”

“Oh yeah?”

You sit straighter. “Yes. I’ve had a boyfriend.”

“And how was he?”

You blush. “He was…” Memories of awkward meetings in his dorm room as he rutted above you flash back to you. The messy rubbing just under your clit, always too hard yet too slow. The falling sweaty over your naked body, laughing to himself, asking if you’ve come. “Fine.”

Matty arches an unimpressed eyebrow. “Fine?”

“Yes!” You cry defensively. “I don’t know. We were 19. It wasn’t gonna— rock my world.” 

He smirks, voice low as he says, “Baby, he wasn’t doing it right then. It should always rock your world.” 

It’s so fucking obnoxious of him to say. You should be disgusted by the ego-fueled words— should doubt them, coming from a man and all. 

Yet all you can think about is the way his hands work in the kitchen, quick and precise and dexterous. How they would feel on your skin, rough and callused. How they would work on your body, expert and certain and steady.

Fuck, you wanna know them. You want them at your clit, fucking into you, pinching a nipple, wiping your lipgloss off your chin. 

Dirty images fill your mind. Again, you clench your thighs, soaking your underwear. Your breathing has grown heavy. He watches you with dark eyes, like he can tell. Like he sees the thoughts as they cross your brain. Sinful pressure builds in your stomach. 

You take a nervous sip of your drink. You lick the vodka off your lips, but still it’s not enough to stop you from breathing out, “How so?”

Matty warns, “You’re teasing.”

“I’m asking.” Your hand pinches his knee.

Danger pumps in your veins, alongside something dirtier, but still you stare at him straight on. His eyes intensify, his fingers clenching around his pint. You can imagine the feel of them on your trembling thighs, digging into the flesh to bruise it. You think he’s imagining it, too. 

“Well, firstly, he needs to make you come. On his knees preferably— just worshiping that cunt. Gotta be fucking starved for it, you know? Dive like it’s his last meal.” 

Your breath hitches at the filthy words, toes curling in your sneakers. You swallow thickly, trying to brush away the invading images of Matty devouring you on a table of the dining room. It’s a poor attempt— the idea of his tongue lapping at you, swiping your clit, fucking into you is so vivid you can almost feel it. 

Matty gives you a conspiratorial look, whispering, “But I bet he wasn’t doing that, was he?” You shake your head, dazed. He tsks. “Shame.”

You keep a vice-like grip on Matty’s knee, trying to reattach yourself to some kind of reality. He’s tangible under your fingertips— warm. 

“See,” Matty continues, smirking down at your clear mesmerism: breathless and dark eyed, following his lips religiously. “After she’s come a few times and she’s all dopey and relaxed and fucked out— when she’s wet enough she’s dripping on your chin— that’s when you can first slide in. Then you gotta find what she likes best, you know? If it’s rough and fast or slow and deep. You can’t just thrust uselessly. That’s what your little boyfriend did, right?”

You nod, too taken in his honey web to care to keep up with your aloof, fine experience act. “Yeah. Yeah, he would just drill.”

Matty shakes his head, rubbing his lower lip. “Fucking nineteen years old. They never do it right.”

“Oh, so you were also kind of shit?”

He smiles. “Well, no. But I’m a prodigy.”

You roll your eyes, laughing, “Oh, my God. Shut up.”

Matty grazes your bare thigh with a cold, rough hand. You shiver, spreading your legs instinctively. He smirks at that, cocky and smug, letting one callused finger draw up your skin. 

“Finish your drink,” Matty orders, tipping his head towards the nearly over cocktail. 

You don’t even think twice before grabbing the glass, downing the end of it. Two fingers find your thigh in reward, dancing on the flushed skin.

He leans into you, locking his eyes with you as he whispers, “The trick is to never let her get too used to something. Speed up then slow down. Switch positions. Always rub and rub at that little bundle of nerves until she’s come on your cock so many times she’s begging you to leave it be.” His whole hand swallows your thigh. You sit straighter, pleasure coiling in your belly. “And then you make her come one more time. That’s how you rock her world.”

You’re shortwinded, waves of overwhelming excitement razing through your fragile limbs. You open your legs wider, inviting his adventurous fingers, practically begging for them, really. 

Matty gives you a purposeful onceover. You must look desperate, staring at him like you could swallow him up. 

His hand leaves your thigh, grabbing his beer to finish it in one long sip. He stands up, leaving your burning cocoon. You miss the press of his legs once they free yours. 

“I think it’s time to go home,” Matty declares.

Again, hurt at being rejected pinches your heart. He’s raised your temperature to a sinful degree and now he’s backing down, leaving you wet and throbbing around nothing, hair risen at the prospect of dust. 

Embarrassment flushes your cheeks. You scowl, crying, “Oh, come on. I’m not a child.”

Matty gives you a dark stare that makes you shudder in thrill. His voice is low and gravelly when he says, “Believe me, I know that.” His head tips back to the door. “Let me drive you home.” 

You bite back a smirk. “Yeah?” A drive home, to an empty house without onlookers. You can’t contain your excitement. 

Matty rolls his eyes, grabbing your hands to get you off the stool and onto your feet. He takes your bag next, swinging it over his shoulder. He starts walking. “Come on, princess. I can’t have her majesty home after midnight or she’ll turn into a pumpkin.” 

You skip after him, knocking his shoulder with yours once you finally catch up. “You got the metaphor wrong. Cinderella didn’t transform into a pumpkin, she lost her dress and slippers.” He gives you a side look which you giggle at, suddenly all giddy. “Plus, it’s already 2:25AM. You’re too late.”

“Yet you still have your dress.” 

“That can be arranged.”

Finally outside, you breathe in the fresh air before stepping into Matty’s car. It smells like cigarettes and weed in it, some useless pine car scent hanging from the rearview mirror with blue dices to cover it. You buckle your seatbelt. 

Matty doesn’t say anything as he drives, focused on the dark roads stretching in front of you. Your heart beats faster as every known house catches your peripheral vision. Every inch brings you closer to the tantalizing end goal. It’s a miracle you sit still. 

He parallel parks in front of your house, gripping your headrest to look backwards before dipping his wrist over the steering wheel. 

You can’t wait anymore, unbuckling your seatbelt as soon as the car stops and practically running to your house. Matty doesn’t follow. You turn back to his open car window as he sits still, frowning at him. 

“Alright,” Matty nods at you. “Goodnight.”

Your lips gape in utter disbelief. “Are you serious?” All that teasing, all that talk, all that promise. He drove you home, for fuck’s sake. And he’s saying goodnight? 

Matty arches an eyebrow, taunting as he says, “Do you want to have a bad night?”

You might very well see red. Fuck him. You scoff, flipping around purposefully and trudging to your house, already apprehending the hour you’ll spend with your hand between your thighs thinking of him. 

“Sweet dreams,” Matty screams after you, a fucking shit-eating grin resonating in the letters. 

“Fuck off!” He laughs, unbothered. 

The sound follows you as you slam the door close. It’s only once you’re inside that Matty drives away. 

—

“Can nobody do a fucking sauce right anymore?” Matty yells, dipping a spoon in a brown concoction, anger and stress sweating off of him. Gray streaked hair swoops over his forehead, curls taken inch by inch down through the day’s unstoppable dance. His cook’s jacket is wide open, stained near the hem, sleeves rolled up to reveal just a hint of his tattooed arms. 

“What did you say about my sauce?” A fellow cook bites back, several inches shorter than Matty yet crowding him threateningly still. 

Matty throws the pot back on the stove’s top and it bangs loudly. “That shit’s runny as fuck. It’s not going out.” 

“It’s perfect.” 

He scoffs, shoving the spoon on his chest, smearing his black shirt in leftover sauce. “It’s uneatable. Do it again.” 

Although the cook seems to want to bite something back, Matty turns back to his station before he gets the chance. Fury radiates off of him as he grabs his knife, making quick work of his peppers, forearms flexing as he chops. His jaw clenches while he works, looking like he has more to say, like he’s actively biting his tongue to hold them back. 

You follow the cut of his jaw religiously, wondering if it’d leave you bloody. Scarred on your open palms, on your titled neck, on your spread legs—

“Don’t fuck the line cooks.”

You jump, turning to come face to face with Veronica. Her hair is up in an unmade ponytail, arms full of perfectly dished plates, and she looks impatiently towards you. “What?” 

“I said don’t,” each word get enunciated through her red lips, “fuck,” she presses, “the line cooks.” There’s a vague ominous air as she adds, “They’ll destroy you.”

You blush, feeling shy at being caught ogling. “I wasn’t going to.” 

A derisory snort comes out of Veronica, looking you up and down. “Sure.” Her stare turns soft, almost worrisome. You realize her genuine care as she sighs, “Just— beware of him.” 

Your eyes burn with the need to look his way. “Who?” 

Veronica rolls her eyes. “Don’t play dumb. You’re not as innocent as you make yourself out to be.” There’s a note of pride in her. There’s a note of pride in you. Seen through the stuck-up ponytail and daddy’s name; accepted. 

She twists around, walking away in a hurry. As you make your way to your recently seated table, you can’t stop throwing a self-indulgent look Matty’s way. He looks back. 

You grin, wiggling your fingers in a wave. He snorts, shaking his head as he laughs. 

—

You walk into the kitchen still wearing your uniform, although you’ve swapped the heels for some sneakers, your trusty bag swung over your shoulder. You rake a hand through your hair, scalp sore from the pigtails you’ve kept it into. 

Matty is bent over the top of the stove, scrubbing at the iron with a dedicated look. You linger in the spectacle for a second, his arm flexed as he works the scraper, his frustrated little frown, his clenched jaw. He’s a sight to be savored; unfortunately, you’ve got no time. 

“Hey,” you call, breaking him out of his transe. Matty straightens, turning to you with a nod of acknowledgement. “Front of house is all clean,” you say, pointing towards the doors leading to the dining room as though he could forget where it was. “Adam just left. Wife and kid and all that,” you continue with the lightness of a joke. “I’m off, too.”

Matty discards his scraper, leaning against the stove as he wipes his dirty hands with a towel. He frowns, asking, “How are you getting home?”

You snort at that, as if it was a silly question. “The bus,” you say with a condescending duh tone you must have picked up from one of the waitresses. 

Matty throws the towel over his shoulder, repeating, unimpressed, “The bus?” 

“Well, it’s kind of like a car, you see, but it’s longer, and it stops at several—”

He gives you a deadpan look, not even upping the corner of a smile for your wit. “Don’t be cute.” 

You cock your head, trying to maintain that cool you’ve managed to exude instead of falling into some giggly, blushing thing. He always seems to bring that daunting side of you, like you revert back to a shy, innocent girl in his presence. It’s ironic, considering that divergence from the fatalistic line you’ve always followed is all his fault. 

“It’s not safe,” Matty continues. 

“It’s the bus.,” you laugh. 

He stares at you, unflinching. “It’s New York. And it’s, what, two AM?” Matty shakes his head, falling further into his convictions. “I can’t let a pretty, young girl like you walk around at night.”

You roll your eyes. “You’re not my dad.” 

He snorts, though there’s a cruel edge to it. He’s vicious when he retorts, “I think we’re both well aware of that.” The purposeful onceover leaves a dizzying dance through your belly, ravaging down your legs in childish excitement. You can’t stop the blush from spreading on your face this time. Winning, Matty declares definitively, “Just wait for me. I’m almost done. I’ll drive you home.” 

“Fine,” you sigh, dropping your bag on the floor and climbing up the counter. You dig your phone from your waistband, scrolling as your feet kick through space. 

You take a peek over your screen. Matty turns back to his work, scrubbing at some black grease as his hair falls over his face. There’s a panting, dedicated look on his face that’s not too far fetched from what you imagine— You shake your head. 

Biting your lip, you call with faux-innocence, “Be quick, though.” You smirk, gleefully apprehending his reaction as you set the fatal trap, “I’ve got a date after.” 

Matty freezes, though he does not look up. Stilted, he asks, “Really? Who?” 

You sigh, kicking your feet, acting like you’re not hyperaware of the effect of your words on him. “One of the waiters. He said he’d come over after the crew’s night out. He’s 24,” you start conversationally. Matty's hand clenches around the unmoving scraper. You lick your teeth, trying to kill the devious smile on your lips as you finish, “I listened to your advice.” 

Matty whips back to you. He finally sees you, sitting like a queen on your throne made of stainless steel, mischief and tease written all over your grin. His eyes narrow at you. “Are you fucking with me?” 

“I don’t know. Am I?” 

“You’re fucking with me.” 

You cross your arms, shrugging. “Maybe. Maybe I just really want that orgasm you were talking about. Maybe I have to get it somewhere.”

A beat of silence lingers between the two of you as Matty stares, clogs turning in his mind. He takes a warning step towards you. “If you’re fucking with me…” 

“Oh, my God,” you roll your eyes. “I can’t be anymore clear—” 

Matty stands in front of you before you have time to finish. The words die in your throat as you blink up at him, losing that carelessness you had when he was several safe feet away. 

He slithers between your thighs, pressing his hands on your naked knees, cocking his head at you. Your heart races inside your chest, skipping beats every time a fingertip presses into your flesh. He wants you to feel him, feel the merest edges of him like they are digging under your skin. 

“You’ve got nothing to say now.” You swallow thickly. His fingers tiptoe up your thighs, smirking down at you as he coos, “Come on. What’s the other advice I gave you?” 

“Give her one more—” 

“Don’t talk it if you can’t walk it.” His hands near the hem of your skirt. He cocks his head at you. “Well?” 

“I was fucking with you,” you breathe out, eyes mesmerizedly locked with his. “I said no to the waiter.” 

Matty grins at that, proud. “Good,” he whispers back. “Because 24 years old are just as shit as 19 years old.” 

“Except your prodigious self.” 

“Except that, yeah.” 

You smile. “I’m starting to believe you just think there’s no one who can fuck me like you.” 

“Princess,” Matty starts. “I promise there’s no one who can fuck you like me.” 

You hook your hands behind his neck, tugging him into you, smirking. “Prove it.” 

He catches your lips with no hesitation, drawing you into a hot kiss like a starved man. He tastes like the cigarettes he chainsmoked with two bartenders, like the salt he added to his sauce, dipping a spoon in to taste test it, like the bourbon he let you take an indulgent sip of before downing it, laughing at your grimace.

There’s a giddy laugh threatening to slip out of your mouth, some unbelief that Matty Healy is finally kissing you. You’ve spent hours in that juvenile room of yours thinking back on your exchanges — the glances, the squeezes, the ghost kisses, the unbearable tension — one hand dipped between your thighs, eyes wrinkled close trying to remember the way his lower lip drooped with the weight of his cigarette. Wondering what it would be like to take it out, lick the tar off his tongue, finally know what he tastes like. 

Your fingers travel up to his hair, messy and tired from a long day of work in a boiling kitchen. You pass your hands through — finally, finally — kissing him back with equal fervor. You slide your hips closer to him, trying to nestle his body into the crook of yours. 

Matty grips your thighs like a lifebuoy, holding onto you like you could disappear from his hands with the trick of the light. There’s hunger in his mouth, hunger in the way he clutches you, hunger in the climbing hand groping one of your breasts, rolling his palm on your pebbled nipple. You moan into his mouth, shocked and terribly turned on. 

You realize how much he must have been holding back all the times you’ve teased him, poking and prodding at him in hopes he would snap; the tension you’ve built inside of him, like a string pulled too far. Matty kisses you like he fears it might be the last time, like he needs to make it count. Like there’s a lesson to teach you. 

He must not have figured you out as well as he’s been boasting about if he thinks this could ever be the last time. 

You grip his hair, drawing him closer to you. He’s all limbs and lips, overwhelming, overheating. You break from his mouth just to catch your breath, forehead falling on his as you pant. 

“Fucking hell,” he laughs, lazily thumbing at your tits. You difficultly stifle a moan, your lips parting as pleasure swoops in your belly. 

“Don’t stop,” you already find yourself begging. 

“Don’t you worry about that,” Matty tuts, sneaking a hand under your shirt to take your naked breast instead. The sensation is double the intensity, and you find yourself incapable of holding back a whiny groan. “When I’m done with you, you’ll have to call in sick tomorrow,” he boasts, watching the spectacle under him with mesmerism. 

You laugh at that. “Sure.” Matty dips into your neck, leaving wet kisses down your collarbones. Your breath quickens, though you still find the words to tease, “You know, you’re such a boy still.” 

Matty’s head snaps up, daggering you with a stare. You giggle at his offense, petting your hand through his curls. “I’ll show you boy,” he mutters, mostly to himself. 

His hand falls out of your shirt, finding back its rising course on your thighs. He flips your skirt up, showing the pink underwear you wore into work. A groan comes from the back of his throat. You smirk, parting your legs further, giving him an eyeful. 

You think he’ll kiss you again. Unbuckle his belt. Drag the pink lace off your legs with a wink. 

Instead, Matty kneels in front of you. 

Your breath hitches at the sight; Matty on his knees, looking up at you with those intense, brown eyes, swollen lips from a torrid kiss parting in anticipation. Thrill descends down your belly, gripping it tellingly. You wait for his next move on the edge of your seat— literally, as he drags you near the end of the counter and kisses up your spread thighs. 

Your ex-boyfriend went down on you once, some awkward, wet thing between your thighs he came back up hating. You didn’t mind; you found the whole experience strange too, faking moans as he lapped at the wrong place, overthinking about what you must taste like. You were glad, secretly, that you didn’t have to go through the whole ordeal again, even though you were giving him plenty of head. 

When Matty kisses a stripe up your skin, swallowing your thigh with a rough hand, there’s a strange sense of excitement. Through his nonchalance, he’s always been precise and dedicated. A dexterous man, with surely a dexterous tongue. 

Maybe he’s right. Maybe 19 year olds are shit. Maybe Matty can blow your mind. 

You stroke your hand through his hair, grinning as he shivers. “You’ve talked a big game,” you say, though your voice is choked. “I hope you can back it up.”

Matty hums, sneaking a thumb straight to your clit. He finds it with practiced ease, pressing into it before faintly circling it. Euphoria shoots up your spine. You bite back a scream, gripping his hair, rolling your hips into him for more. Your eyes widen, surprised by your new reaction. Even when it’s your own knowledgeable hand between your thighs, you never find a hit of pleasure this true this quickly, let alone your sloppy ex. 

“Don’t you worry your pretty, little head, princess,” Matty whispers, continuing to raise your temperature impossibly high with a focused finger. “I can.”

And then, before you can quip back something else about his clear bravado, his lips latch around your clit, sucking on it. “Fuck,” is your visceral reaction, your head thumping against the wall. His stubble rubs on your inner thighs.

Matty doesn’t stop there, of course, descending his hand to tease at your entrance. His tongue swipes at you diligently, overwhelming you with ecstatic feelings. You can’t make sense of the waves attacking you, following the rhythm he licks on you. 

You tug on his curls with a death grip, half-convinced you might unroot them. You grind into his face, your thighs closing in on his cheek in a desperate attempt to keep him close. As though he, too, could disappear any instant. Stand up and leave the room, say he didn’t mean it. 

But he doesn't. Instead, he slips one finger inside of you, thrusting and curling expertly. Your free hand grips the counter, attaching you to some semblance of reality. 

He leaves your cunt long enough to whisper, all cheeky and smug, “How am I doing?” 

“Fuck,” you cry, drawing him back to your soaked entrance. He licks your sensitive bundle of nerves with a smile as you drip on his chin. “You’re fine,” you say, still out of breath, because you can’t stop being difficult. 

Matty makes a noise of offense from the back of his throat, breaking away again as he arches an eyebrow at you. “Fine?” He repeats, unamused. He adds a second finger inside of you, letting the pornographic sounds of your sopping cunt ring through the empty kitchen. 

You bite your lip to hold back the scream you want to let free, your legs shaking around him. Pleasure so thoroughly builds inside of you, stretching languidly under your heated skin. A moan ends up slipping through your tyrannical guards. Matty latches onto that, fucking into you quicker, drawing eyerolls and whines out of your swollen lips. 

You’ve always been implacably in control. A girl of steel, focused and stubborn. How easily he wrecks you, unbuilds you from your very careful bricks. 

Matty smirks at your reactions, thumbing your clit next as he watches you washed with bliss. He kisses your knee, quickening his pace. “Is this fine?”

“Yes,” you nod. There’s something boiling under your skin, bubbling in warning. You sense the fire, curling your toes, licking up your weak legs, joining in Matty’s relentless fingers inside of you. 

He pouts. “Only fine?” Turning his head, he kisses your other knee. The delicate press of his lips tingles up your thigh. 

“It’s—” You cry out a moan, wrinkling your face shut. Fire dances in your belly, pressing against your skin. You want it free. 

“What?” Matty asks. He bites your knee, demanding your attention. Your eyes open in electroshocked surprise, peering down at him as you pant. The room spins around you, a world of spice and stainless steel. “Come on, admit it.” Your eyes lock with his, dark and intense and so fucking smug. He’s amused at your pathetic attempts to lie to him. He knows. 

You huff. “It’s okay.” 

His eyes darken. You halt your breath, waiting for the shoe to drop. You’re afraid he’ll stop, feel his desire to do so in the bated breath, to teach you a lesson. Your legs buzz, ready to trap him between them, beg him to forgive you. Apprehension swoops in your belly, meshing terribly well with the building bliss. 

Matty doesn’t even slow. His mouth finds your clit again, furiously licking at you as he thrusts his fingers. You scream once more, your hips moving in instinct, bucking against his sticky face. 

“Matty, Matty,” you chant, in complete contradiction to your taunts. Fire climbs up your chest, flushing it, falling down your arms. Your entire body shakes, the hints of an earthquake hitting you. “I’m—“ 

His fingers curl just so, finding the perfect angle. Your head lits aflame, fire swirling around your putty brain, and you’re burning down. You come with a guttural cry, gripping Matty’s hair, the letters of his name loosening on your tongue. 

You come down slowly, difficultly, as your limbs unclench their choking hold on him. You can’t seem to quite catch your breath, panting as you blink and blink, trying to get used to this new world. 

Fuck. This is what a real man does. 

You grin, a laugh bubbling out of you. “Wow,” you say, smiling down at him. 

Matty still looks at you with that dangerous, hungry look. He wipes his chin, sharp teeth flashing at you as he stands up. He kisses your jaw, your neck, relishing in the moans you give back. Your skin is oversensitive, already too hot and only getting worse when he spreads a hand on your waist.

He sneaks under your shirt, raising it, throwing it off your shoulders. His eyes find you, ravenous, taking in the matching pink bra to your long lost underwear. You flush, looking away shyly. 

His callused fingertips find your waist again, teasing a ghost touch over your ribs, to your back, up your spine, slowly and faintly enough you’re half sure you might be dreaming this whole thing up. 

Matty kisses your collarbone, undoing the claps of your bra with one hand, letting it fall down your shoulders. He dips his head out of your neck, looking down at your bare breasts, nipples peaked in perfect offering. A groan chokes in the back of his throat. His hand finds one of your tits, swallowing it as he grabs it. You sigh, pleasure waving through you already. 

Matty finds the crook of your neck again, kissing up its curve to whisper in your ear, “What’s your name?” You frown, cocking your head, telling him. 

Matty tsks. “I’m not done, then.” He takes you by the thighs, picking you off the counter and lowering you to the squeaky clean floor. You cry in surprise, clutching his shoulders. 

The tiles are cold on your back. He spreads your legs out for him, kissing back down your body. You rest on your elbows, watching him as you pant. 

“You’ve already—“ Surely, he must be wanting something more reciprocating now. 

Matty shushes you. “Let me do my job.” He unzips your skirt, dragging it off your legs, taking a second to take in the sight of you. 

He opens your thighs, readying you for him again. You breathe quicker, incapable of keeping up with his moves, head turning at the idea of another earthshattering orgasm. You want your body to crack and break next. 

Matty looks up at you, smirking. He spits on your cunt. His tongue sticks out, licking up your juices next. You roll your eyes, pleasure razing through you, your elbows giving out as you fall to the ground like a wireless doll. A teasing laugh blooms out of him as he dives back in. 

It’s sloppier this time, given you’ve practically drenched your inner thighs. He throws two of your legs over his shoulders and eats you like a starved man, licking and fucking and sucking. You can’t keep up with his burning tongue, though you don’t try to, letting yourself be washed in the feelings he coaxes out of you instead.

You moan freely, unashamed of the pathetic sounds you let out for him. You’re glad to be on the floor just so you don’t have to hold up any part of your body. You’re weightless, discombobulated, choosing to exist as only a body overtaken with euphoria. 

You say his name most of all, grinding on his tongue. Matty seems to like that, answering with a particularly skillful swipe, gripping your hip bones with two greedy hands. 

It’s honestly obnoxious of him to not even use his hands. 

His tongue fucks into you, his nose rubbing at your clit. He holds you like you could shatter under him, melt into syrup and seep into the cracks. It might very well be possible with the overwhelming pleasure coursing through your veins. 

“I’m right there,” you pant in warning, gripping his hair to keep him still, rolling into his face with sloppy hips. He laughs at that, the sound resonating in your cunt, and ecstasy weeps inside of you. “Just—” 

You don’t have time to warn him of anything as he runs his tongue furiously. Your cunt flutters, clenching around his tongue. You scream, your thighs dropping completely open in surrounder. He sucks on your clit and you crack, splintering apart, falling into the ground. You feel yourself shake, buzzing and buzzing, reality slipping from your fingers as he continues to lap at you. 

It’s too much too soon; you push him out of your legs with a whine, pouting down at him. Matty indulges in your silent request, dipping into one of your thighs to wipe the slick from his chin. It dries on your skin as he climbs up your body, out of breath. 

Matty kisses the tip of your nose, smiling down at you. You’re wrecked, your sweaty hair spilling around your head, your lips bitten raw, your skin flushed. You grin at him still, slack, thoroughly happy and satisfied. You rake a hand through his hair, messier than they were before your ruinous hold on them. 

“Fine?” Matty teases. 

You hum, looping your arm around his neck. “Maybe a bit better than fine,” you taunt back, raising your head to catch his lips. He scoffs in your mouth, though kisses you back indulgently. 

He leaves it to litter kisses down your neck, your collarbone, your chest, finding a nipple and sucking it. Your breaths quicken, something close to pants leaving your dry mouth. As he licks at it with a tongue you’ve grown sinfully familiar with, his hands slip to his jeans, undoing the buttons eagerly. You hear the zip go down, excited shivers climbing up your spine. 

Matty tugs himself out of his pants. You look down to watch the spectacle, biting your lip as his hard cock springs into his hand. He strokes it once, twice. Rises from your tits to kneel between your legs, towering over your body. 

“I’ll make sure you can’t even walk into work tomorrow.” Thrill burns at your skin. Your legs fall open for him in devotion, obeying to his words like gospel. 

“Promise?” You smile up at him, cheeky. 

Matty snorts, gripping one of your thighs to raise your hips, lining his cock with your dripping entrance. “Only promise of mine you can trust, darling.” Locking his dark eyes with yours, he slowly enters you. 

“Shit,” you cry, spasming around him. You reach out blindly, catching his hand on your hip, wrapping your fist around two of his fingers and tightening. It sends the message clear enough; he chuckles, bottoming out. You moan in relief, bliss blooming around your bones, heart fluttering in great apprehension. You bite back a giggle, playing with the curls at his nape. 

Matty bends back down to kiss your cheek, holding himself up with one arm, laying still between your thighs. He’s buried so deep, you feel your nerve endings rearrange for him. Your cunt throbs around him, begging for more, but he just sweetly sprinkles your face with love. 

You scrunch your nose, shaking him off. “I want more,” you demand, raising your hips as proof. Faint pleasure ripples through you, but it’s still not enough. 

Matty nips at your jaw, torturously frozen between your thighs. “Wait. You haven’t had sex in two years. I don’t want to break you.” 

You furrow your eyebrows, a bratty pout storming on your face. Meanly, childishly, you clench your fist around his digits. “You won’t break me,” you argue. “You need to check that ego of yours.” 

Matty snorts. “The lady is impatient. As if I didn’t already give her two great orgasms.”

“They were fine, remember?”

“A bit more than fine.”

“Just a bit.”

Even slower than he entered you, Matty thrusts out of you, watching intently as the pleasure reverberates inside of you, all the way to your lips parting in greed. 

He lingers in that moment once more. You sigh frustratedly, staring up at him unimpressed. His shit-eating grin catches on his lips. He thrusts back in just as unhurriedly, repeating his vicious cycle until you’re so thoroughly ready you might lose your mind from the lack of something.

Something quick. Something hard. Something great.

“I’m not fucking breakable,” you finally snap. 

Matty hums, shaking off your hand easily to palm your tits, kissing down your neck. “This is how you treat princesses.”

“I will make you eat that nickname until you have to spit it out in chunks.” 

Matty laughs in the curve of your neck, shaking his head. His hair tickles your jaw. He comes back out to peer at you, amused. He grinds his hips into you, barely any real friction. “She’s got threats.”

You narrow your eyes at him. “I’ve got more if you don’t fucking move.” 

Matty tsks. “For a smart, college girl, you’re not being very bright. Have I fucked your working brain out of you already?” 

You cock your head, frowning at him. Matty smiles, hooking your knee higher. The angle is heavenly— though he still doesn’t fuck, he hits you deep. You bite your lip, shivering, feeling pleasure tingle up your legs. “I thought you were all proper. Raised right. Weren’t you?” Again, you give him a confused look. “Don’t good girls say please?” 

Your eyes widen in understanding. You cup both his cheeks, staring into his eyes as you moan, “Please, Matty. Fuck, I need you to fuck me. I need you to—“ 

Matty snaps his hips into yours, a quick, relieving rhythm. You mewl, head rolling on the tiles. “There she is,” Matty coos. “My good, little girl.” You nod at him, agreeing with anything out of his mouth now that he fucks like this. 

Matty searches for the right pace, switching up his flow and scrutinizing your face as he does so. Hard, fast, deep, slow; he tries it all, mixing and matching and making your insides throb around him. Your mouth parts uselessly, slack moans rolling down your chin. He licks your jaw, leaving you wet as he pants. 

Your hands on his cheeks flex in place, digging into his jaw, the faint stubble rubbing on your palms. You might very well be hurting him, but you’re too gone to care. He deserves it, anyway. You don’t know why, but you’re sure he does. 

“Is this what you wanted?” 

You smile wide at him. His eyes narrow, expecting the taunt as you say, “Well, I still know my name.”

“Is that so?” Matty says, sitting up on his heels. He holds his weight with a hand near your waist, using the other to raise your ass up the ground. With this new angle, he fucks into you deeper, quicker. 

You whine, your hand wrapping around his grounding arm, holding onto it desperately. Your claws dig into his tattoos. Ecstasy waves through you, pushing and pulling with his strokes. Your head suddenly feels very light, faraway from your bared neck. 

Finally, he seems to settle on a pattern. How quickly he’s successfully read the mindless sounds, figured you out from the pathetic eyerolls overtaking your face when he quickens his pace. Pleasure weeps inside of you, burning through your skin. You don’t ever want him to stop. 

He thrusts in and out of you frantically. Deep, long strokes that perfectly hit this heavenly spot inside of you. He grins down at you like he knows, burying against it again and again until you’re melting in his arms. 

You can’t do anything but cry for him as Matty undoes the last remnants of your brick walls. You lose any semblance of shame, bucking your hips in the same rhythm as his, calling his name in your father’s kitchen. You’re too gone to care, too gone to even think of it. 

“My pretty girl,” Matty moans above you. His hand caresses your hip, that godforsaken callus on his index finger rubbing the bone. “Even prettier than I imagined.” 

You give him a slack smile, thrill and pride spinning in your head. He thought of you. How you want to know all the fantasies he holds in that treasure chest brain of his. Want to know if he touched himself thinking of them. 

Your hands dig into his forearm, staring up at him. “Tell me.” Matty shakes his head. “Come on,” you plea, spoiled. Matty is unflappable, smirking down at you as he fucks into you. “Please, sir.” 

Matty’s hips falter in their movement, a low groan slipping from his lips. His hand digs into your hips, staring down at you in shock. “Fuck,” is all he chokes out. 

You grin, a greedy thing finding its new weapon. You palm your own breast, playing with your nipple as you moan. “Was it like this, sir?” You whine, twisting your fingers, letting the pleasure wash over you. “Is this how you imagined it?”

Matty moans at the sight of you, flicking between your face and your tits, unsure of where to settle. He’s lost that shit-eating smirk of his, that certainty, that unshakeable control. He’s watching you, obsessed. 

“No, you were actually well-behaved in my dreams.”

You snort, shaking your head. “Not true.”

Matty sighs, climbing a hand from your hip up your waist, groping the forgotten, lonely breast. “Nah, you’re right,” he admits. He mirrors your moves, rubbing his thumb as you do. “I wanted you like this,” he whispers, mesmerized with you. “Under me. Fucking purring for me.” 

His hips find back that relentless pace between your thighs, quick and hard. Ecstasy coils in your belly, breathing, alive, eating through your limbs. You shiver, moaning his name. 

“I wanted you on the steps of the emergency staircase, riding my cock for everyone to see. Good, proper girl like you, fucked dumb by a dirty man like me.” You nod, encouraging him, biting your lip raw. 

He lays back over you, maintaining his quick strokes. His pelvis rubs on your clit with every thrust, making your body tingle tellingly. Pleasure presses against your skin, fire simmering beneath it. Maybe you really will crash and burn this time, maybe you’ll split.

Matty leans into your neck, sucking your earlobe into his mouth, whispering in the crook of it, “Bending you over the bar. Tugging on that ponytail. Railing pretty princess so hard she starts crying.” Matty’s hand cups your jaw, rubbing on the skin as he peers up at you. “Fuck, I wanted to ruin that makeup.” One finger wipes at your chin, surely spreading your strawberry lipgloss. “I’d spend my days on my knees.” 

His words, his hands, his cock, it’s all too much for you. You scream, the sounds falling into his hand. Hot ecstasy bubbles under your skin, threatening the very edges of you. You roll your head, but Matty keeps you grounded, his fingers digging into your jaw. 

He stares at you unflinchingly. “Open your mouth, princess.” You do as you say, parting your lips wide open. Matty eyes you with a smirk. 

He leans in, spitting in your open mouth. A thrilled shiver pianos down your spine. You should find this repulsive, but your cunt clenches around him in complete contradiction. He grins condescendingly at you, undeniably aware of his effect on you. “Here’s that nickname.” 

You roll your eyes. You throb around him, bliss razing through your limbs. Your toes curl, your fingers flex, and you feel everything in you pull tight in preparation—

“Matty—”

“Tut-tut,” Matty says, patting your lips. “Not my name.” 

“Sir,” you whine, throwing your head back. “I’m gonna come.” 

He flashes his teeth at you, wolfish. “Magic word?” 

“Please.” Matty rewards you with deep strokes, hitting again and again at the exact right spot, and soon you’re trashing under him, completely boundless. 

“Oh, God,” you scream, “Oh, God.”

You tremble under him, your face completely shutting, your lips parting. You burst, crying out for him, trapping his hips with two strong thighs. You crash against the floor, spilling on the tiles like dropped salt. Flecks of you roll on the linoleum as you finally come. His name rips from your throat, a delicious chant you can’t control. It’s all you know. 

The world slips from your fingers; everything relaxes in great waves. Relieving fingers dancing on your skin, making you not a stone, but a girl. A woman. 

You sigh happily, letting go of Matty’s arm, opening your eyes to examine the crescent moons you left on his skin. Some branding iron of yours. 

Your head falls back on the ground, rolling lazily. You feel lax, drooping on your bones. Maybe you’re truly one with the ground. 

Matty kisses your cheek. “You did so well, baby,” he whispers proudly. You smile, too tired to open your eyes again. 

His hips rock into yours slowly, grinding. Everything in you is hypersensitive to him. Your skin buzzes just from the faint movement, burning ecstasy waking up in your belly from nothing. 

“Do you want to ride me?” Matty asks, voice rough in the crook of your ear. Just the idea sounds sore and exhausting. 

You pout, shaking your head, whining, “‘M too tired.” 

“Alright,” Matty kisses your temple. “Just lay there and be pretty.” You nod in agreement.

Indulgently, Matty doesn’t follow that brutal, heart racing tempo. He fucks you slow and deep, grinding his hips into yours, reaching between your bodies to rub at your clit. You whimper under him, clutching his shoulders, wrinkling your eyes as pleasure drips on your ribs. 

It’s barely anything, but it’s still too much. You’re fucked out, sensitive and exhausted, and every stroke just resonates deep inside of you. His name dances on your tongue, languid pleasure coursing through your sloppy veins. Matty accidentally slips out of you, his cock hitting your thigh. He groans frustratedly, slipping back into your wet cunt, though you’re barely aware of it. 

Your hands paw at his shoulders. A frown dents your forehead. You blink your eyes open, staring at him unhappily. “Take off your shirt,” you demand. Really, it’s not fair you’re naked and he’s perfectly dressed. 

Matty huffs a laugh, stilling to reach behind his head, pulling his white shirt off his shoulders. Though he makes an attempt to drape back over you, you keep him away. Your eyes greedily takes him in: his tattoos, his stomach, his biceps. He’s stronger than you had imagined, his muscles sharper, rippling and flexing with strenuous effort. You bite your lip, feeling arousal pool in your belly.

“Happy?” Matty says, although there’s a faint blush on his face. 

“Extremely,” you nod curtly, flashing your teeth at him. Matty shakes his head, thrusting back into you. 

Your mind drips from your ears, faraway and drowsy. He’s faintly there between your thighs. Your lips part in pleasure, but you’re mostly distracted by the sight of him. Your eyes wash over all his tattoos, tracing a finger over his deer tattoo, trying to memorize it. 

Matty slips from your legs again, this time hitting your swollen clit. You jump, biting your lip. Frustrated, he lines himself up, sliding in slowly, watching your face. He makes another low growl of dissatisfaction, leaving you entirely. 

“Fuck, you’re too wet,” Matty sighs. You laugh, watching him in disbelief. Too wet. You shake your head. Here’s a fucking problem. “I’m serious,” he says, though there’s definitely an amused smile on his lips. 

He grabs his discarded apron, wiping your wetness off his dick. Then he cleans the mess between your thighs meticulously, shaking his head. “You know, it’s not better if you’re too wet. You lose friction. When I’m fucking you, I want you to feel it.”

Matty dips two fingers down your entrance, taking a pool of your soaking arousal, bringing them back to your lips. You open up before he has to say, sucking them into your mouth. He grins proudly, fucking elated to have you finally obeying for him. “Good girl,” he praises, lining his cock again.

He thrusts into you and this time, shit, you feel it.

You feel awoken from your daze, zapped into reality. You grip his shoulders uselessly, moaning around his fingers. He’s wild and rapid, showing you how it’s really supposed to feel. You can’t wrap your head around the feeling, overrun by his hips. 

Matty slips his wet fingers out of your mouth. Pathetic whines and moans leave your lips unsmothered, caught in a hot tongue kissing you. His stubble rubs at your chin, but it quickly leaves your mind as his freed digits find your clit again. You hiss at the first contact, sensitive. He circles it gently, kissing you better. 

Your lungs are on fire. Your head spins. You’re so deeply aware of his cock inside of you, driving you wild. You can’t make sense of the ground under your back. You scream for him, scream for the sky, scream because you can’t do anything else. 

“I can’t—” You shake your head. “Fuck, it’s too—” Another moan leaves your mouth. Pressure grows in your stomach, spreading through each limb. Already, you almost want to snort. 

Matty’s mouth grazes over your jaw, your neck, your collarbone. He kisses each spot, leaving a few sweet pecks. The complete opposition of his ruthless cock makes your head dizzy. Licking your shoulder, Matty opens his mouth and bites you. Pain and pleasure strikes through you; you cry, falling apart. 

“Matty—”

It almost surprises you that you can still, feeling the edges around you blur into non-existence. You live only in the euphoria, in momentary feelings, in the now. Your body trashes under him, ecstatic, boneless. Your climax hits you hard and true, a mighty hunter hungry for blood. 

You come back down slowly, difficultly, trying to make sense of his arms as you breathe. “Fuck,” is all you can say, shortwinded and gooey. “Oh, my— Fuck.”

Matty flutters kisses on your shoulder, surely loving away the marks of his teeth. He rises slightly to whisper in your ear, “Remember what I said?” You shake your head, not in any place to think, let alone remember anything. A smirk grows on his face, tickling your skin. “Give her one more.” 

You blink your eyes open, staring at him incredulously. You can barely feel your legs and he wants to— He’s dead fucking serious. “I’m too hot,” you whine. “It’s fucking burning in here.” 

“Alright, princess.” Matty slides out of you. A moan of dissatisfaction leaves at the feeling of emptiness. You clench around nothing, suddenly unused to the lack of him. Matty stands up, tugging you with him, picking you up in his arms as he walks the kitchen. 

He opens the walk-in fridge. Cool immediately surrounds you, making you sigh pleasantly. He caresses your hair, whispering, “Can I?” Though you know you’ll regret it tomorrow, you nod at him. “My brave girl,” Matty coos, delicately putting you down. 

Like his favorite doll, you let him puppeteer you to your knees, pushing you until your tits hit the freezing ground. You hiss, jolted awake by the sudden cold. Your head turns back to stare at him, kneeling behind you. “Does that feel good, baby?” You nod, which he tuts at. “Use your words.” 

“Yeah, it’s—” In complete contradiction, heat pools in your stomach. Your hard nipples on the icy floor sends a rush of ecstasy up your exhausted body. You’re suddenly quite aware of the world, though it restricts to this walk-in and Matty Healy’s cock as it teases your entrance. 

“That’s not really using your words, is it?” He slides over your wet cunt, hitting your overeager bundle of nerves, but never giving in. You huff, understanding his silent demand. 

“It’s really good,” you nod, moving further up to rest your tits on a fresh bout of frozen ground. Again, a thrilled rush makes your head spin. You cry, laying your cheek down, surrendering yourself. “You’re— You were right. No one can fuck me like you.” 

“I know I’m right.” Finally, Matty enters you. His hips buck into your dripping core, sloppy and messy from extenuation. There’s a lack of technique, just raw need and want as he fucks into you with abandon. He grips your thighs, bending into your body to kiss at your shoulders, whispering dirty promises again. “Just me,” he pants. “From now on it’s just me.” 

You nod at him. He’s ruined you for other men anyway; you don’t think you’ll even be able to walk without remembering the shape of his cock inside of you. 

One of Matty’s hands leaves you, resting on the ground beside your sweaty bodies. He lingers there for some time, then sneaks it under you, finding your clit expertly. You gasp as his cold fingers make contact with the hot bud. He swipes them rapidly, making you drip on his cock. 

“I’m close,” you moan already, feeling that telltale euphoria wave through your trembling limbs. 

“Me, too,” Matty moans above you. He grips your hair and tugs, raising you from the ice, kissing your jaw. His low sounds bury in your skin. His hips snap harder into you, chasing both of your cosmic ends. 

Your face wrinkles as pleasure overwhelms you. You shake it frantically, whining, “I wanna see you.” 

Matty laughs, slipping out of you just to flip you around. Again, he pushes you on your back, raising your legs until your knees near your shoulders, wasting no time to bury inside of you. He hits you even deeper this time, shockingly possible. You whine. His fingers find your clit, rubbing it with precision. You travel the planes of his back, digging your nails in desperately. 

He looks as fucked out as you. His gray-streaked, sweaty hair falls over his forehead. His swollen lips part in euphoria, chin still sticky with you. His skin is flushed. His arms shake, exhausted and overworked. 

“I’m there,” Matty pants above you. You nod in agreement, feeling the same building bliss spin around your head. “Are you gonna come for me, princess?” Again, you nod eagerly. 

“Yeah— Yes, sir!”

Matty hits the spot with one artful stroke and you’re done, mewling loudly as you come on his cock. You soar out of your bones, pleasure ravaging through you with deadly fingers. You shake under his body, screaming and crying, breaking apart. Vengefully, your nails rake down his back, clawing at him. 

With a hot groan in your ear, Matty slips out of you, coming on your stomach. He shivers above you, wrinkling his face in euphoria, white cum hitting the planes of your belly. He breathes in heavily, opening his eyes to smile down at you. 

The world sways around you. You’re bone-deep tired, struggling to keep your eyes open, to even think of moving a finger. Everything is hazy, some ghostly daze draping over the walk-in. You sigh, fluttering your eyes closed. 

Teasingly, Matty goes down your body, spreading your thighs to lap at your juices. You cry, head raising up the ground miraculously, pushing his head away. “Goddamn, enough. I get it. You’re the best sex of my life.” Matty chuckles, pinching your thigh, before falling beside you. He pants, exhausted. “That was even better than I imagined,” you say languidly, smiling slackly at no one. 

“Same.” 

“I don’t think I can take the bus now,” you frown. “Or tomorrow.”

“Call in sick,” Matty says, smirking at you cheekily. You roll your eyes at his antics. “What? If one person can do it, it’s daddy’s girl.” 

You slap his shoulder. “Don’t talk about my dad when you were just inside of me.” 

“No?” 

You up your nose. “It’s uncouth.” 

Matty laughs, shaking his head, sitting up. He groans as he stands, as though his entire body was sore. His back is littered with furiously red scratches; you flush, recognizing the shape of your nails. He leaves the walk-in just to come back with your clothes, pulling his shirt down his chest. 

He wipes at your soaked thighs with his apron, then at the cum on your stomach, cleaning you thoroughly. With delicate care, he puts your shirt over your head, pulling your skirt up. He stashes your bra in your bag, giving you a teasing look as he shoves your underwear in his pants. Again, you roll your eyes at his obvious antics. 

“Do you need to eat anything?” Matty asks. “We’re in the walk-in, afterall.” 

Your face scrunches. “Oh God, I fucked in the walk-in. I won’t ever be able to come in here, now.” 

He snorts. “Believe me, we weren’t the first and won’t be the last.” You wrinkle your nose in disdain. “Wow. Miss can get railed in the fridge but it’s a problem when others do it?” 

“It’s unsanitary.”

“I think there's still some of your juices on the floor,” Matty says, pointing randomly at the ground. You flush, trying to spot the rumored stain, embarrassment seeping through your cheeks. Matty doesn’t let you linger on it, grabbing two of your hands and pulling you up on your feet. “Food?” 

“Are you hungry?” 

“Well,” Matty smiles smugly, and you already groan in regret, “I already ate.” 

“Nevermind.” You try taking a step, but your feet wobble under you, pain prickling up your thighs and the inside of it most of all. You fall into Matty, clutching his arm. “Shit.” 

“Call in sick tomorrow.” You shake your head stubbornly. Matty cups your cheek, making you look at him. “Call in sick tomorrow,” he stresses again. 

You narrow your eyes. “You just want to say you fucked a girl so hard she had to take a day off.” 

Matty gives you a shit-eating grin. “Nah. This is a regular Tuesday for me.” You slap his shoulder again, harder this time. “There she is,” he coos. “Come on. Let me drive you home. I’ll make you something.” 

You let him guide you out of the walk-in fridge, resting on his body. “I don’t think I have any food,” you warn. 

“I can whip something up. I don’t know if you’ve heard, but I’m a chef.”

“Really?” You say in faux-shock. “I just thought you were the eye candy.” 

“Not everyone stares at me as much as you, princess.” You roll your eyes, though don’t try to claim otherwise. Matty slaps the lights shut. You leave the kitchen behind, strangely untouched, like it hadn’t seen some very vile things a few minutes ago. 

“Oh,” you cry excitedly, “Can you make me some mac and cheese?” Matty sighs. 

—

You’re hanging around the host stand, picking your nails and giggling as Veronica describes her recent affair with a pharmacist in explicit details. She mimes the moves, stalling when a guest approaches. You both plaster a smile on your face and point to the bathroom with a sickly sweet voice. 

You bite your lip to stop yourself from describing your recent affair. The memory of Matty between your thighs is still omniscient on your skin— mostly because you’re still sore, walking the restaurant a little funny. Although you burst with the need to tell someone, you’re half-convinced Veronica would bite your head off if she knew. 

Adam walks back to his stand, sighing as he sees the both of you. “Must you guys hang here?” 

You cock your head, teasing, “How else would we annoy you?” Veronica laughs.

He shakes his head, grabbing a pen and pointing towards you. “The boss wants to see you,” is all Adam says. 

“Ooh,” Veronica sings, poking at your ribcage. “Someone’s in trouble.” You give her a deadpan look. “You’re right, you’re right.” She nods. “He probably just wants to know which color you want your new pony to be!” 

You shake your head, chuckling at her. “You guys are seriously deluded on how much money we have.” 

Veronica sticks her tongue out as you walk away. You zigzag through the tables, nodding at a waiter in greeting, grabbing empty plates and piling them on your arms. You push the kitchen doors with your back, dropping the dirty dishes in the sink. You smile at Larry, fluttering your lashes at him. He always cleans your utensils first if you flirt a little with him. 

You can’t stay to chat, crossing the kitchen for the office door. You dodge a bus boy, giving him an annoyed look, reminding him to call corners. A small snort comes from beside you. You turn, finding Matty sizzling onions in a pan. He gives you a grin, knowing and smug, like he’s thinking of you naked in the spot where you stand. He winks at you. Your cheeks heat, biting back a smile as you continue your walk. 

You knock at the door. Behind, a somber voice tells you to come in. You crack it, peering your head inside. Your father sits at his desk, flipping through papers, frowning. 

“You wanted to see me?” 

He jumps as he looks at you, seemingly surprised as though he’s not the one who asked you here. He nods eagerly, waving you in. “Hi, sweetheart.” 

“Hi, Dad,” you answer back, walking into the office. Instinctively, you start organizing the messy, scattered papers on his desk in neat lines. “Why did you call me here?” 

“I wanted to ask you how you were,” he explains. “I didn’t have time to welcome you. I’m sorry— God, I’ve just been so busy.” He frowns at you, a concerned look on his face. “You like it here, right? I know you missed your shift yesterday.” 

Memories of Matty’s tongue licking into you, his fingers curling, his cock pressing— Dirty words sticky with want— Vile things on the tiles— The world slipping from your fingers— Pleasure pumping, coiling, bursting— 

—————

Honestly, Hawkins wasn’t your first choice when you decided to move to a smaller place. The idea of a big city was all fine and well until you lived a year in Chicago, the dream of a brownstone apartment quickly disappearing when you realised jobs were hard to come by and finding friends was even harder. Living alone wasn’t all that fun, especially when your landlord hinted at sexual favours to justify late payments and he didn’t care to fix the leaking radiator in your bedroom. The nights were never quiet and the city hardly slept, but instead of neon lights and late night bodega runs, you lay awake on the broken spring in your bed and flinched at the sound of backfiring cars and people arguing on the street below.

It was lonely, living somewhere so big and busy and always eating dinner by yourself. So you sold the old car you didn’t really use and cried enough that your landlord eventually gave in and ripped up your lease that still had four months to go. Packing your stuff was an easy enough job, hardly enough belongings to fill the duffel bag you’d dragged with you. You dug into the back of your freezer for the wad of cash your grandma gave you, threw it into the bag and grabbed your greyhound ticket and decided you’d get off the bus when the skyline turned a little more green. When the buildings shrunk, when the smog lifted and when wildflowers sprouted from between the cracks in the sidewalk.

So you rolled into Hawkins before the day broke, way before the sun crept up over the quarry, before the small town came alive. The apartment you’d found was the same tiny size as the one you’d had in Chicago but it was cleaner and the carpet was new. Nothing leaked. Nothing smelled weird. The parking lot was filled with cars and none of them had bullet holes in the side, your trash can wasn’t on fire and god, god, the first neighbour you saw - an elderly woman who was walking with a yorkie on a leash - smiled at you.

She smiled at you.

So despite the lack of twenty four hour stores and pizza parlours, Hawkins was already looking up. There wasn’t much on the Main Street, a library, a tiny bakery run by a couple who offered you a free croissant as a welcome to town gift. There was an outdoor pool with sun bleached bunting across its chain link fence, an arcade next to a video store, a high school that was derelict due to the summer months. The larger houses across from the park were lined with cherry trees, neat lawns with white mailboxes and flowers under the windows and suddenly Hawkins was a million miles away from Chicago and the buzz of traffic and car horns.

The librarian let you print out some resumes the day after you’d settled in, and you found your way around town by asking kind strangers, buying a coffee and a breakfast sandwich in exchange for directions out of your neighbourhood. It was easy to stroll along the sidewalk with an iced latte and your headphones around your neck, blue skies above you and the sound of sprinklers in their yards, breathing in air that didn’t smell like diesel. You found a man by a rundown garage, white haired and tired looking, mechanic scrubs tied around his waist as he smoked a cigarette.

You took a deep breath, and then another one, smiling politely - warily - as you approached. The man lifted a brow at you, a little suspicious, but he held the burning stub away from you, smoke billowing in the opposite direction.

“You lost, kid?”

You were. Just a little.

“I’m looking for Jim’s, uh,” you glanced down at the pink flyer that had been pinned on the library's notice board. “Jim’s Midnight Grill? I got told it was out this way, but—”

You looked around, noting that there wasn’t much out this way. The busiest part of Hawkins was behind you, tidy sidewalks giving way to long roads out of town, a lone bus stop by the garage, a farm in the distance across the street. You squinted against the sun and shrugged.

“You wanna keep going for ‘nother mile or so, it’s just before the town sign,” the man pointed further out where the cornfields were overgrown and the sun faded billboard told everyone ‘thanks for visiting Hawkins!’ You weren’t sure the bus ran that far out. “Jim should be there, but if he’s not, jus’ ask for Eddie, he’ll sort you out.”

“Eddie,” you nodded, peering into the distance. You couldn’t see another building, but this man didn’t seem like he was lying. “Right, okay. Just keep to the road?”

The man nodded and he cracked a smile, small but soft. He stubbed out the end of his cigarette and gestured to an old pick up that looked like it had seen better days. “You needin’ a ride?”

The urge to say yes was strong, especially after walking all the way from your apartment as the heat soared. It snuck up on you like a slow roll, going from pleasant to warm to too hot, far too quickly. Beads of sweat clung to your skin underneath your sundress but you shook your head, shyness crawling up the back of your neck. Accepting a ride from a stranger didn’t seem the wisest idea, no matter how kind he seemed.

“It’s okay,” you told him. “Thank you, though. I appreciate the help.”

The man smiled again, a little bigger this time, crows feet crinkling, the sunlight catching the white of his five o’clock shadow. “That’s alright, kid. Jus’ tell ‘em Wayne sent you, yeah? Follow the road, you’ll see Forest Hills - the trailer park - keep going a lil’ ways and it’s right across the road.”

It turned out Wayne was right.

You kept walking, the heat soaring, the fields on either side of you growing taller but you bit back a smile at the sight of the wildflowers that snuck through the cracks in the concrete. Eventually they gave way to a trailer park, just as Wayne side, a quaint place that hummed with generators and had lines of laundry between each mobile home. Across the road sat a sandy lot, a diner in the middle, a neon sign letting passer-bys know they’d arrived at Jim’s Midnight Grill. Except the ‘r’ was loose, hanging from its wire and buzzing blue and purple.

Cats patrolled along the roadside, going from trailer doorsteps to the back alley of the diner, hoping and waiting for a free meal that they all knew would eventually come. You stopped to pet an orange kitten, a little scruffy looking thing but cute all the same, your CV clutched in one hand as you peered suspiciously at the front of the restaurant. It looked too quiet, like it wasn’t open yet. But there was a black van parked along the side of the building and some steam leaked from a vent on the roof, so you opened the front door.

The bell jingled but the patrons at the dining bar who sat on their stools didn’t move, didn’t turn to look. The place was nearly empty, some people nursing a coffee, some staring blankly at the buzzing television screen that was mounted in the corner. No one stood at the host desk, the menus stacked messily, the phone off the hook. In fact, there wasn’t a server to be seen as you made your way to the counter. You grimaced as you leaned on the surface, elbows sticky, avoiding spilled coffee the best you could. You waited, resume still in your hand, patience on your features.

No one came.

So you rang the bell that was on the bar top for the very purpose of gaining attention, but the man beside you glared at the noise. Still, no one came. The fans overhead squeaked and whirred, the TV fizzed with bad signal and from somewhere behind the open serving hatch, you heard the clatter of pots and pans. You tried to crane your neck to see through the window, steam and smoke billowing from it, the slight shadow of maybe a person moving through it.

The person swore, dropped a skillet and swore again.

You leaned in further, elbows on spilled salt grains and drops of ketchup, trying to gain a better view into the kitchen from the bar top. “Hey, ‘scuse me? Can I— can someone—”

You huffed as the figure moved out of sight, falling back onto the stool that squeaked and the man next to you snorted into his coffee cup. You frowned and took further action, sundress falling back around your thighs as you hopped off the chair and made your way to the side of the counter that lifted up. No one paid you any mind, no one at all, but you still hesitated before ducking under the bar and hovering by the hatch. You could smell garlic and sage and something a little sweet now you were closer, the scents of the kitchen winning over the stale coffee, cigarette smoke and engine oil that clung to the patrons clothes behind you.

You peered into the kitchen, your paperwork still clutched to your chest. It wasn’t much cooler in here than it was outside, the AC unit broken and the fans working overtime to combat the heat. The kitchen seemed empty now, a stovetop still on despite no one to supervise it, flames licking high up the sides of a steel pot, big enough for you to fit both feet in. There was something inside bubbling, foam rising to the top and chopped courgette and red onions sat on the workbench beside it, abandoned. A radio played, staticky and fuzzy, an old sixties tune floating out to mix with the smoke.

“Come a little bit closer, you’re my kind of man. So big and so strong, come a little bit closer, I’m all alone.”

“H-hello?” You cleared your throat and braced yourself to speak a little louder. Stronger. Braver. “Hello?”

No one answered. In fact, it seemed like the entire diner was run by ghosts, no waiting staff, hosts or cooks to be seen. Maybe you’d imagined the silhouette in the smoke, maybe the heat was finally getting to you.

“No customers back here, what d’you think you’re doin’?”

You startled, jumping back a little only to knock an elbow into a half filled coffee pot, the brown liquid thankfully lukewarm but it still spilled across the countertop, soaking into stray packets of sugar and scattered napkins.

“Oh, fuck, uh—” you grabbed at whatever dry napkins were left, hurriedly mopping up the spill before it dripped to the floor. Old coffee dotted the red and cream tiles, into the gaps between your sandals. You grimaced and looked up, only half paying attention. “Shit, I’m really sorry, I just— there was no one there and—”

You stopped, swallowing hard, cheeks hot, eyes wide. The person in front of you was half hidden behind the serving hatch, but he was scowling through the window with a ladle in his hand. Big brown eyes, unnervingly expressive and dark hair to match, unruly looking curls that were pulled back with an elastic band in a bun that wouldn’t have passed a health inspection.

A boy, unfairly pretty, and annoyed looking with tattoos peeking out from his chef whites, a black paisley printed bandana knotted around his neck. There was a furrow between his brow, lines etched there so deep that it made you think they were a permanent fixture on his handsome face.

“—no customers behind the cash desk, sweetheart, you look bright enough to understand that.”

Your mouth fell open, a burn creeping across your cheeks. Annoyance settled in your chest but you realised you weren’t quite brave enough to do anything about it. So you lifted your resume and slapped it on the hot steel ledge that separated the kitchen from the coffee bar. “No one’s working,” you tried to explain, gesturing with one hand to the empty diner behind you. “I rang the bell—”

“What does it look like I’m doing?” The boy scoffed, raising a tattooed forearm to wipe away the sheer layer of sweat from his brow. “Havin’ a spa day? Shit, no one rings the damn bell, don’t you know that?”

You scrambled for a response, the burn on your face growing hotter, an awful clawing feeling coming across your chest. You swallowed, your throat tight, but you pointed at your CV once more. “I’m here for the job opening. I need to speak to Jim? About the kitchen porter role?”

The stranger laughed, a breathy thing that you didn’t think was supposed to come across as mean as it did, but it stung all the same. You shrunk a little, a hardly seen thing as the boy turned his head to check on whatever was bubbling in the big pot. “Look, sweetheart, I don’t wanna be a dick about it, but uh, I don’t think you’re cut out for the kitchen - sorry.” He turned back to you, a slightly more apologetic look on his face instead of the frown. “You understand, right?”

You were speechless, just for a second. Blinking away the confusion, you made noise of protest as the boy started to move away. Your hand touched his bicep and he swivelled back, scowling once more. You snatched your hand away, glancing at your fingertips as if the ink from his tattoos would have stained them black.

“Sorry— it’s just, I, I need a job.” You swallowed, hoping none of the customers could hear your desperate plea. “I just moved into town and honestly, I’ll take anything, like anything. I’m supposed to talk to Jim— or Eddie?”

The boy seemed to mull over your words for a second or two, a passing of sympathy or something just as kind coming over his features. He sighed and shrugged, turning away to stir the pot before it boiled over and he shouted at you through the smoke and steam. Not meanly, just enough for his voice to be heard over the music, the hissing of the stove, the hum of the freezer. “I dunno where Jim is, sorry.”

You deflated, sliding your stack of papers off of the ledge and back to your chest. You tried not to appear too frustrated as you asked, “what about Eddie? Someone - a guy, at the garage - he told me to ask for Eddie.”

The ladle clanged against the pot, some soup - or maybe stew - spilling out the sides. The boy frowned at the mess, dragging a rag over the spots before he glanced up at you. You tried to smile, tried to tamp down the watery doe eyes you knew you couldn’t help but have on show, but you felt desperate. Leaving Chicago with nothing more than the bag on your back and no plans was suddenly seeming like an awful idea.

“Sorry,” the stranger said again. “I dunno an Eddie.”

—————

Sitting in a sticky leather booth in the corner of Jim’s Midnight Grill for another hour turned out to be worth it.

Just before two o’clock, a man walked in, greeting the same customers who were still nursing their coffees with a muttered ‘hello,’ a familiar thing that everyone grunted back at. He was a tall man, broad shouldered with a moustache and a shaved head that was covered with a battered wide brimmed hat. He looked more cowboy than business owner, checked shirt dirt covered boots and all, but you heard someone call him Jim and you were up and running after him.

Your sneakers stuck to the linoleum tiles, the ‘shtick shtick shtick’ of your soles pattering between the aisles of empty tables until you caught up with the man just before he disappeared into the kitchen. He raised his brows at your sudden appearance at his elbow, wide eyed and hopeful as you clutched the same resume you’d tried to hand the cook, the pieces of paper stained with coffee now.

The man lifted his chin to a small table before you could speak, gesturing to two chairs by the window. You startled, wondering what was happening as he pulled out a seat and pointed at you to sit in the other one.

“You’re new, right?” The man - Jim - fumbled with a packet of cigarettes, most of them crushed and bent, but he found a good one to lift to his lips. He lit it and blew smoke upwards, staining the already yellowing ceiling. “Here, in town?”

You nodded, unsure how he knew that. You guessed that news travelled fast in a place as small as Hawkins, so you decided to elaborate for the sake of talking. “Uh, yeah. From Chicago. I’m inquiring about the, um, the porter job?”

“What’s your name?” Jim leaned forward in his chair and poked gently at your forearms. “You don’t got a lot of scars, you done soft jobs? No kitchen stuff before?”

The AC unit kicked in and rattled a vent above you as you stared at the man, trying to work out what he meant. Stammering, you told him your name and passed over a resume, pointing out your last few jobs, doing your best to try and make them sound more professional than they actually were.

Librarian's assistant.

Barista. For two weeks.

Cashier at a knock off Chuck E. Cheese.

“I guess they’re what you could call, uh,” you squinted Jim, floundering for the word he’d used, “soft jobs. But I’ve got a scar on my knee from pulling a kid out of the ball pit. He’d come straight from little league, he still had his spikes on and there was a considerable amount of blood even th—”

Jim stopped your spiel by jamming a thumb back towards the kitchen hatch. You could still see the boy there, pretty and scowling all the same, a dark curl falling from his hair band to fall over his cheek. You watched him blow it away and flip something in a skillet, the sizzle of it just heard over the music, the bad TV in the corner of the bar.

“You ever worked a kitchen?”

You shook your head, stomach sinking. ‘Fake it til’ you make it,’ failed you once before, and the owner of the coffee shop in Lincoln Park quickly realised you were wasting both your times when she discovered you didn’t know the difference between a mocha and a latte. “No, sir.”

“Our line cook is real particular ‘bout who we put in his kitchen with him,” Jim pointed to the boy, who’d now been joined by someone else. Another male, one with even longer hair, sleek and dark and they seemed to be arguing over blocks of cheese. “Now I don’t think it’s a good idea to throw you in there—”

Dread bubbled in your stomach. If you didn’t manage to land this job, you weren’t sure where else to look. A small town brought on few opportunities, and you’d already exhausted most of the businesses on Main Street. “Sir, please, I—”

“—but there is a waitressing gig available.” Jim frowned as he tried to remember the details. “Full time, forty odd hours if you don’t mind doing lates.”

“Yes!” You blurted out the answer too loud, loud enough for the customers to turn away from the TV screen for a second or two. The boys in the kitchen peered out the hatch, one curious, one annoyed. “Yes, sorry, yes. I’ll take it, thank you.”

Jim nodded and stubbed out the amber end of his cigarette in an ashtray beside the sauce bottles. “Easy enough job, minimum wage, you keep any tips you make.” He listed off each point on his fingers. “You start tomorrow.”

You could only nod back, eager and grateful. “Of course, yeah, sure. Uh— do I need—?”

Jim waved you off, already standing as he lit up another cigarette. “Just come by for eight, Eddie’ll sort you out with a uniform, locker, that kinda stuff.”

You frowned, confused. Looking around the quiet diner, you wondered if there was someone you hadn’t noticed before, but the number of visible staff members remained the same. The two boys in the kitchen, the pretty cool who you’d spoken to back at the stove, tasting its contents with a teaspoon.

“Uh,” you coughed awkwardly, feeling stupid. “I thought— I thought there wasn’t an Eddie who worked here?” You pointed warily to the boy with the messy curls, the black tattoos across his exposed forearms, he was staring at you, like he knew you were talking about him. He was scowling. “He said there wasn’t.”

And that’s how you found yourself being led across the camp, leaving the rest of your group with Chrissy in the gym hall as they attempted to master the cartwheel. Little Olivia edged towards the music workshop with a quiet nervousness, looking up at you with big, glassy eyes and a trembling lip. Her camp t-shirt was still a little too big, the hem of it near the bottom of her sunshine yellow shorts and she clasped her teddy to her chest as she quietly asked you for the fourth time that morning:

“Is it time to go home yet?”

You sighed sympathetically and crouched down, shins almost brushing the forest floor and you poked a soft finger to the girl’s nose. She was all blonde curls and flushed cheeks and despite her sadness, you couldn’t feel a tiny bit jealous. 

You hadn’t missed home at all. 

“Hey,” you spoke softly, voice kind and sweet, “don’t you wanna go play some instruments? With the other kids?”

Olivia shrugged. 

“You know, it’s almost time to go home,” you told the young girl. “But there’s still lots of fun things to do first.”

From inside the cabin, you could hear the muted sounds of xylophones and pianos being played, off tune and a little haphazardly but the kids inside were laughing and Olivia’s ears perked up. 

You followed her curious stare and gave her hand a little squeeze. “Why don’t we go inside and see what we can try, huh? And then later, we can ask Mr Hopper if we can call your mom, yeah? You can tell her all about your day?”

Maybe Eddie had happened to look out the window, maybe he just sensed you like some kind of magic, like some kind of magnet, but the boy appeared behind Olivia at the door. He lifted a hand in greeting, smile soft and brows furrowed a little in confusion but your stomach flipped and suddenly the sticky hands that slammed on the keys inside didn’t sound as jarring. 

“Hey,” Eddie called out, smiling kindly at the younger girl. “Y’comin’ in?”

Olivia scooted closer, tucking herself and her bear into your chest. You straightened up, hands on her shoulders and you grimaced at Eddie and he nodded in understanding. 

“You know Eddie, right, Livvy?” You shuffled forward, coaxing Olivia with you and she stared at the boy with wide, unsure eyes. “He’s gonna teach you to play some music, isn’t that cool?”

Eddie hunkered down to Olivia’s level and smiled wide and easy, dimples showing and he coaxed the girl forward with an exaggerated gasp. 

“Is that your teddy bear?” He asked. Olivia nodded, her bear pressed under her chin and when she was assured you weren’t leaving, she took another step toward Eddie. “He’s real cute. D’you wanna see mine?”

Olivia looked intrigued, gazing up to you for more encouragement and when you nodded and smiled, she stepped towards Eddie and peered at what he was pointing at. He was plucking at his shirt, the tiny teddy bear patch on display by his name and Olivia lit up with delight, small fingers poking at the bear's nose. 

“What’s his name?” She whispered to Eddie, smiling more than you’d seen her in the last few days. 

“Oh, uh, well,” Eddie stuttered and his gaze flickered to you as you tried to hide your grin. He seemed flustered, pink around the cheeks and it was almost too much to handle. “His name is, uh, Bee— Beelzebub?”

You snorted out a laugh that you had to hide behind your hand. “Jesus Christ,” you muttered under your breath. 

“Beez, for short,” Eddie explained quickly but Olivia’s attention span had waned and she was too busy looking over Eddie’s shoulder at the kids who were inside, sticky hands and concentrated stares set on multicoloured xylophones and mini drum sets. 

“Can I try?” She asked politely, already edging through the door. 

“Yeah,” Eddie grinned, pleased at her change of attitude, “yeah, ‘course you can kiddo, go grab something to play.”

Olivia disappeared into the crowd and the noise, teddy bear dragged behind her by one grubby paw and you turned to Eddie who looked triumphant. 

“Beezlebub?” You grinned and he groaned, batting at your hand that reached out to poke at his side playfully. “Really?”

“Shut up,” he grumbled but there wasn’t any heat behind his words. “I panicked.”

“I noticed.”

Eddie shoved his hands in his pockets and you tried not to notice how he was a little more tanned than last week, the summer spent outside finally making him less pale than normal, the flush of his cheeks making his eyes look like honey. 

“You doin’ anything?” He asked, squinting at you like the sun was too bright but you’d come to learn that he did it when he was nervous, when he wanted to come across more casual than he felt. 

“Uh, not really, I guess?” You cleared your throat, kicked at a pinecone and shit, maybe you were as bad an actor as Eddie was. “Chrissy is finishing up at the gym and I was supposed to help Joyce with some filing later but…”

“But?” Eddie raised his brows, expectant. 

“I have some time,” you told him quietly. 

Eddie beamed. 

A crowd of campers passed you both on the path, two by two and followed up from Steve as he led them back from a hike and the older boy spotted you both, doe eyed and staring at each other. He snorted to himself, kept an eye on the kids as they made their way back to the campfire circle and he only hesitated once before he cupped his hands to his mouth and yelled out:

“And I can’t fight this feeling anymore!”

Eddie’s eyes snapped from you to his friend, back straightening and cheeks on fire as he glared at Steve. It really didn’t help when the kids just assumed he was starting some weird kind of singalong, and a girl called Susie sang the next line. 

“I’ve forgotten what I started fighting foooor!” She looked too proud at knowing the lyrics and Steve cackled, leaning down to slap his hand to hers in encouragement. 

You didn’t get a chance to ask questions when Eddie flipped Steve off, face beaming with pink as he ushered you inside the music workshop with a hand in the small of your back. 

You spent the next hour there, flitting between helping kids play twinkle twinkle on the xylophone and standing too close to Eddie, laughing at his stupid jokes and pressing a hand to his chest when he tried to coax you into learning the guitar. 

But the tannoy for lunch sounded and the mess hall doors opened as the kids ran out, sunshine bouncing off of their heads and then you and Eddie were alone. Instruments were strewn across the floor and Olivia had forgotten her teddy, the bear splayed across a tiny keyboard and the sight made you smile. 

And then Eddie was coaxing a guitar into your arms again with a grin and despite your weak protests, you took the shiny red thing into your hands and smiled too. Maybe it was the quiet that had settled over the camp, maybe it was the feeling of being alone in the mess, the room scattered with sunlight and the shadows of the trees, maybe it was the warmth. 

Maybe it was just Eddie. Maybe that’s all it took. 

‘Cause the boy was leaning against a table as he nodded his head encouragingly at you, telling you chords and letters that didn’t mean anything to you, not really. And his voice was soft and gentle, fingers pointing out strings and where to place your hands until eventually he was coaxing you forward, his hand curled around your wrist and you followed without any hesitation. 

You let him guide you into him, every movement slow and gentle, waiting for you to stop him, giving you the chance to pull away. But you didn’t, you just held your breath and grasped the guitar a little too tight as Eddie spread his legs and manoeuvred you to stand between them, your back to his chest. 

Despite the heat outside and the sun that had no clouds to hide behind, he smelled like a summer storm, like fresh rain and pine and something spicy. His curls tickled your cheek and he glanced at you from the sides of his eyes, a fleeting gaze under his lashes before he hooked his chin over your shoulder and brought his arms around your sides. He rested his hands on yours, fingers twining, moving you from string to string as he murmured softly about scales and open chords. 

You didn’t take any of it in. You hardly heard a word. You let him move you like putty, soft and pliant under his touch, getting warmer by the second at the feel of him behind you. Eventually Eddie stopped talking and he stopped playing pretend, both of you acutely aware you weren’t paying attention, but still, he kept his hands over yours, used your fingers between his own to pluck out a pretty tune and you felt his smile against your cheek the entire time. 

You couldn’t remember a time where you’d felt like this before. When your body felt electric, live wires for veins, when you felt like a kid with your first crush. So you leaned back into his solid frame, kept your eyes on his rings, the glint of them that had turned gold in the sunlight. Eddie hummed a tune you didn’t know, didn’t recognise, but it was soft and smoky and sweet and it sounded like it was just for you. 

You decided it was your new favourite song. 

You only broke apart when Robin slammed a hand against the window, a smug grin on her face as you heard her muffled laugh behind the glass, her eyebrows raised at Eddie’s pink cheeks, your wide eyes.

“Hey, lovers,” she called out and her voice sounded tinny from outside. “Hop’s calling a meeting, ten minutes.”

So Eddie cleared his throat and hung up the guitar as you tried not to meet Robin’s knowing gaze, both of you stumbling around each other until the boy opened the door and you both fell into the sun. 

—————

Hopper’s cabin was almost full, Joyce, Bob and Jason still chaperoning in the mess hall but the rest of the counsellors tittered and snorted when you and Eddie rushed in, still looking flushed. 

Hopper sighed and rubbed his eyes, not wanting to know why Eddie was blushing and your chest was heaving but Murray looked up from his clipboard and took you both in with narrowed eyes. 

He set Jim with a knowing stare before going back to his list and asking mildly, “do we need another jar?”

The room exploded, muffled laughter hidden behind hands as Eddie turned beetroot and Steve rolled his eyes. You turned to ask if you’d missed another joke but Eddie looked like he wanted the ground to swallow him, so you decided against it. 

“It was one kayak,” Hawkins muttered from the windowsill, sitting cross legged with her fingers tucked into Steve’s collar. 

“Two,” Hopper shot back. 

The girl opened her mouth to argue back but seemed to remember something that brought a flush to her cheeks and thought better of it. 

“Anyway,” Murray announced, tucking his clipboard under his arm and clapping his hands together. “Quick meeting ‘cause the gremlins will be released in five minutes and God forbid they wander the wilderness unsupervised.”

“God forbid,” Hopper muttered quietly from behind his computer screen. 

Murray pretended he didn’t hear and continued, “the big game starts tomorrow and after too many complaints that hide and seek is going on far too long—”

“That’s ‘cause some people think that hiding on the gym roof is a good idea,” Nancy rolled her eyes. 

“Hey, that was a great idea,” Argyle countered. “Y’all are just jealous that you lack the creative and imaginative ingenuity that comes with smo—”

“No roofs,” Murray cut in. “And no smoking, Jesus Christ. In fact, we’re mixing it up and we’re playing sardines this year. Anyone who doesn’t know how to play, better learn damn quick.”

And without any other explanation, the man grinned and brandished a bunch of straws, holding them out in his fist until every camp counsellor had picked one. There were a few whispered celebrations amongst groans as shorter and shorter straws were drawn. But your face fell as you held out a straw that was barely an inch long and Murray’s grin widened. 

“Go fish.”

—————

“So I’m the only one hiding?” You asked Robin for the third time. “This isn’t some hazing thing for the new person, is it?”

Robin snorted and shook her head, pulling Will backwards by the scruff of his shirt before he walked straight into a clump of poison ivy. The kids were restless, rippling with excitement and too much energy as they congregated by the unlit fire pit, the afternoon sun beaming down on everyone. 

“No,” she told you with a grin, “besides, you’re five weeks in, Michigan, you’ve survived, you’re not the new kid anymore.”

You certainly didn’t feel like it, the weeks of summer giving you long days, light nights and an achingly familiar feeling of something you’d thought you’d once lost. Camp felt like childhood, the other staff members greeting you every morning like an old friend, strawberry smoothies in the mess hall, pancakes on Fridays and Sundays spent waist deep in the lake. 

And even though Robin and Nancy had explained the rules to you twice before, you still listened when Murray announced the rules, standing on a rock in front of the crowd of kids and counsellors, bullhorn in hand. 

“Okay, we’re having two games only, ‘cause lord knows how long these things drag on, okay? If the game ain’t done by nightfall, we’re leaving you all outside for the coyotes.”

The kids all jeered and yelled their protests at this, which made Murray smile, one that was noticeably more fond than you’d seen before. 

“Yeah, yeah,” Murray droned, “that’s illegal, we know. Anyway! Two games, one hider from the kids and then one staff member!” He shot out a hand that pointed to you and he grinned, “we’ve already got sardine number one, who’s gonna be our second little fishy?”

The kids clamoured, yelling out names and raising their hands as they tried to get Murray’s attention until he eventually clamped a hand over his eyes and pointed blindly into the crowd. 

Some cheered, some groaned, but Will stepped forward with a push of encouragement from Mike and Max. He waved, tried to look brave and Murray ruffled his hair. 

“Okay! Byers is up first! You know the rules, Will is gonna get a minute to hide before everyone else gets let loose. When you find him, you gotta hide too, so Will, be smart about it. Last one to find everyone else gets thrown in the lake.”

Joyce appeared at Murray’s side, looking affronted. She grabbed the bullhorn and shook her head, speaking in a panic. “No! No, no, no one is getting thrown in the lake. We don’t do that, Murray, for god's sake—”

But Murray just grinned and grabbed the megaphone right back. “Don’t be stupid about it, no roofs, no vehicles, don’t actually go into the lake for the love of god and Christ, stay out of the kitchen too. Bob will have my head.”

And then the game started on a whistle, the entirety of the camp facing the lake in a crowd of rippling excitement as Will took off running in the opposite direction. Everyone counted to sixty, a heavy chant that built the tension in the air and as everyone hit forty four, you looked across the sea of kids and found Eddie, already looking at you. 

He smiled and you grinned, unabashed and unable to help it, biting your lip when he beamed wider, winking for good measure. But then the counting got louder as the numbers got lower and suddenly everyone was yelling ‘one!’ 

You were pushed as the kids scattered, laughing with the rest of the staff as the campers took off across the forest floor, weaving in and out of buildings as they searched for Will. It was a surprisingly quick game, with Steve taking one for the team and deeming himself the loser, the boy humming to himself as he wandered around the camp, blindly pretending he didn’t see the sixty or so kids lined up behind the kayak stands, legs sticking out and trainers stuck in rope lines. 

And then it was your turn, much to the kids' enjoyment. Eddie appeared at your side as everyone ran back to the lake, ready for another countdown and the boy placed a hand on the small of your back, a barely there touch with just his fingertips but it was searing. 

“I don’t wanna brag, but I’m pretty sure I’ll manage to find you,” he whispered with a smile, crowding down a little so his lips could find your ear. 

You tried to act cool, tried to act casual, but it was hard not to smile around the boy, that cheeks sore, eyes too bright, kinda grin. And Eddie saw right through you anyway, smiling at you the same way until you cracked and rolled your eyes at him, pushing him away playfully just as an excuse to put your hands to his stomach. 

“What if I wanted you to?” You answered, feeling braver than you ever had and maybe it was ‘cause the sun was setting, maybe it was because you still feel the way Eddie’s hand had felt against the smell of your back. 

Maybe it was because you’d never been able to stop thinking what it would be like to kiss him. To try. 

Eddie stared, lips parted, brows raised, looking a little shocked, a little dumb, but just as pretty. You watched him blink, Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed and before he could say something - say anything - Hopper’s whistle blew shrilly in the air. 

“Munson!” Hopper barked and the kids jumped. So did Eddie. “I don’t have any more damn jars. Get in line.”

Eddie stumbled off, looking back at you over his shoulder, a smile appearing as well as a rosy flush across his cheeks, your words registering with him more and more. He stood amongst the kids, gazing at you one last time before everyone had to face the lake and count and god, he looked like a man on a mission. 

The kids started counting and you felt giddy with it, your chest tight as you tore across camp, old leaves and called pine cones crunching under your feet. The sun was only just starting to set, the cabins turning gold, rainbows on the glass windows, the shadows of the trees a navy blue, a deep lavender. You felt ready to burst, a new kind of excitement curling around your bones and oh my god, you didn’t know if it was because of the game or the boy. 

And maybe you knew the answer already, subconsciously or not, because you didn’t hesitate to turn through the trees, past the mess hall, past the gym, jumping over fallen logs and leftover puddles, heading straight for the music workshop where Robin had stolen you from hours before. 

You could hear everyone counting as you squeezed in behind the shelving unit, tambourines and tiny cymbals tinkling at your movements. But half of it was hidden with an old chalkboard, rolls of forgotten music posters, a broken amp or two and the space behind it all created a narrow alley of shorts for you to shuffle into. So you pressed yourself there, against the wall and the mess until the chanting got louder and you felt like you were ready to scream with it all. 

‘Five!’

You liked Eddie Munson. 

‘Four!’

You liked him a lot. 

‘Three!’

You really, really wanted to kiss him. 

‘Two!’

And that was okay. 

‘One!’

You were allowed to feel that way, you told yourself. It was okay. Suddenly, the voice in your head started to sound more like your own and less like your mothers and Jesus Christ, the realisation made you blow out a shaky breath, laughter coating the edges of it. 

Eventually, after a deathly quietness after the last number was shouted, you heard the faint sounds of tiny feet running across the forest floor. Some yelled to their friends, others whispered and you froze when you heard the door open, three pairs of sneakers coming into view from between stacked books and broken xylophones. But whoever had entered the workshop, deemed it empty, and all three ran back out without spotting you. 

This happened another two times, kids running in, too excited to take their time, only checking the obvious spots like the storage cupboard and under tables, behind Eddie’s drum kit. The sun kept setting and the lights were off, the workshop looking very much closed for the night as the day turned rosy, the last of the sunlight streaming through the windows to paint hazy, pink stripes across the walls and floors. 

The door opened a fourth time, a slow squeak, and the footsteps that entered seemed heavier than before. They were slow, calculated and you held your breath, wondering, waiting, wanting. 

Black converse came into view, too big to belong to a camper and you peeled out from behind a stack of textbooks, catching sight of Eddie as he leisurely weaved his way between tables and stacked chairs, the drum kit and the guitar stands. 

He was smiling, you could see it, and it made you smile too ‘cause you knew that he knew, that you were there and it made him feel like you were waiting just for him. 

Eventually, Eddie walked towards the shelves you were hiding behind, fingertips running over the ledges of it, rings catching at the stored instruments every now and then, making them sing for him. And once he reached you, he found your eyes in the gaps and grinned, leaning all causal against the shelf. 

“Well look at that,” he tutted, all faux disappointment. “Looks like it’s just you and me so far.”

You smiled, leaned back against the wall and set him a gaze that made his chest go a little tight. “Oh no,” you deadpanned, trying your best to hide how pleased you were. 

You smothered your laughter as Eddie tried to squeeze in beside you, cursing under his breath as more kids ran past the cabin, close to the windows across from your hiding spot. But none came in, some shouting at others to start checking the bunks and Eddie sidestepped his way towards you, his back to the wall. 

There really wasn’t a lot of room. 

“You know why they call it sardines?” He asked quietly as he made his way carefully towards you. 

He was getting closer, knees brushing posters that became more creased than they had been but Eddie didn’t seem to mind. 

You swallowed, hands curling at your sides, skimming your bare legs as you fiddled with the hem of your shorts. 

“Why?”

Eddie waited until he was settled into place beside you before answering, turning with a little difficulty until he was toe to toe with you, only a breath apart. He smiled, close enough that you could smell his cologne, leftover smoke, that storm weather scent that seemed to stick to him. 

“S’cause you gotta pack in together real close.” He whispered and his breath across your lips felt like a kiss. Your lashes fluttered, your lips parted. “Like a tin of sardines, get it?”

You nodded, not willing to speak for fear of your voice wavering and Eddie seemed to sense some sort of nervousness, an uncertainty and he mistook it for something it wasn’t. He backed off, one foot behind the other as he tried to move away, stumbling a little. 

“Sorry, too close, my ba—”

He was cut off when you caught him, a hand reaching out to pluck boldly at the front of his shirt, fingers curled there as you coaxed him back. You tugged, gentle, eyes a little wide as you looked up at him and hoped he got the message. Eddie froze, looking at you with the same wonderment that he did before, when you told him you wanted him to catch you. But he came to a lot quicker this time, righting himself before moving back to you, until his shoes brushed yours and your hand was pressed between your body and his. 

The kids were still yelling outside but it sounded like they were underwater. Or maybe you were, you weren’t sure. Eddie held your gaze and you felt the way his stomach flexed under your touch, his chest heaving and falling as he tried to right his breathing. He whispered your name and you closed your eyes. 

You felt rather than saw him crowd you, his T-shirt riding up his waist as he stretched his arms out to lean against the shelves behind you, closing you in, coming closer still. Every movement was slow and careful, like he was prepared for you to stop him, to push him away, but your hand only tightened in his shirt, the cotton trapped in your closed fist and you wondered what it would take for you to let him go. 

“I’ve been thinking,” you whispered, licking at your bottom lip and you dared open your eyes, gaze heavy and Eddie was so close, you could see the way the sunlight caught his lashes. 

Eddie followed the movement with hooded eyes, copying you without realising, his tongue peeking out and swiping across his lip too. “Yeah?” He prompted. He sounded hopeful, nervous. 

“That maybe it’d be nice to try,” you started, voice soft and quiet like you were telling him a secret and you hoped then more than ever that you’d never be found, wanting to be trapped here forever, pressed against Eddie. “More than nice,” you corrected and god your throat felt thick and your tongue felt too clumsy in your mouth. 

“More than nice,” Eddie repeated and he was smiling, smiling so wide and you could hear it in his voice, the happiness, the shy kind of flirt that made your toes curl. “That sounds promising.”

His hand found yours, fingers tangling to pull your grip from his shirt, only to hold your palm against his. You wondered if he could feel your pulse, your heartbeat that seemed to thrum through your entire body.  You weren’t sure how, but he pulled you closer. 

“It does, doesn’t it?” You smiled, leaning in, chest pressed to Eddie’s, foreheads kissing like they had in the front seat of his van. You liked the word, ‘promising’. It sounded hopeful, it sounded new and different, like it could offer up a whole other world for you. 

Maybe it could. 

You weren’t sure who closed their eyes first, maybe you, maybe the boy. But you both went on touch, on sense, instincts telling you which way to tilt your head, noses bumping in the softest way, pushed to cheeks as Eddie’s hand squeezed to yours and it felt like he was telling you it was all okay. 

He spoke, eyes still shut, lashes brushing over yours, lips almost almost almost grazing your own with each word. 

“I don’t want you to do this if you don’t want to, if you’re not ready,” he whispered and his voice cracked just a little, brows furrowing even though you couldn’t see. A curl brushed your cheek and you leaned in closer, legs bumping his, knees knocking. “I don’t wanna rush you or make you feel like you gotta—”

“You’re not, Eddie,” you urged softly, forehead pressed to his, like you were willing him to believe it. “I just— I just started thinking about all the things that I wanted for a change.”

He waited, lips parted, head tilted to yours. He breathed in what you breathed out and your grip on his hand got tighter, ‘cause suddenly everything felt so intense you were scared you’d float away, that you’d have to let him go. It might’ve taken you a couple of weeks, but shit, you realised that you really, really didn’t want to let Eddie go.  

“There’s a voice inside my head,” you told him, “and not to sound crazy, but it’s starting to sound a lot kinder now. More like myself, like it used to sound a long time ago.” You felt the uptick of Eddie’s cheek against your own, a smile you couldn’t see because it was so much easier to pour your heart out when your eyes were closed. 

Eddie hummed, a sweet reassuring sound that made you sway into him, your top lip catching the edge of his chin and his breath hitched and you held yours and everything was burning burning burning. 

“What’s it saying?” Eddie asked and his hands left the shelf, left yours, so they could come to rest at your waist, gentle at first, almost too soft to feel. But you let out a little noise, and Eddie seemed to understand, ‘cause he gripped you a little firmer, fingers splayed wide across your sides before they dropped at your shirt and held you close. “This nice voice?”

He dropped his head, eyes half open, heavy and hooded and he nosed at your jaw, smiled when you let the motion tip your head back for him. You were softer than butter under his touch, your hands coming to fist at the material just under his collar, eyes scrunched shut and lips parting. Eddie ran the tip of his nose along your jaw, barely touching, no kissing, but it was enough for you to cling to him. 

Someone outside yelled and there were footsteps on the stairs, a thudthudthud that you both barely heard before they turned and ran the other way. The forest was in chaos but you and Eddie didn’t seem to notice. 

“C’mon sweetheart, you’re awfully quiet,” he whispered and maybe it was the small space, maybe it was the broken guitar stand that was digging into your back but you shifted until Eddie’s knee slipped between your own.  

You didn’t do anything, neither did he and it was dirty, not really. But Jesus Christ, it was far from innocent too.

You swallowed, thick sound that you were sure Eddie would’ve heard and it made your cheeks burn hot. Opening your eyes, you found him closer than you remembered him ever being, all wild curls and dark brown eyes, gaze bouncing from yours to your lips and back again. 

“It’s saying I could go to art school,” you whispered and your voice shook but you kept your eyes open this time, looking up at the boy through your lashes. You felt your heart rattling in your ribs, a vibration that made everything buzz and shit, maybe you could feel Eddie’s too. “That I could leave Michigan, find someplace new.”

Eddie smiled, a real, soft, genuine smile that made your heart ache and he nodded, nose brushing and he hummed, the prettiest sound. You pressed to your toes, eager, growing needy for something you hadn’t yet been given.

“Anything else?”

You grinned, head tipped back and face tilted up to him, cheeks aching with the joy of it all, that feeling of floating, flirting, all of it without shame or guilt or consequence. You pulled him closer still, wishing you could tangle yourself around him, wishing you felt brave enough to push your fingers into his curls but but but… not yet. 

“It’s saying I could kiss that boy I like, maybe let him take me on a date, if he wanted to.”  You said it so shyly, as if you weren’t wrapped around each other, like Eddie’s lips weren’t hovering over yours, stealing every word you spoke like they were only for him. 

They were. 

“If he wanted to?” Eddie asked and his voice was lower and raspier, like whisky and honey, sweet and sticky. “Sweetheart, he’d have to stupid not to.”

You shrugged, eyes bright, stomach swooping. “He has his moments.”

Eddie huffed out a laugh, quiet and happy and you wanted to swallow the sound whole. “You’re mean,” he teased but there was nothing but affection coating his tone and it made you softer against him still, hands moving up his chest to cling to his neck, fingers catching curls with the intention of bringing his face down to yours. 

“M’sorry,” you whispered back and you really didn’t sound sorry at all, not when Eddie was letting you guide you to his lips, not when he was gripping your waist that little bit tighter, arms around you to pull you to your toes, body flush against him. 

He said your name, soft and lovely, a pretty, pretty noise and you could practically taste it. You sighed, longing, wanting. 

“Eddie.”

Your lips touched his, a brush, a barely there kiss, heads tilting, hands gripping almost too hard but you didn’t care, how could you? ‘Cause Eddie was letting out a small sigh, a moan and it sounded like your name again. 

And then:

The sound of the door slamming against the wall, the stomping of feet, the shrill, high pitched shriek of a whistle. You leapt back, with hardly any room to move, the shelves rattling, tambourines and old drumsticks falling on top of you and the boy. Eddie yelped, grabbing at your waist before you could fall backwards and despite the way Hopper was glaring at you through the spaces in the shelves, you couldn’t find it in yourself to think of anything but the way your lips were tingling. 

“You didn’t hear the whistle?!” Hopper yelled, face red, eyes wide. “Office! Now!”

—————

“Twenty minutes!” Hopper fumed, leaning over his office desk in exasperation, “twenty minutes I blew that goddamn whistle. You could’ve been dead for all we knew.”

Murray, who was lounging on the sofa, snorted. 

“Okay,” Eddie grimaced, “that’s a little dramatic, no?”

You were too embarrassed to argue, half hiding behind Eddie who had no problem waving his arms about and talking back to Hopper. But he was as flushed as you felt, cheeks pink and eyes still a little dazed looking. 

“You’re both supposed to be responsible counsellors, looking after the kids,” Hopper said, his voice a low growl and god, the vein in his forehead was pulsing. “Not making out against the stacks!”

You cringed, stepping out from behind Eddie to wince at Hopper’s stare. “We weren’t making out, I swear—”

“Not yet, you weren’t,” Murray muttered. Eddie spun to glare at the other man but before he could say anything, Murray patted his shoulder and stood next to Hop. “Calm down, curls, you’re still lookin’ a little flushed.”

And before either of you could retort, Murray chucked the marker onto Hop’s desk and grinned, staring at you both with smugness as he slammed down his creation. Another jar, a little smaller than the one it sat next too, with a fresh sticker on the front. In sharp, bold letters, it read:

‘Therapy $$$’

“Jesus Christ,” Eddie muttered, eyes rolling and before you could ask what the deal was with the goddamn jars, Hopper straightened up and sighed, pointing at his office door. 

“Out,” he demanded. 

“Hop, look—”

“Out.”

So you let Eddie grab your hand, feet shuffling and lips bitten to hide the smiles that Murray could see. You both tumbled out the door, into the forest, where the night had taken the day, the lake a mirror, the sky a deep shade of violet. 

You met Eddie’s gaze and you saw the grin there, your favourite one that took over his whole face, sunshine even when the moon was out. He barked out a laugh, sharp and sweet, laughing even harder when you groaned and covered your face with your hands, embarrassment leaking out. 

But then Eddie’s hands were wrapping around your wrists and pulling, his smile meeting yours and he was kissing you kissing you kissing you. A real kiss, one that made your bottom lip slip between his, your hands catching over his own, smoothing over them until you managed to grab at his jaw and pull him down to you. 

He tasted like cherry cola, like smoke and mint gum. Like sunshine and rain storms and a first crushes, like something hopeful, like everything you’d wanted for so long. 

It was the sweetest of kisses, tentative and shy until it wasn’t, noses pressed too hard against each other's cheeks ‘cause close wasn’t close enough. Eddie’s hands were in your hair, over the slope of your jaw, the back of your neck, the dip in your waist. And you were walking backwards, pulled flush against him, lips on parting to breathe against the other's mouth and suddenly it wasn’t as shy as before. 

You were lucky it was dark, the campfire pit barely still burning, a faint glow in the patch of black before the lake. You could hear the kids, but couldn’t see them, the hushed dim of whispers and the electronic beeps of handheld games coming from the cabins and you were thankful Eddie knew the camp better than you did. He led you through the forest, away from the main paths that wound their way through the bunks, past the windows of the campers. 

He avoided each fallen log, laughed into your mouth when you squeaked and almost kicked a too big rock but you clung to him tighter in response and god, he fell quiet at that. Big hands on your waist, fingertips sneaking out to brush over the skin under your shirt, his lips on your neck, feet stumbling with yours. 

“My cabin is empty,” you whispered into the kiss, lips parting for Eddie when he nipped at them, tongue soothing over the sting and you realised you’d stay out here all night with him if he asked you to. “But yours is closer.”

So you both stumbled through the cabin door like wrecking balls attached at the mouth and making Steve yelp in surprise. There was no kindness to the way Eddie yelled at him to get out, just impatience mixed with Steve’s panic, his fright leaking into a smugness that made your face flush but still, you clung to Eddie as the boy chased his roommate outside. 

It was comical, the way Steve dodged Eddie’s hands and feet, edging around the furniture as he grinned wildly and grabbed his shoes, his sweater. Eddie cursed and Steve laughed, diving into the small bathroom for his toothbrush as he yelled at you both. 

“And I can’t fight this feeling anymore!”

“Harrington, get the fuck out.”

Steve ignored him. “Is Careless Whisper on the mixtape?” He didn’t give Eddie a chance to answer, instead throwing himself into a awfully high pitched rendition of the guitar solo. 

The boy didn’t leave until Eddie manhandled him out, muttering about last summer and how he owed him this. Steve let his friend shove at him, belongings clutched to his chest that he was most likely taking to his girlfriend's cabin and he grinned at you cheerfully. 

“Use protection!”

Eddie slammed the door, locking it for good measure as he leaned against it, eyes on yours and his cheeks flushed. 

“I am so sorry—”

“There’s a mixtape?” You smiled, squinting at the boy shyly, like you were afraid to ask in fear of being told no. 

Eddie nodded, looking pinker than ever. 

“Is it for me?”

The boy nodded again, stepping away from the door to cup your neck in his hands, goosebumps erupting as he smoothed your hair away with gentle fingers. “I was supposed to give you it ages ago,” he murmured. “But I chickened out.”

“Does it have Careless Whisper on it?” You asked, biting down on a smile when Eddie groaned and rolled his eyes, all fond and affectionate, squeezing gently at the back of your neck. 

“No, it doesn’t,” he huffed but he was fighting a smile too, nose scrunched, dimple showing. 

“What about REO Speedwagon?” You ventured, grin threatening to break free cause Eddie flushed pink and pressed his face to your hair, groaning even louder. 

“Yes,” he admitted, “shut up.”

You beamed and Eddie’s heart throbbed with it, ‘cause you were all lit up in the prettiest way, uncaring, all affection, touching him and letting him touch you. 

“That’s not very metal of you, Teddy,” you teased, smoothing your hands up his chest, over his shoulders and neck, pushing up on your toes as you brought him back down to you. 

He  didn’t need much coaxing. 

He grumbled, but it sounded too soft and his nose pushed against yours, a sweet gesture that you weren’t sure you’d be able to get used to. , “Don’t you start that,” he said but there wasn’t as much annoyance behind it as he wanted, in fact, there was none at all. 

“Oh, so only Dustin gets to call you that, huh?” You smiled, tapping the little patch on his chest. “I see how it—”

Eddie cut you off with a kiss, one that was slower than the rest, deeper, softer, more sure, more intense. He licked at the seam of your lips, groaning quietly when you parted them for him and you felt the sound in his chest, the vibrations of it under your hands and it made you push yourself closer. 

He kissed you lazy, languid, tongue licking over yours, hand coming up to cradle your jaw so he could tilt your face the way he wanted to, the way that would let him kiss you deeper still. 

He pulled back, just for a second, just enough to press his forehead to yours and tell you with half lidded eyes, “I’d let you call me whatever you wanted, you have no ide—”

The confession was enough for you to push yourself back to him, mouth pressed to his as you coaxed him backwards, hands in his curls until his knees hit his mattress and he sat on the edge of the bed. It was easy to follow him, to drop into his lap and let Eddie pull your waist until your knees were digging into his rumpled sheets and you could feel all of him underneath you. 

It was even easier to kiss him until your jaw ached, until your lips were swollen and kiss pink, matching Eddie’s cheeks, his hair wild from the way you’d been tugging at it. And he was hard against you, so, so hard; his cock trapped under the denim of his jeans and you couldn’t help but rock yourself over the outline of it, fingers fisting his shirt in your hands every time he made a pretty noise for you. 

Maybe it was the noises you were making for him too, desperate and needy, maybe Eddie was just getting braver but his hands slipped from where they were balanced on your hips, skimming down the denim of your shorts until he was grabbing handfuls of your ass and moaning low into your mouth. He pulled you over his lap, a slow grind that made you whine and the boy tipped his head back, panting heavily. 

“Is this okay?” He gasped out, “shit, we don’t have to— fuck, is this too much?”

Maybe it was. Maybe more time needed to pass between you deciding that you should’ve never given yourself rules and throwing yourself at the boy, but Jesus Christ, you found that you didn’t care. You had a week left of camp, a week left with Eddie and this is what you wanted. There were no consequences to having fun, no one to tell you off, no one to break your heart — ‘cause how could he? When he was looking at you like that?

Like you’d hung the moon, like you’d given him the sun, the stars, tiny glittering gifts just for him. 

You were panting like he was, chest heaving, lips swollen and parted, leaning back into him like you didn’t dare be apart for too long. You shook your head, lips brushing over Eddie’s and you smiled at his sigh, swallowed it with another kiss. 

“No, no,” you whispered, “s’not too much. But— d’you, do you wanna stop? We can stop if you wanna stop.” You were rambling. 

Eddie whined at the idea of it, gripping the soft dough of your flesh a little tighter, like he didn’t wanna let go. His fingertips skimmed the hem of your shorts, pressing into the bare skin where your thighs met your ass and it felt searing, like a brand. 

He shook his head, eyes darting from your lips to your eyes and he looked a little wrecked, pupils blown wide and jaw tensing.  “Don’t wanna stop,” he whispered back. “Wanna make you feel good.”

You sighed, breath stuttering and eyes fluttering shut at the thought of Eddie touching more of you and you were melting for him, head tilting back too easily as he moved his face to the crook of your neck. You felt like cotton candy, fizzing at the feel of his lips on your throat, all sugar sweet. 

Eddie pressed kisses to the line of your neck, over your jaw when he ran out of room, soft, slow, open mouthed pressed of his lips and you felt his smile against you when you shivered. 

“Can I do that?” He asked you softly, a barely there question that you felt on your skin rather than heard. “Can I make you feel good? Can I try?”

You sucked in a breath and nodded, let Eddie kiss you soft and sweet in reply, his lips moving over yours in a way that made you dizzy. And then he was shifting under you, letting you slide from his lap and onto his bed as he turned, coaxing you down until you were lying against his sheets. 

You made a noise of disapproval when he tried to move too far from you, hands on his jaw as you tried to steal more kisses, his smile obvious against your lips. So he gave you what you wanted, kissed you slow and soft until you relaxed under his touch and he could smooth his hand over the soft of your stomach without you tensing underneath him. And when you turned greedy again, breath hitching and teeth nipping at his bottom lip, he flattened his palm and ran it over the waistband of your shorts, fingers stopping at the button. 

“Can I?” He asked, pulling away to look at you, expression sincere and earnest. Eddie licked his lips, chasing the taste of you, his whole body vibrating with the way you were looking up at him, hair wild, eyes wide. “Is this okay?”

You nodded, suddenly nervous, ‘cause you wanted this - you really did - but it had been a while since you’d been touched this way, since you’d been in bed with someone, since you’d had hands and fingers on yourself that weren’t your own. 

Maybe Eddie sensed that, maybe he was just as nervous as you were, but he took it slow, kissed you sweet and senseless, his fingers trailing over the seam of the denim before he popped the button. It was the loudest sound in the room, the loudest sound you ever heard and your body was electric, Eddie’s touch a shockwave. 

“Jus’ tell me to stop, if you want,” Eddie murmured, forehead pressed to yours as he gazed down at your, brown eyes searching, looking for regret or discomfort or any sign that you didn’t want this. 

He couldn’t find any. 

His fingertips skimmed the edge of your underwear, the cold of his rings flat against your tummy and you arched up to kiss him, once, twice, reassuring both him and yourself. “Keep going,” you told him quietly. 

Slow and gentle, Eddie slid his hand down, stretching out your underwear, all cotton and lace as his hand snuck underneath. His hand was warm and almost too big, cupping the entirety of you and you gasped at it, at the feel of the slight pressure pressed against your cunt and Eddie froze, staring down at you, wide eyed. 

“Y’okay?” 

You closed your eyes, embarrassed, overwhelmed, nose scrunched and lips tucked between your teeth before you were able to speak. “Yeah, fuck, yeah, s’good, Eddie — s’just been a while.”

He smiled, soft and understanding and he nodded, kissing at your cheek, your nose, the corner of your mouth until you relaxed against him. “S’alright,” he assured, “it’s been a while for me too, I’ll go slow, yeah? C'mere, sweetheart.”

Eddie coaxed you closer, shuffling on his narrow bunk until he could slip his free arm under your head, letting you slump in against him, soft and lazy with pleasure. He moved his other hand, fingers pressing a little more until they slipped through your folds and he moaned at the feel of you, wet with want and anticipation. 

You made a soft noise for him, face pressing into his chest as you clung to the front of his shirt and Eddie watched you, head tilted down to take in the way you scrunched your features in pleasure, knees falling apart a little more. 

“There you go,” he whispered and god, he sounded pretty, voice hoarse and low and a little rough, like you’d already ruined him. “Tell me what you like, yeah? Tell me what to do, babe.”

Babe. 

His fingers found your clit, sliding over it soft with two fingers; easy, gentle circles that felt hypnotising, making you sink further into the bed, further into the boy. Eddie listened to the way your breath hitched and the way you gasped, obeying immediately when you whined quietly and told him: “higher, please.”

His fingers swept up, just a little, pressing down a little more firmly when you keened in approval and Eddie pushed his hands further into your shorts so he could slip a digit inside of you, swearing at the way you immediately clenched down on his finger, taking it right down to his ring. 

“Yeah?” He asked and you nodded, quick enough that he huffed out a laugh, but it wasn’t unkind.

You took a minute to pull back from where you’d hid in his chest, gazing up at him with glazed over eyes and a slack jaw, breathing growing heavier the more he pumped his finger in and out of you. Eddie looked just as fucked out, cheeks all flushed and he couldn’t stop staring, eyes roaming over your face and the way your chest rose and fell faster and faster, how your thighs tightened around his wrist. 

It was the most innocent thing, the way you were both fully dressed, your shorts unzipped and Eddie’s hand pushed into your underwear, nothing uncovered, nothing to be seen. But he was looking at you like he was about to lose it, thumb circling over your clit the way you told him you liked as he pushed another finger to join the first and the stretch of it was hot and wet and it made you moan something filthy. 

It was innocent in the dirtiest way. 

And then you were keening higher and higher, breath a gasp, forehead pushed to Eddie’s as you pulled him back to you, making him hover over you as he quickened his pace. You pressed your lips to his, a kiss that wasn’t a kiss but Eddie swallowed your moans anyway, rocked his hips into the side of yours, trying to catch some friction ‘cause he was hard as all hell watching you fall apart for him. 

“Close?” He asked and his voice was strained, a low rasp and he groaned wickedly when you nodded. “Shit, sweetheart, that’s it.”

It didn’t come to a surprise to you that Eddie would run his mouth, that he would babble and talk quick and fast and dirty to you as you chased the high you knew he was going to give you. 

“You look so pretty, y’know that? Feel so good — sh-shit — want you to let go for me, yeah? What d’you need, huh?”

You took his offer and crashed your lips to his, twisting so you could press yourself up against him, tongue diving past his lips without any of the gentleness that you’d given each other before and Eddie swore into the kiss, fingers hooking up and into you, pressing so sweet against the spot that had you crying out. You scrambled to grab at him, one hand on his jaw, the other in his hair as you squeezed your eyes shut too tight and let it all swim over you. 

It crashed like a wave, upupup, until the coil in your tummy snapped and it all unravelled, crashing back down with a roar. Eddie’s free hand cupped the back of your head, holding you to him as you moaned into his mouth, lips parted against his and he was rocking into you, pushing himself up against where his hand was hidden in your shorts until he swore and buried his face into your neck, kissing the skin there. 

You felt like your lungs were going to explode, like you’d run through the camp twice over and then offered yourself up for a hike. You were panting, letting Eddie smooth a hand over your hair as he pulled back to hover over you, his own chest heaving. He winced as he slipped his fingers from you, whispered an apology when you cried out a little softly at the loss of him. 

“You okay?” He asked and he sounded shy again, nothing like the boy who’d been whispering unholy things to you minutes before. “Good?”

You nodded, rolling into the boy, cheeks flushed, pressing your face into his neck before you spoke and when you did, your voice was unsteady. “Yeah, yeah I’m good. That was really good, fuck.”

You didn’t see the way the boy grinned, proud of himself, but you certainly sensed it. You huffed out a laugh, pushed at his chest and let him kiss your cheek 

“Don’t be smug,” you chastised but there wasn’t much heat behind it, there couldn’t be, not when Eddie was looking at you like that. You turned in his arms, peering up at him from your lashes as you asked, “did you, uh, did you—?”

Eddie snorted, leaning down to kiss you quick on your lips, deciding it was enough and kissing you again. He smiled, pushed his nose to your cheek and hummed in agreement. “Did I come in my pants like a teenage boy?”

You stared at him. 

“You’re damn right I did, sweetheart.” He grinned and shrugged, not looking the slightest bit embarrassed, and he shouldn’t have, ‘cause his confession made your thighs clench together all over again. “M’barely holding it together after watching you do that.”

You didn’t know what to say, so you laughed, a sharp, bright sound that made him smile wider and you were pulling him into you all over again. His hands snuck up your shirt, only to lie warm and rough against your back, like he just wanted to feel you and you nudged your hand at his jaw until he dropped his chin for you and you kissed him like it was the only thing you ever wanted to do. 

Like you’d been waiting to do it all summer. 

I want you. 

“Well?”

Eddie was woken up with a pillow to his face, the sun from a new day streaming into the cabin through the already open curtains. He hadn’t heard the tannoy, he’d barely heard Steve return, a banana and two stolen muffins in his hands. 

He threw one to Eddie as the boy stirred, turning to lie on his back and scowl at his friend. He caught the offering, blueberries staining his fingertips a violent purple and he swore. 

“Fuck sake, Harrington, what time is it?”

“Six thirty, don’t bitch at me,” Steve shot back, pulling the sheets from Eddie, “tell me what happened, c’mon, get up.”

“Jesus Christ,” Eddie grunted, shifting until he was pressed against the wooden headboard and setting the muffin on the nightstand. “You wan’ me to plait your pigtails too?”

Steve scoffed but didn’t retaliate, flopping down on the end of Eddie’s bed uninvited, half of his breakfast already stuffed into his mouth. He tapped at his friend's calf, impatient and gesturing at him to spill. 

“What?” Eddie laughed softly, “what d’you want me to say? That we made out?”

Steve snorted, rolling his eyes. “Well, no shit, dude. I kinda witnessed that part.”

Eddie kicked at him, pulling back the sheets from under Steve as he did, ignoring the way the other boy muttered an annoyed ‘ow.’ Eddie sighed, a smile spreading across his face ‘cause he was waking up properly and his pillow smelled like you and he could remember the way your hands felt on his neck, pulling him into you, onto you, just as greedy and eager as he had been. 

You’d tasted like blue raspberry jolly ranchers, smelled like sunscreen and campfire smoke from earlier in the night and you’d kissed him breathless, kissed him slow, kissed him desperate. 

Eddie shrugged, and he knew he looked foolish, a lazy, dopey grin on his face that Steve didn’t miss. He had a bad bedhead, curls sleep mussed and tangled from your fingers, a tiny, lilac bruise on his collarbone that matched the shape of your mouth. 

He felt lovesick, missing you already even though it had only been a few hours since he walked you back to your own cabin in the dark. You’d lay in bed with him for an age after it all, laughing as you’d watched him shuck off his jeans, heading for the tiny bathroom with pink cheeks, his hands covering the stain on the crotch of his boxers. 

He’d given you his sweater, his camp one, the one that said ‘Eddie’ on it with the teddy bear patch and he’d acted like it wasn’t deliberate, like it just so happened to be the first thing he’d grabbed for you but you smiled at him like you could see right through him. 

Perhaps, Eddie had thought, you could. 

You’d kissed him some more, let yourself be kissed by him back, all lazy and soft and sleep filled. The night was warm, Eddie’s bed warmer, legs tangled in each other’s and the sheets, the chirp of the cicadas the only other noise in the cabin apart from the tiny hitches of breath passed between your mouths. 

He’d walked you back to your cabin at around three o’clock in the morning, the night still yawning over the camp in an inky blue cloak, the lake glittering as he guided you through the trees and over all the fallen logs that had always been too heavy to move. 

Eddie had kissed you by your cabin door like he’d wanted to do since the first week of camp, since he’d bumped into you after dinner and walked you back, talking about music and work and how you were finding things. And then last night you’d held his hand all the way home and he’d glowed with it, felt your touch on him long after he’d left you with a kiss that went on too long, one that was more than sweet and still not enough. 

Eddie blinked and cleared his throat, side eyeing Steve as he shoved his muffin into his mouth, wondering if he was as flushed looking as he felt. By the boy’s answering grin, Eddie assumed he was and he swore. 

“Shit, you’re totally gone on her, huh?”

Eddie swallowed, taking his time to answer Steve who was waiting impatiently, eyebrows raised and grin stretching across his face. 

“So far gone it’s stupid, man,” Eddie finally answered. “Dude, I can’t stop thinking about her and it’s only been…” he looked at his watch and almost laughed. “Jesus, three hours since I saw her.”

Steve smiled and shrugged, softening a little from the way he’d been pushy before. His friend looked like he’d been hit over the head in the best way, eyes dazed, lips still too pink and plush from god knows what he’d been up to the night before. He remembered that, that feeling of realisation, that moment of, ‘oh holy shit, this girl has my whole fuckin’ heart.’

“So? You just gonna keep hangin’ out ‘til the end of camp? Swap emails?”

Eddie faltered, forgetting that the end of camp was looming, something that he normally didn’t mind ‘cause six weeks was a long time to be kicking around after dozens of kids, and eventually the bug bites got a little annoying. He’d miss Wayne, miss the city, miss playing the songs he wanted to play on his guitar, missed band practice and the noise of the city that never really died down. 

But Michigan and Pennsylvania were further apart than Eddie would’ve liked and a ten hour drive each way didn’t seem as easy as walking to your cabin. 

You hadn’t talked about what was next, not apart from art school but who knew where. Maybe it was stupid of him to want more after one night together, after six weeks and some stolen moments, but Eddie’s chest got a little tighter at the idea of not seeing you every day. 

So he looked at Steve with unsure eyes, shrugged again and pulled himself out of bed before the conversation could continue. There wasn’t long left until the kids would have to pack and the parents would start to arrive and Hop would tell the staff to start hauling tables and chairs and sports equipment back into storage. 

Maybe there'll be next summer. But Eddie thought about your sketchbooks and your drawings, the way your eyes lit up when you told him that art school seemed like more of a possibility than ever and the boy decided that maybe there would be bigger and better things for you next year. 

“C’mon,” Eddie told Steve, pulling fresh clothes out of his drawers, “help me set up for guitar lessons?”

—————

The rest of the days went by in a blur, much, much quicker than the weeks before. The heat soared, the days drawing out longer still, until it was pushing half past ten and the sky was still lilac and cotton candy pink, stars on the horizon and the moon opposite the sun. 

Eddie’s private lessons wrapped up and he came to you on his lunch break, smiling politely at Nancy who just grinned, skirting past her to ask you for help with something. You spent the afternoon with him on the floor of the craft room, cutting out certificates for each kid, writing their names neater than he ever could, gold stars and tiny, coloured guitars around the border. 

Eddie was more than pleased, pink in the cheeks and you could see all of it with his hair pulled back in a bun. He’d leaned over the mess you’d both made, kissed you sweet on the lips and ducked his head when Nancy had cooed at you both from the storage cupboard.  

You called him Teddy when no one else was around, whispered it soft enough that it made his brain short circuit, head going fuzzy until he could only respond by dragging you away somewhere quiet to kiss you until you were as dazed looking as he felt. It was his new favourite thing, stealing you away, ‘cause you let him every time, a grin on your face and you looked at him like he was made of gold. 

He’d sit you on top of one of his amps, pushing his way between your legs, moaning in approval when you’d hitch them around his waist when he kissed you stupid, a hand on your jaw so he could tilt you this way and that, so he could slip his tongue past your lips just the way he wanted to. Eddie discovered how you loved having your neck kissed; slow, delicate touches of his lips down your throat, how you liked it when he bit and sucked at it when he was in your bed with you at night. 

But you loved it even more when he kissed you sweetly on the cheek in front of your friends, in front of his. Like it was no big deal, like it was easy, like he’d always done it. You liked the way he’d do it quick when he said goodbye, when your schedules took you to opposite sides of the camp from each other and you adored it when he turned pink when everyone “awww’d” at him in response. 

He spent more time in your cabin than his, gave up his lunch breaks to hang out with you and your group of kids, feigning innocence when they asked him if he was your boyfriend. He’d look to you, unable to stop himself from smiling and he’d grin something stupid when you’d hit your lip and tuck your chin to your chest, as if that would stop him from seeing the way you flushed. 

And on the nights when neither of you had dinner duties, you’d meet Robin at the back door of the kitchens, taking the stolen pizza slices with a thank you before dragging Eddie back to your bunk. You’d play music for each other, the volume low as you swapped stories and secrets, and Eddie would try to make you laugh with tales from summers before, all the stupid shit he and Steve would get up to, how the boy and his now girlfriend used to hate each other… apparently. 

When you got braver and kissing the boy got easier, as easy as breathing, you returned the favour and unzipped his jeans, wrapping your hand around him and watched him lose it, whispering your name over and over and over again as he threw his head back into your pillow and fisted the cotton of your sundress in his hands. He was a mess when you leaned down to kiss across his stomach, the tattoos there you’d never been able to properly look at before, his shirt pushed up his chest so you could mouth over the soft skin, adoring the way the boy babbled aimlessly for you. 

You liked that you could reduce him to a mess, whether it was with your mouth on him and your bra on his cabin floor, the back of his van, or simply by waving at him across the mess hall, standing in your denim shorts and his sweater, name badge and teddy patch to boot. 

Steve was right, he was gone on you. 

Even Billy knew, ‘cause he’d pass you both by and roll his eyes, motioning to the way you liked to hook your fingers into the boy’s front pockets, pulling him to you. Billy would gesture to the scene, announcing to anyone who was nea by, staff or kids - he didn’t care. 

“See!” He’d half yell, smug, “fuckin’ called it, didn’t I? M’comin’ back next summer with a pair of damn wings and a bow.”

The last night of camp, Eddie stole you away from the fire, where you’d been sitting with Robin and Chrissy, sharing a bag of chocolate pretzels. The girls had made fun, cooing and laughing when Eddie flushed and flipped them off, but you went willingly, a grin on your face as he took you by the hand. 

He led you past the cabins, where the kids were inside packing up and the rest of the camp looked uncharacteristically bare, the kayaks put into storage, the flags from games week taken down from the tree branches. 

Eddie gestured to his van, sitting squint behind the gym building. He smiled, all blue shadows and dark eyes in the night. “Wanna get out of here?” He asked. 

You grinned, ‘cause he’d asked you that before and Eddie smiled like he remembered too. So you nodded, leaning into him to whisper the same thing you’d said to him all those weeks ago. 

“Are we allowed?”

Eddie kissed you in response, a slow, too sweet slant of his lips over yours, once, twice, three times, before he pulled back to nudge his nose to yours. 

“No,” he whispered back and it sounded like sin, like summer, like mischief and everything you didn’t want to let go. 

“Well,” you murmured back, hooking your fingers into his jean pockets and pulling him into you. You pressed another kiss to his lips, an extra one to the line of his jaw for good measure. “Let’s go.”

He took you to a lake, away from the camp and any towns, where the only light came from the stars and you lit up when he pulled out a couple of blankets from the back of the van. Eddie helped you onto the roof, laughing when he grabbed a handful of your ass to push you up and you squealed at him. But everything turned softer and quieter when you lay beside him, his arm under your head to cushion it, both of you staring up at the sky that was more than just black, more than just a navy tint. 

Eddie whispered constellations to you, pointing out lines and shapes above and he told you how Wayne had taught them to him, when the trailer park's generators would break down, how he’d take him up onto the roof and tell him all about the Milky Way and Orion’s Belt. 

He relished the way you clung to him, buried into his side with your arm wrapped around his waist, fingers tracing his hip bone under his shirt, chin hooked onto his shoulder. 

Then he trailed off, shifting to pull something from his pocket and he cleared his throat, scrunching his nose like you now knew he did when he was nervous. 

“Uh, here,” he smiled shyly. “This is for you. It’s stupid, I know, but it’s somethin’ for the drive home, right?”

You sat up as he handed you a mixtape, the one he’d spoken about. It had some songs on it from bands you didn’t recognise, some that you’d assumed would’ve been too heavy metal for your taste but it didn’t escape you that a few of them had the word ‘love’ in the title. REO Speedwagons ‘I Can’t Fight This Feeling,’ had been written twice, the first once scored out as if Eddie had changed his mind and it made you hiccup a laugh. 

There was an email address on the other side of the paper, tucked into the case beside the tape and you glanced at the boy, tears gathering at your lash line ‘cause you hadn’t been looking forward to this talk, this quiet goodbye where the two of you could be alone. 

“I, uh, I don’t have a computer at home,” Eddie explained quietly and he sniffed, leaning in to gather your hands, “but I can go to the library most days and we can talk, you can tell me about art school and, and, you know, life n’ stuff.”

You sniffed and nodded, smiling even though it was tinted with a sadness that you couldn’t explain. There was a longing that was wrapping around your chest, growing between your bones and the spaces between your ribs like wildflowers until they grew roots and you wondered if it would ever leave. You missed the boy already, even though he was bringing your hands to his lips, pressing kisses to your knuckles as he whispered for you not to cry. 

“Yeah,” you agreed, “life and stuff.”

—————

The last day of camp was as hectic as the first.  

Kids poured from their bunks as they greeted their parents by the fire pit, bags left in places they shouldn’t as other kids (and Hopper) tripped over rucksacks and pillows. Nancy did the rounds with Murray, checking each cabin for lingering campers, a missed shoe or a forgotten book and you were surprised at how sad you were to see them lock up each door as they left. 

You watched over a crowd of kids as Eddie knelt down to accept a bone crushing hug from some of his students, a few of them clutching a new set of drumsticks they didn’t arrive with. Some campers were sniffling, clinging to the legs of their favourite counsellors, only consoled by the fact that all the adults were telling them they’d be back next summer. 

Next summer. 

The paycheck in your front pocket felt too heavy for just a piece of paper. It had some nice numbers on it, more than you’d anticipated, enough to add to your savings, enough to put down a deposit on an apartment. So where new, a different city, maybe a different state. You thought about the textbooks you’d need for school, the set of mechanical pencils you’d asked for your birthday but never received. 

You thought about the applications to art schools that would be sitting on your desk waiting for you when you arrived home. 

You looked at Eddie again, with the same cut up shirt he’d worn the first day you’d met him, tattoos on show to scandalise the parents, all wild curls and soft smiles. He melted even more when he met your gaze and the thudthudthud of your heart was from excitement, not nerves. Not anymore. 

Eddie Munson made you feel the best kinda way. 

So when the parents left, kids in the backs of cars, hanging out of open windows as they yelled and waved goodbye, and the rest of the staff were saying their own farewells, Eddie took your hand and smiled. 

 It was sad, a soft, puppy dog kinda smile that made your chest ache ‘cause there were no plans made, no definition, no label on what you were, who he was to you. And that was okay, you’d both thought, ‘cause it was so, so new and shit, two weeks ago you weren’t even supposed to be looking at boys. 

But something changed, something snapped, something fell into Place and it felt so good. 

Who were you to argue with that? 

“So, what now?” Eddie asked, all quiet and soft and just for you to hear. He moved into you as you leaned on the side of your car, still wearing his sweater, hands in his front pockets to keep him from straying too far. As if he ever could. “Art school, yeah? My little Picasso.”

You snorted, ducking your head ‘cause he was too lovely, too sweet. You shrugged and acted coy, not knowing how to say it, not knowing how’d he take it ‘cause it was new and it was fresh and it was scary. 

But it was Eddie. And he’d wanted a fall wedding, hadn’t he?

You nodded and smiled, taking a deep breath before you looked up at him, squinting a little against the sun that was in the sky behind him. He was backlit against that hazy morning glow, the light still a little peachy, a pretty rosy kinda day. 

“Yeah, I guess so,” you told him and Eddie smiled like he was happy for you, and god he was, he really was. 

“M’proud of you,” he whispered and he pressed a kiss to your hairline, sweet and soft and god, this boy. 

You grinned, letting him love on you, pushing your face to his neck so you could kiss him back before you pulled away and shrugged. “Not applied for anywhere just yet.”

“Yeah, well, you’ll get into any school you go for, sweetheart.”

You grinned, scrunching your nose in the hopes that it would disguise your nerves. “Yeah? You think?”

Eddie nodded, nothing but solemn seriousness. “I know,” he told you. 

Your heart stopped and stuttered before it picked back up again, dancing against your ribcage. You hooked your fingers deeper into Eddie’s pockets, tugging until he laughed and let you move him closer, his body flush with yours. Eddie cradled your face in his hands, fingers splayed over your jaw as he pushed lovely at your cheeks, his rings cold on your too warm skin. 

“You can go anywhere you wanna go, babe.”

“I heard there’s a really great art school,” you swallowed, tongue feeling too clumsy for your mouth. You were flushing, chest tight, but fuck it, no one was there to tell you that you weren’t allowed to try anymore. “In Philly. Maybe you’ve heard of it?”

Eddie froze, gazing down at you with his hands still clutching at your face with a softness you didn’t ever want to be without. Maybe he’d stopped breathing, maybe you had, and then he was smiling, grinning, beaming, that slow, spread of his lips across his face that made the entire fucking world light up. 

He was brighter than the sun. 

“Yeah?” Eddie asked, and he sounded softer than you’d ever heard him, like he couldn’t quite believe it, like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to. 

You shrugged, bottom lip tucked between your teeth, trying not to smile, not to get too ahead of yourself ‘cause you needed to apply and actually get in and get an apartment and tell your mom you were moving out of state andandand —

“Yeah,” you said and you sounded more sure than you’d ever felt before. 

Eddie’s thumb pushed lovely at your cheek, still grinning and he smelled like the campfire smoke, like the forest and a rainstorm. He looked like a dream, like something you’d conjured up from a sketchbook. 

He was too pretty, too perfect, all guitar string scarred hands, teddy bear patches and bad boy tattoos, silver rings and wild hair, a cotton candy personality to boot. 

No boys? Who were you fucking kidding?