𝕸𝖎𝖒𝖎𝖁𝖊𝖙𝖙𝖊

(Dorian)

Dorian didn't know what to do with himself for the rest of the night. The heat that itched at his skin never went away, and the inappropriate rhythm of his own wooden heart continued to fester. Fester to the point it was hard to concentrate on anything else. Well, almost anything else…

"Pretty cozy in here," you hum, shifting slightly as you try to find a more comfortable position against the wall behind you. "Now I understand why you don't like to leave your post here."

After leaving Kopi's, Dorian and you had continued to chat, even walked around for a bit in the kitchen, and soon found yourselves outside the laundry closet. He didn't have the heart to say no when you had asked to go inside. For goodness ' sake, this was your house—if you so wished to come inside and talk, then he was going to let you come inside and talk!

"It's one of my favorite rooms in the house," Dorian explains, joining you on the ground. "It's here where I can hear myself think and, for the most part, enjoy some quiet time."

"I bet the others envy you," you smirk, and Dorian knows exactly what you mean.

"Some of them do," he admits coolly. "Especially the bathroom doors."

You let out an airy chuckle. "Oh, I bet."

Dorian looks down at his cuffs. Sitting on the hard floor, surrounded by nothing but spare cardboard boxes and detergent bottles, he can feel his insecurity wash over him again. He remembers he is only the laundry closet door—the most forgotten and mundane Dorian there is. He is not grand and ornate like the front door that greets you every morning, or the reliable bedroom door that makes sure you sleep soundly at night. He feels somehow unworthy—unworthy of keeping you here in the dark, occupying your precious time when you could be somewhere else.

"You um…" he starts, toying nervously with his knob watch. "Are you going to visit the Breaker Box tonight?"

There is a pause, but before it can cause him to regret his words, you shake your head with a tired sigh. "Nah, I think I've had enough fun for one day…"

Dorian eyes you carefully. It's obvious there's more to those words than you are letting on, but he doesn't pry. Instead, he quietly lets himself lean on the wall behind him until you unexpectedly sit up straighter. You beam at him, eyes bright again.

"Plus," you whisper, trying not to wake the others around you, "I don't mind hanging out with you a little longer."

Dorian, who is notoriously far from a social butterfly, finds himself awkwardly searching his mind for something—anything—to talk about just to keep the conversation going. Whatever doubts he previously had about his thematically redundant existence are gone.

"Ah, w-well," he stammers, very unlike him. "Have I ever told you about my name? Where it comes from?"

When you say no, Dorian proceeds to regale you with a long and detailed lecture on ancient Greek architecture and column terminology. His knowledge on the subject is so vast it could put someone like Lyric to shame (he's not the only one who likes to read).

You all the while engage in the conversation happily, asking small questions and listening with a genuine, rapt attention that makes his wooden frame feel lighter in response. As he talks, Dorian can't help but marvel at how freely the words gradually come to him. He's so immersed that he doesn’t even notice how late it's getting.

He's in the middle of discussing the difference between Doric and Ionic when he feels a soft weight settle against his shoulder.

He pauses and looks down to see you lean on him, eyes closed.

You seem to have fallen asleep, your breathing now deep and slow.

He is left in an immediate predicament. Part of his dutiful nature insists he should wake you up, or perhaps carry you up the stairs so you can sleep properly on Betty. Yet, as the seconds tick by, he finds himself unable to move. He is entirely content right where he was, secretly glad to be a source of support for you, even if it is in the smallest of ways.

He looks down at your peaceful expression, with lips slightly parted. A sudden curiosity strikes him. Although he has never known what it's like to grow physically tired—like a human—it wasn't impossible for him to sleep if he chose to simulate it. Front and Back never could nor would indulge themselves in this form of relaxation, and he's sure that they would scold him about it in the morning—or rather, he'd scold himself later. But he doesn’t find it in himself to care now. Leaning his head back against the wall, Dorian decides to try it—try to sleep. By your side, surrounded by your welcoming warmth, he lets his eyes drift shut, and the already dusky room becomes black…

When Dorian opens his eyes, the hazy light in the closet above feels uncomfortably heavy. He feels a slight shift as you begin to stir, blinking up at him with heavy, sleep-laden eyes. You mumble half-awake apologies for dozing off.

"…You really have a knack for finding the oddest corners of this place," Dorian murmurs, his voice low but showing no hint of frustration, only resignation. He looks around the tiny, cramped room with a somber frown. "It seems that none of my forms can manage to push you away. Not even this one," he says, looking at you now. "The entirely unnecessary. The structurally redundant. I just…the absolute absurdity of it all—having a closet even here..."

You tilt your head, a sleepy smile tugging at your lips, showing you are unbothered by his self-deprecating sulking. "Yeah, I guess it does seem a little silly…"

"Completely ridiculous," Dorian agrees, appreciating the honesty. He finds himself leaning in closer, his face expressing nothing but raw vulnerability. He pauses, his heart thudding violently once again against his ribs. "Yet you still came down here. You still chose to stay. Is it..." he swallows, knowing that what comes next could very well threaten the security of this friendship. "Because you truly love me?"

You don't hesitate. You look at him with a gaze so tender and accepting that it almost undoes him.

"Yes, Dorian, I love you."

Dorian is left paralyzed by how agonizingly he wants to believe you. His soul aches to accept your words, to finally believe that he is capable of being loved. He glances at the faint scar on your cheek, a sign of your resilience. He deeply admires you for it, and it only makes him realize how precious you truly are to him.

Dorian slowly reaches his hand up; his fingers tremble once as he tucks a stray strand of hair behind your ear. He leaves his palm there, cradling your jawline, and his thumb gently brushing at the skin of your cheek. He can practically feel the blood rush underneath, your pulse racing in tandem with his.

"I know I said I wanted to be friends," Dorian whispers, his voice almost pained. His large hand remains cupped against your jaw, and his eyes drop to your lips as his logic entirely dissolves into ash. "But I find myself entirely incapable of keeping that promise. Sometimes... I am terrified of losing you. I think about you more than I should. And I have to force myself not to ruin our friendship because I truly cherish what we have right now. But I can't deny that…I want more."

"You could never lose me, Dorian." You say, placing a hand on top of the one cradling your face. "I don't want to ruin this either, but…I think I'm willing to make that risk."

The collision of his lips against yours is so sudden, you let out a shocked gasp. You stay still for a split-second of delay before the sheer heat of the kiss takes over. You melt into him, your hands coming up to grip his shirt as you begin to reciprocate, kissing him back with such intensity that it blows right past any boundaries from before. He drinks you in like a man dying of thirst, finding the exact taste of your mouth to be just as splendid as he imagined (or tried not to imagine…); it tastes of coffee and sunshine. It's addicting, and he can't get enough of it. The kiss deepens, becoming heavy and desperate as the friction of your bodies in the tight closet threatens to spill over into something uncontrollable—

Dorian gasps, his eyes flying open as he jerks awake.

The blinding heat vanishes in a fraction of a second. He is met with the exact same dark, quiet of the laundry closet. You are still pressed against his side, your head perfectly undisturbed, unlike the hammering of his heart.

Carefully, almost guiltily, he presses his tongue to the roof of his mouth only to find no more of the sweet taste of coffee. Yet, the craving inside his chest doesn't disappear. It only sharpens, turning into a hollow, aching need that frightens him to his very core. He feels exposed, terribly so. His heart is on fire, and he likes it.

For weeks, he had fought to deny this exact feeling—desperately convincing himself that friendship was the only way. But he can't run from it anymore. This dream hadn't changed anything; it had simply been the catalyst to prove what he already knew.

He had fallen for you.

Hard.

A few days later, inside the Tipsy Tumbler…

Beverly usually looks forward to having many patrons coming through her doors; a lively business meant a productive one. But today, the proprietress is glad for the lack of faces.

"You saw—WHAT?!" Phoenicia gasps, lowering her phone down on the table. The act itself looks like it took some effort, but whatever the coffee maker had said was enough to bring her away from her screen.

Kopi squirms in her seat, cheeks heating up from the phone's loud outburst. A few concerned looks shoot their way.

"…I said," she leans in, whispering now. "I saw the homeowner and Dorian stop by my shop a few days ago."

"And what were they doing?" Miranda prompts her, a devilish glint in her eyes. Beverly, however, acts uninterested as she approaches and serves the three women their drinks. In her mind, she is unable to see the hype over something so mundane as two people eating out together. The phone and toaster seem to think otherwise.

"Well, Dorian had come in first," Kopi explains, "He placed an order and then made a second, saying he was waiting on someone. But he didn't say who."

Everyone at the table began to smile at her, an air of conspiracy taking hold. Beverly decided to finally speak up.

"What's so interesting about that?" she asks, hands on her hips.

"Oh, honey, this is huge!" Phonecia replies eagerly to her. The phone makes it sound like this should be an obvious clue to something. What that 'something' is? The bartender has no clue. "As far as I know, that man has never ever brought someone else to hang out with him."

Hang out? Beverly almost snorts.

That kind of thing didn't sound like something Dorian would do. It is too much of a casual term for someone like him. But then again—what did she know about the door's social life? If he even had one…

"So it was the human that came in?" Miranda tries to guess at the big reveal, and when Kopi confirms, she lets out an awed breath, like if it is all too good to be true. "Dios mio, this IS huge."

"What happened after that?"

"Well," Kopi plays idly with her mocktail straw, biting her lip as if hesitant on how to phrase this. "They sat down and ate, of course. It was all kinda cute to be honest—he even ordered her usual beforehand. He was so sure of himself too, like if he had it memorized by heart." Kopi smiles at the memory. "And I thought only I was the only one who knew what she liked!"

"Wait—" Phonecia says abruptly, leaving a feeling of suspense around them. "You don't think..?"

She and Miranda look at each other for a long moment and then—just as quickly—a light bulb seems to turn on above them. Soon both are letting out two high-pitched squeals, again catching the attention of those around them.

"What? What?!" Beverly demands, the rag she was using to wipe down a nearby table long forgotten. The two ladies let out one final giggle before turning to her, practically shouting:

"IT WAS A DATE!"

"PPFFFTTTT—"

A few tables away, Mitchell Linn can be heard spitting out his drink and then attempting to control his coughing fit. Beverly sends him an icy glare, knowing that's just another mess she has to clean up later.

A…date? Is that what they thought this was?

"Date?" The proprietress repeats, her eyes narrowing slightly. "How are you so sure?"

"I've had my suspicions for a while now," Phonecia shrugs. "To be honest, we even have a bet going on about how long it will take Dorian to date again."

"Seriously?" Beverly blinks, finally deciding to pull out a chair for herself. "Who would even join that?"

"You'd be surprised, amiga." Miranda sighs before taking a sip of her mojito.

"Seems like a bit of a stretch, don't you think? Can we even be sure it was a 'romantic date'? For all we know, it could have just been between friends." Beverly looks at Kopi when she says this, but the coffee girl immediately looks away sheepishly. There is something else she hasn't told them yet.

"W-well, at one point I might have seen them…hold hands."

"PPFFFTTTT—"

"Damn it, Mitchell!"

"A-apologies!"

Miranda, then joined by Kopi, squeals again. It seems like this is what they needed to confirm their theory. A smiling Phonecia then starts to prattle on about how much money Betty owes her now. All Beverly can do is watch them with a thoughtful expression of amusement. Even if she is still unsure of whether to believe this is true or not, she lets herself be glad about this turn of events.

Dorian and the human, huh?

Things in this house just got a whole damn more interesting.

Artwork for this chapter:

(Dorian)

When Dorian exits the club, he goes to resume his routine—or tries to.

His frame suddenly feels heavier than usual, and he's left trying to push down the sharp, hot, spiked feeling that plagues him. It is an unfamiliar, ugly feeling that makes his hinges tighten uncomfortably. The deep displeasure twists inside him, yet he is unsure where to aim its cause.

"Try not to miss her too much…I promise I’ll return her in one piece."

He remembers Volt's unabashed flirting, and it's enough to make him roll his eyes at the memory.

What a cocky bastard…

Dorian doesn’t trust Volt, not one bit.

Eddie, he can get behind, mostly due to the fact that he saved your life. To which he will forever be grateful, but Volt is nothing like Eddie. The showman is flashy, posh, and more importantly, volatile.

He lacks the controlled experience that Eddison possesses. Volt could quite literally kill a person if they stood anywhere near him during a thunderstorm. The whole thing seems dangerous to him—he almost saw you die to Dishy—he's not ready to see it for a second time.

But as much as the worry for your safety is justified, he can't bring himself to act. You have your mind set on making friends, and he'll fully support your plan—even if it gives him premature grey hair in the process.

Time passes more slowly than usual, but eventually, you make your way out of the electrical closet hours later.

Only when you are finally tucking yourself into bed does Dorian let out a relieved sigh. The sight of your sleeping form somehow manages to erase all trace of worry from his mind.

The heart can be a treacherous thing.

 Skylar’s words echo in his mind, but he shakes them away. No, he thinks. He denies that this is something more. He certainly isn't jealous of Volt, either. The very idea is absurd. He convinces himself that he just cares for you... a lot. As any good friend should. It's not whatever ridiculous 'romance' Skylar is trying to imply.

All that matters to him is that you are okay, he thinks with an air of indifference, but his body undoubtedly betrays him.

THUMP

Treacherous, yeah right…

(You)

You are unsure of whether it is a good idea to visit the club early in the morning. Even with the responsibility of running an establishment, Eddie didn't give you the impression of being a morning person—at all.

So you decide to keep yourself busy doing other things around the house and give him time to wake up. You'd probably be doing him a favor—that man looks in desperate need of proper sleep.

Without any real agenda to go off of, you chat with some objects and help them with the habitual tasks you've come to expect. You are currently wiping down Amir as he complains to you about his now cloudy surface and the 'greasy toilet-prints' Johnny and Jean Loo left on him this morning. You have to hold back a giggle when you spot the snobbish doodle the Frenchman left for him. It's definitely not the most flattering image of Amir, and the poor mirror was livid.

"This is not funny, Joonam!" Amir wails. "Those two hacks have it out for me! Ugh—I can't stand either of them!"

"I'm sorry, Amir," you sympathize as you're finishing up the last corner. "I'm sure they don't do it out of malice—well, at least not Johnny. He's an angel. He couldn’t hurt a fly."

Amir rolls his eyes. "Hm, I don't think 'angel' would be the word I'd use to describe him. He definitely doesn’t sound like an angel. And that Jean-Loo—I would rather eat glass than have to listen to those horrendous lyrics of his. Why must everything end with a fart sound? It's disgusting."

Just then, a spitball darts out from somewhere in the room and lands directly on Amir's forehead. The pretty man instantly recoils with a repulsed cry.

"Jean Loo!"

"Quoi?" The rapper shrugs at you without shame. "The snob had it coming."

After leaving the bathroom, you pay a visit to your closet only to find you don't have any clean clothes to wear besides a pair of shorts and a tank top with the print of your favorite band. You mentally scold yourself for not being more on top of things, but then remember that your recent accident. Back then, Dorian or Farya would have stopped you before you even made it past Stella.

After you're done changing into the clothes, you rummage through the huge pile you managed to scrounge up and sort them by color.

As you do, the Hanks show up, in their hanger size, to 'help.'

"So what are you doing again, homie?" asks Four as he leaps from one pile to another like the floor is lava. The others are trying to see who can finish sorting clothes the fastest.

"Laundry."

"Oh, right! That's dope!" Four answers, sounding like he really means it. He lands on your colored stuff with an 'oof'. Things fly out in all directions.

"Hey, my pile!" Two huffs.

"Sorry, brosef!"

"Mind if you take us with you downstairs, homie?" One asks you, eyes hopeful. "Me and the rest of the guys have been wanting to do a Spinathon for a long time now. And this is the perfect chance!"

"Spinathon? And just what exactly does that entail, Hank?" You say with narrowed eyes. It's going to be something crazy, you can know it. One immediately tries to shoot down your concern.

"Chillax, there's nothing to be worried about! It's just us climbing into a washer or dryer and seeing who can last the longest through the spin cycle. Totally harmless! Well... mostly harmless. Nobody's died, at least."

"…At least?" Wow, really reassuring, Hank.

"But, Hank 3 did throw up afterwards the last time we went." Five points out to which Three immediately denies, his face going redder than his hair. "I did not!"

"You did too!"

You grimace. "I don't think I like the idea of you guys doing that while my clothes are in there."

One pleads. "Aw, come on, homie! We've been practicing our endurance for weeks now. I'm sure nothing will go wrong!"

"What if you get stuck in the lint trap?"

"Not going to happen, dawg." He says, with absolute certainty. "We're professionals, remember?"

All five of them turn to look at you with sad puppy eyes. "Pleaaaase?"

You want to say no, but you know that has never stopped them from pursuing adventure before, so why bother? These are true adrenaline junkies, you might as well let them live their truth. "…Okay, fine."

"YES!"

When the piles are organized, you carefully place each inside your basket, then let the Hanks hop on top of the whole thing. All of them get giddy as if they're kids going on a school field trip for the first time. Once they are situated, you carefully lift the basket, making your way towards the door. When it opens for you, you say a quick thank you to Dorian before you make it out and down the stairs. On the way to the laundry room, the Hanks decide to play a game of I-Spy.

"I spy something tall!" One announces.

"The lamp?" Asks Two.

"Nope."

"The stairs?" Asks Three.

"No."

Five gives it a try. "The ceiling?"

"Bingo!"

"Yes! Let's see, I spy…something adorable!" Five declares next as they pass a framed picture hanging on the wall. The others gather around the edge of the basket to see a photo of you when you were a toddler. The men then begin to gush.

"Aww, look at little homie!"

"No way!"

"Look at that smile!"

"Is that Teddy in there, too?"

Once you reach the kitchen, all five of them have begun discussing which of them had been a cuter baby. You set the basket on the kitchen table when you notice Daisuke trying to put away a stack of serving plates.

"Hey Daisuke, need help with those?"

Daisuke glances over and smiles. "If you would not mind."

Leaving the Hanks to their own devices, you walk over to help him carry the dishes into one of the cabinets. Meanwhile, the Hanks have ceased their earlier discussion (it was a tie) and continue their previous game. It is now Two's turn.

"I spy something…" His dark eyes scan the room, trying to find that perfect 'something', eventually, they get stuck on something. "Um…birdy?" It ends up sounding more like a question.

"Birdy?" One asks, confused. "Birdy, how?"

Two, forgetting the rules, points toward the kitchen window, and the others follow his finger.

Outside the window, hovering beyond the glass, is a small drone. Its propellers buzz softly as it drifts mid-air. Every Hank turns to the other, perplexed, as they have never seen a drone before. The only thing they have to compare it to is a bird, but even that feels…wrong, somehow.

"...Do birds usually have four wings?" A Hank asks.

"I…I don't know. It's pretty shiny—could be made out of metal."

"…A metal bird?"

The drone slowly turns. Although it's subtle, it is enough to send a collective shiver through them.

Four gasps, eyes wide. "I think it looked at me!"

"It did not." Two rolls his eyes.

"It totally did, man!"

"It can't see you, dude." Five counters. "Only house homie can."

"What if it's a UFO?" Suggests Three.

That makes everyone pause for a moment, then one of them blurts out, "Quick! Somebody get homie!"

"Homie!" They all holler, some waving their hands frantically. Luckily, you look over from the cabinet. "Yeah?"

"There are aliens outside!" They shout in dismay. You are left there blinking. Hah, Aliens?!

"What?"

You walk over to the window, but when you get there, the drone has already disappeared behind the trees. You furrow your brows as you stare outside for several seconds. "...I don't see anything."

"Damn, you missed it! We swear it was right there!" Four cries.

You're not sure whether to believe them or not. Maybe it was only a morning bird, or perhaps it's their excitement that's making them see things. Either way, you decide to humor them a little.

"Well, if the aliens come back, make sure to ask them if they have any clean socks," you joke, patting a disappointed Four on his tiny head. The Hanks immediately burst into giggles and do mock alien noises in response, their good mood bouncing back. You finish helping Daisuke—all while avoiding Dishy like the plague. The sight of his object form is enough to send a small shiver crawling up your neck. You grab the heavy laundry basket, balancing it against your hip, and the Hanks immediately scramble for something to grab onto.

You open your mouth to say one final goodbye to Daisuke when a Hank suddenly says, "Morning, Door-bro!"

You turn your head, expecting to see Dorian’s familiar, imposing figure in front of you, like always. But when you look across the kitchen, your line of sight is empty.

Your eyes begin to search. "Uh, where—?"

"Down there, homie!" Four giggles, pointing to somewhere down below.

You lean your head over the basket and make a startled 'oh' sound before taking a few steps back.

There on a small stool stands Dorian.

A very tiny Dorian.

If you hadn't watched where you were going, you would definitely have bumped into him.

"…Dorian?" You ask, jaw agape.

The Brit shifts uncomfortably under your gaze, a noticeable flush on his cheeks. Oh my goodness, now I've seen everything.

"Er, good morning." The words come out noticeably less confident than other versions of himself, but this one's higher-pitched voice makes you want to fawn over him as if he were one of Mateo's rescues. You instantly wince at the idea.

What is wrong with you? Get a grip!

"Morning, Dorian. I didn't think I'd find you here." You chuckle sheepishly. "Almost toppled you over, sorry about that." The man only gets more embarrassed and straightens his posture in response.

"Having a laugh, I see. Typical." He scoffs, wrinkling his nose.

You automatically hear the coldness in his voice. Shit—he thinks you're mocking him!

"Oh! No, no, I wasn't laughing at you, Dorian! I promise," you say quickly, adjusting your grip on the basket. "I was just surprised, that's all." Your mind rushes to find some acclaim. "I-I think it is amazing how you can have all these different forms. I'm impressed, really." You make sure it shows in your voice.

Dorian studies you for a long moment, not sure whether to believe you.

"Impressed?…. You don't think it's weird?"

"Of course not," you shake your head. "You're still you, right? No matter your size, you're still our same old Dorian."

Tiny Dorian opens his mouth, then closes it. He is somehow rendered speechless by your words. You wouldn’t make fun of him for something he can't change. Instead, you're just happy to meet another version of him.

"Yeah, don't sweat it, amigo!" Hank One cheers from within the basket. "Being tiny is like the raddest thing ever! Just look at us!"

The rest of the Hanks chime in with equal cheer, even striking a pose for emphasis. Dorian doesn’t say anything, though. Making it clear that even this genuine, judgment-free compliment is too much for him to accept.

He looks to the side and sighs. "…I have to go."

He makes a brief parting gesture, and then he's gone.

You frown, feeling slightly disappointed as you stand there. You had hoped your words would make him feel better, not chase him away. It seems he has some complicated feelings about this version of himself. The very idea of Dorian feeling inadequate bothers you in a way you can't fully explain.

"Well, I think that went well!" The blond smiles. Everyone else turns to stare at him. A few of his friends shake their heads.

"Bro…"

The drone from before hovers quietly outside. And no one notices it's there.

After you go drop off your clothes with Washford and Drysdale (who were a little apprehensive at being left with the five himbo hangers), you finally make your way to the electrical closet and into the Breaker Box. You step into the empty club, with only the sound of your footsteps echoing through the vast space. Despite the closed sign outside, you find Eddie already behind the bar, nursing his usual cocktail.

"Huh, you actually showed up." He pauses when he sees you. "I guess that means I lose."

"Why do you sound so surprised?" You quirk a brow. "I told you I'd come, didn't I?"

"That you did."

Eddie puts his empty cup in the sink before shrugging off his vest. "But I guess there's still time for you to change your mind once you realize what you signed up for." He smirks smugly and begins to roll up his sleeves.

You try not to get transfixed on the muscles of his forearms or the faint scars that litter across his dark skin. Instead, you focus purely on his face.

"And miss out on that charming attitude of yours?" You quip, placing your hands on your hips. "I'm not afraid of a little work, you know?"

"Ha," Eddie rolls his eyes. "Well, as long as you're here, might as well get to it. There's a lot to do before we open, so we'll see just how long you actually last."

You may not know much about electrical power, but you'll be damned if you're going to let him intimidate you away. "Whatever you say, hotshot." You try to sound casual, even if inside you feel your skin heat up. "I'm more than ready to get started when you are."

He gives an unimpressed scoff, tossing his vest on an empty chair. "Usually, I take care of all the maintenance after hours, but we've been so slammed lately. There just hasn't been enough time. Things are breaking down faster than I can get to them." He doesn't try to hide the exhaustion and frustration in his voice.

"And trying to get to anything while the club is open is essentially pointless. There’s always distractions and questions and ‘polite conversation'." He looks at you then, hinting at your past attempts at conversation. At that, you give an apologetic smile, to which he almost returns.

"It's all exhausting."

"Is that what we're doing today?" You inquire. "Maintenance?"

"All things need maintenance." He replies, running a hand through his hair. "Nothing, no matter how well made, can function indefinitely. Eventually, we all wear down one way or another." He sounds somber as he says this, and you are left wondering if he is talking about himself. "And if something isn't given proper maintenance, they break down even faster."

You want to ask what would happen if something were to wear out completely. But that is a conversation you feel you are not ready to hear, and one he is not ready to give. Yet.

"Come on, we're starting with the wiring backstage. Oh, and grab that tool bag." He moves from behind the bar and starts making his way deeper inside the club.

And you have no other option but to follow.

It doesn’t take long for you and Eddie to find a comfortable rhythm as you work. He's no teacher, but he manages to demonstrate things pretty well, and you, as the students, attempt to copy him. You watch his hands move with experienced fluidity, fascinated the entire time. Thanks to your quick learning, you had now followed Eddie into the dimly lit storage room. The air here smelled thick of aged wood and sweet liquor.

"I need to grab something from outside," Eddie says, wiping a bit of grease from his palm onto a rag. "Stay here. Don't touch anything until I get back."

You nod as he steps out. Left alone in the quiet space, you look around. Your eyes land on a dead bulb hanging from a dusty fixture on the ceiling. You figure you can be helpful while you wait. You drag over an old wooden ladder you find in the corner and begin to climb up the steps. You are just about to reach your hands up for the dead bulb when you hear the door open, followed by a sharp, panicked gasp. You quickly turn to see Eddie drop whatever he went to get, his hand now outstretched in front of him.

"Wait! Don't touch that, it's not—!"

Before he can finish his sentence, the wooden step beneath your feet gives way with a loud crack. You lose your balance, causing the world to tilt. You are about to let out a terrified scream as you plummet toward the hard floor, but then a pair of strong arms wrap tightly around your knees and back, catching you effortlessly. Eddie holds you close against him to stabilize your weight.

He lets out a long, ragged breath against your hair. "Shit, you all right?" he asks softly.

The intense gentleness in his voice throws you off completely. You look up, your face only inches from his. The customary ice in Eddie's eyes has melted, and for a moment, his pupils are filled with a molten, burning warmth that keeps you utterly entranced. The tension in the room is quickly becoming suffocating. You can even hear the rapid, heavy thudding of his heart besides that of your own. He scans your face, his gaze dropping to your lips for a split second before darting back to your eyes. His dark skin is flushed with a sudden heat. It feels impossible to look away, even if you wanted to. Even his rich, smoky scent is becoming hard to ignore, but you are far from complaining.

"..Y-yes. I think so, thanks," you stammer, your voice barely above a whisper.

He carefully but quickly sets you back on your feet and steps away, breaking the charged energy from before. His face contorts back into its customary gruff expression.

"That was unbelievably careless," Eddie scolds, his voice hard but still breathless. "What were you trying to do exactly?"

"I was... I was just replacing the lightbulb, like you said," your body seems to still be stuck in a state of shock.

"I told you to replace the one behind the bar," he sighs, running a frustrated hand down his face. "The floorboards under these lights are loose, and the ladder is completely rotted out. That is why I told you not to touch anything yet."

All you manage to say is a small, embarrassed, "Oh."

Eddie shakes his head. "Just pay more attention."

You start patting yourself off, brushing away nonexistent dust from your shorts just to have something to do with your hands. Your ears are burning bright red, and your heart is still racing out of control, but not because of the fall.

"You're..." Eddie hesitates. He rubs the back of his neck, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. "You're sure you're not hurt?" His voice drops, sounding gentle and shaken at the same time.

The genuine concern makes your chest tighten with a strange warmth. You didn't know he was capable of such tenderness. Well, what do you know?

"I'm fine, Eddie. You were quite quick..." You swallow hard. "Thank you for catching me."

His face turns a soft, unmistakable shade of pink. He quickly looks down at his shoes, feigning nonchalance. "You’re welcome," he grumbles. "But um…let’s not make a habit of it, okay?"

He then adds, "Now, go get the ladder and put it behind the bar this time."

At the sound of normalcy, you let out a tired giggle.

The last few tasks to take care of proceeded without incident, thankfully. By then, both of you are totally worn out, Eddie more so. His back cracks as he stands.

"I think that's it. That was the last wire left to seal." He hands you his pliers.

"This was kind of fun." You chirp, putting them back in their toolbox. "Working with your hands, I mean."

"You’ve done…surprisingly adequate work." He admits, still not looking at you. But of course, when he looks up to see you beaming at him, he adds. "Mostly."

You couldn't be bothered, though. While still grinning, you remark, "I had a pretty good teacher."

Eddie finally lets out a chuckle, taking the heavy toolbox from you. "No, you had an excellent teacher. If you’d only had a 'pretty good' teacher, you probably would have electrocuted yourself. Twice."

You lightly push away his two fingers with a mock-offense gasp. Eddie lets out a low laugh, and you join in.

"We got through a lot more of the to-do list than I expected." He notes thoughtfully. "That’s probably good for today. If you want to…" He trails off. "You know…head out…"

The idea of leaving saddens you. The truth is, you don't want to go just yet. Even though Eddie can be an absolute grouch, you genuinely enjoyed his company today. There was something incredibly rewarding about peeling back that rough layer of his and getting to see that softer side.

"Orrr…" You draw out. "I can hang around for a little bit…"

He lets his surprise show through, but quickly hides it under his usual indifferent mask. "Suit yourself. Would you like a drink, then?"

"Only if you're having one," you reply.

"Sure." He swings a rag on his shoulder. "Why don't you go out and wait for me at the bar? I just have to put away these tools, and I'll meet you there."

With one final glance, you close the door behind you and make your way to the bar, smiling a little as you go. You turn the corner, then immediately freeze in place. Volt, whose back is turned towards you, is wandering around the empty bar, only a few yards away.

It would be for the best if you didn't mention any of this to Volt, especially if you want to keep coming around.

Eddie had mentioned that you not tell Volt about any of this, admitting he only wanted to protect Volt's pride for this place (and not risk his ass getting scolded). You didn’t know how to feel about keeping this a secret; it felt like too much like lying—and you didn’t want to lie to Volt. But something in your gut told you this was for your own good too…

Now with Volt suddenly here, there was no way of explaining away the heavily smudged dark grease stains on your clothes without raising questions. You aren't ready to find out how he would react to discovering you and Eddie working together in secret. You fight back a chill.

"Eddie!" Volt calls out, then turns. With a spin that could give someone whiplash, you move out of the man's line of sight, silently retreating to the storage room to find Eddie.

When you close the door behind you, Eddie turns around to see you pressed up against the door, your face terribly pale.

"What are you—"

"Volt!" You all but hiss, gesturing to the door. Both of you freeze when you hear Volt call out again, only he's much closer than before.

"Shit."

Suddenly, you're being ushered by Eddie into a dark corner of the room, shadows engulfing your form from view. Eddie leans in, his lips barely grazing your ear.

"I'll try to distract him away from here. Just stay quiet for now."

"Eddie?" Volt asks. He's just outside the door. "Are you in here?"

"Yeah, coming!" Eddie walks away from where he left you. He wills his face to remain impassive and opens the door. Volt stands in front of him, his hair glowing brighter when he sees him. You pull back further into the dark, your own blood rushing loudly in your ears.

"There you are, spark!" Volt beams at him, completely unaware of how stiff Eddie has become. "What were you doing in there? I called for you multiple times."

"Sorry, I was trying to find a tool I misplaced." He pulls out a screwdriver from his pocket as evidence. "Was there something you needed?"

Volt proceeds to tell him that he needs help finding a microphone. His microphone. He can't start tonight's show without it. He fears it might be lost.

"Let's not get ahead of ourselves, Volt. I'm sure it's just near the stage like always."

Eddie closes the door behind him and leads the other away from the storage room. You, on the other hand, are left alone in the dark with the dreadful challenge of figuring out how to get the hell out of here.

(Eddie & Volt)

"What are you even doing up this early? You should be resting." Volt sighs, his expression turning worried as both men walk towards the stage.

Eddie shrugs off his concern like usual. He doesn't even bother turning around. "I'll add it to the list."

"Eddie." Volt is not in the mood for his sarcasm.

"There's no time, all right?" Eddie gives him a side glance as he begins searching the platform. "There's too much to do. And unless you want us to blow a fuse…"

Volt shakes his head. This again…

"We're not going to blow a fuse. Though you might if you don't relax. Everything tonight is well in hand."

Eddie doesn't answer right away. He moves a heavy amplifier aside, his eyes scanning a jumble of tangled stage wires. It's a pretty hazardous mess, and he makes a swift mental note to add 'organize stage wires' to his never-ending to-do list. But right in the center of the clutter, his fingers brush against cold metal. He pulls it out.

"Fine, just a few hours," Eddie says, proving his theory right as he hands the microphone back to Volt.

Volt takes it gratefully, his face lighting up once more. "But only if you swear you'll keep me updated."

"Have I ever failed you before?" Volt smirks. Eddie lifts a brow. "Obviously not."

Eddie huffs, "I'm serious, Volt. If it gets worse, you come get me."

Volt sighs, but agrees, "Alright, alright, I promise."

The showman paces the edge of the stage, flipping the mic from hand to hand as he begins talking about tonight's performances. But as Volt rambles on, his expression grows quiet. He looks out over the empty tables of the lounge. "Do you think Livewire will be here tonight?"

Eddie pauses, his hand freezing on a dial.

Volt lets out a wistful sigh, sounding genuinely remorseful. "I admit I miss them. I feel terrible for abandoning them like that last night. I didn't even get to say a proper goodbye. What a terrible host I am..."

Eddie lets out a chuckle, trying to ease the performer's guilt. He knows Volt was only trying to recover his strength from the sheer exhaustion of the show. "Don't punish yourself, Volt. I'm sure if they knew the situation, they'd understand."

A look of piqued interest replaces Volt's melancholy. "Since when do you know our human so well?"

The question catches Eddie off guard. He feels a sudden heat rise to his collar, remembering what happened in the storage room. He scrambles to pull back the uncharacteristic warmth in his voice. "I-I don't know? They just seem like an understanding kind of person, is all."

Volt smiles, his eyes narrowing. His dear Eddie was never the best at subtlety.

"It seems I was not the only one charmed by our livewire that day."

Our Livewire.

The title rolls off Volt's tongue so easily. And the fast pace of his heart makes it clear how much he likes the mere sound of it. He's sure Volt can feel it through the bond they share.

"Stop it, Volt," Eddie grumbles, turning his back completely to hide his face. "It's not like that."

"Hm, keep telling yourself that, Eddison," Volt chuckles, satisfied with his discovery.

As Volt busies himself testing the sound levels on his microphone, Eddie looks back toward the empty club. Through the dim lighting, his sharp eyes manage to catch the shadow of a fleeting figure wearing a casual tank top and shorts slipping quietly through the front exit door. The heavy door clicks shut with a distant sound.

An immense wave of relief washes over Eddie's chest. You made it, thank god.

Against his better judgment, he quietly anticipates when you'll come back. Even after today's scare, he somehow knows you will come back. Something had changed between you inside that dim-lit room. He remembers the warm weight of your body as he held you in his arms. More than anything, he remembers the absolute betrayal of his own eyes when his gaze had strayed down to trace the soft, pretty shape of your lips.

You've caused new feelings to stir inside him. The dangerous kind.

Our Livewire.

He doesn't let himself forget he owes you that drink.

(You)

You let out a long breath the moment you leave the Breaker Box. You attempted your escape the moment you heard the two men deep in conversation—About what? You're not sure. You didn't want to risk getting caught with your eavesdropping. And by some miracle, you weren't caught.

You trudge down the stairs, unable to ignore the ache in your muscles from all the lifting and crouching you did. Even your hands feel stiff from all the tool-holding. By sheer stubbornness, you manage to make it to the laundry room. Both Drysdale and Washford are there to greet you, a basket of clean clothes in their hands.

"Thank you, guys. What would I do without you?"

Drysdale gives a chuffed laugh. "Oh, Cherub, it's the least we can do! After all, thanks to you, Washford and I are reunited once again! That is something we can't thank enough." Washford nods in agreement.

"Though, in the future, we would appreciate it if you warned us about any company you wish to bring here, aside from Dirk. Those...colorful friends of yours did make our routine unexpectedly challenging this time around."

You can only imagine what kind of trouble the Hanks managed to get themselves into. "Sure thing."

You take the basket without complaint, even though you feel your palms ache once more from the weight. You turn around and spot Dorian, in his regular size now, effectively blocking your way.

Your mind flashes back to the awkward conversation with Tiny Dorian. You hear yourself already apologizing.

"Dorian, look, about earlier—"

"Let me take that," Dorian cuts you off gently, stepping forward and taking the heavy laundry basket right out of your hands. He handles the massive weight as if it were as light as a feather. He gives you a small smile as he does. "You must be tired. I can take this upstairs, if you'd like."

You are left dumbfounded for a long second. "Oh, um… okay. Thank you?" He turns without another word and heads for the stairs. Meanwhile, you are utterly confused.

Could you have misinterpreted his words back in the kitchen? Maybe it was all just in your head… maybe he isn't bothered by Tiny Dorian at all, and maybe YOU'RE making this a bigger deal than it is. This pleasant attitude of Dorian's surely proves that's the case.

You're still an overthinking mess when you both reach your bedroom.

"Thanks again, Dorian." You say as he sets the basket on your bed.

"Of course, love." He turns around to face you fully. He hooks his thumbs into his pockets, but his dark eyes stay fixed on your face.

"If I may be so bold," he says, his deep baritone voice dropping slightly. "When was the last time you had something to eat?"

Eat? You blink. Why the sudden interest?

You try to remember your meals for the day. Your stomach gives a loud, pathetic rumble as you do. Turns out—all you had to eat was a single, small granola bar in the morning. Pretty far from ideal. Stefan would have a few colorful words to say if he found out.

You cover your stomach with both hands, giving an embarrassed chuckle. "Uh, not much actually."

"I thought so," Dorian replies, smiling again. Yet his eyes are filled with genuine concern. "You've been running yourself ragged the entire day, and all on an empty stomach. It is not healthy."

"I know that! I was just…busy," you mumble, looking down at your shoes. "I was just going to fold this laundry and then maybe find a snack..."

"Snack? At this hour?" Dorian tuts with a disapproving frown. "I think not."

What he says next takes you for a loop. You have to ask him to repeat himself. "W-what did you say?"

"I said—'would you like to go get something to eat?'"

"With…you?" You ask, stunned.

Dorian doesn't take your moronic question the wrong way and instead lets out a chuckle.

"Ideally, yes."

"I—well," you sputter, your mind trying to process the invite. Who wants to fold laundry anyway? The muscle pains from before suddenly disappear. "Yes, I'd like that. But where?"

Dorian shrugs. "Anywhere you'd like."

Given this freedom, you find yourself suggesting Kopi's place. Dorian nods approvingly. "Sounds good. Take your time getting ready." He steps back into the hallway. "I'll be waiting for you there."

After a quick outfit change, you head for the coffee shop. Inside, you are greeted by the delicious smell of chocolate and cream. Your stomach rumbles in anticipation.

Dorian, as promised, waits for you at a table.

"Hey, Dorian. Sorry to keep you waiting," you say as you slide into the booth across from him.

"S'alright," Dorian replies, letting another rare, genuine smile show through his sharp features. "I haven't been waiting long."

You sink into the plush seat, letting out a relieved sigh. The shop is cozy as always, with its soothing atmosphere and upbeat music. Kopi stands behind the counter, carefully pouring steaming water over a fresh batch of grounds. Besides the three of you, the rest of the shop is devoid of anyone else.

"I've taken the liberty of ordering already, if that's alright," Dorian says.

"Oh, good, because I'll eat just about anything right now." You stretch your arms up a little. "After a long day's work, I think some coffee will do me well."

"So, did everything go well at the club today?" Dorian asks, face betraying nothing.

"If by 'well' you mean falling off a ladder, then yeah." You chuckle at the memory. But Dorian, however, doesn't laugh.

"…What?" His expression grows serious, almost alarmed. His eyes begin to search you for any sign of injury. Realizing your mistake, you race to clarify.

"I mean—I didn't actually fall! Well, I did. But Eddie managed to catch me before I hit the ground. So nothing's broken, fortunately."

Dorian takes in your words, then sighs, relieved and wrecked all at once. Gradually, the worry from before softens into a fond, helpless exasperation. "What am I going to do with you?"

Your heart flutters, and you find it difficult to form a response.

Thankfully, Kopi walks over to your table with her bright, welcoming smile. She sets down a porcelain mug of plain black coffee in front of Dorian. The simple order doesn't surprise you in the slightest. It suits him perfectly.

Kopi then places a second drink right in front of you. Your eyes widen. It is your usual custom order—made exactly the way you like it. "I'll bring out your sandwiches in a bit, okay?"

You stare down at the cup in disbelief. You lift your head, looking across the table at Dorian, who is already drinking from his mug. When he catches you staring, he stops.

"Is something wrong with your order?"

"…N-no," you stammer. "It's perfect, actually. You said you ordered?"

"That's right." He nods, lifting his cup to his lips.

"But I can't recall ever telling you what I drink. Or how I like my coffee."

Dorian sets the mug back down. A subtle, proud glint in his eyes.

"Us doors can be observant when we wish to, you know?"

He lets the remark hang there a long moment. You now find yourself terribly curious about why Dorian would have taken the effort to learn this about you and, more importantly, why invite you here in the first place.

You open your mouth to speak—

"Here you go!" Kopi comes back with two orders of savory sandwiches and sets them down. "Enjoy, you two!" she chirps happily, flashing a grin before heading back to the counter to let you two have your privacy.

"…Dorian," you find the courage to speak. "What exactly is…all this?"

"I…" he takes a deep breath, as if he's rehearsed this entire conversation beforehand, "… I wanted to apologize."

Your brows knit together. "For what?"

"For what happened this morning." His fingers tighten slightly around the mug handle. "With Tiny Dorian."

"Dorian, you don't have to—"

"I do." He shakes his head, his expression grave. "It was rude of me to act that way. Especially towards you. You don't know how ashamed I am. It's just…that version of me is not one I particularly like. For reasons you probably already guessed."

You don't say anything. Instead, you sit quietly, listening to him talk like nothing else matters. This is the most he's ever willingly taken time to open up—you are not about to ruin it.

"I should have trusted you more," he admits. "After everything you've done around here, there was no reason to assume you would ever act ungraciously towards me. Especially since you're one of the few people here I consider a friend." He lets out a somber laugh. "Believe it or not, I am not particularly good at making friends."

You raise a brow, and he smiles. "Yes, yes, I know what you're thinking. I'm the 'Defender of Friendship'—and whatnot. But it's true, even I find it hard to make connections."

"Which is why I am so glad to see you try every day to make those connections with those here. All of those conversations you've had so far give me hope that there is truth to what I told you that first day we met."

You can feel your eyes tear up a little. This was definitely not how you thought this would go, but you don't mind. Not in the slightest.

"Did I ever tell you why I chose the path of friendship?" Dorian asks then.

"No."

"There was..." he sighs, disheartened. "Someone, years ago, whom I grew to appreciate deeply. And I thought they did too. But in the end, they made me believe I was never easy to love."

Your chest tightens painfully when he says this. "Oh, Dorian..."

"It's alright." His smile is gentle but sad. "I moved on a long time ago."

You aren't sure you believe him. You feel an immediate surge of dislike toward a person you've never even met. You understand Dorian's pain; maybe that's why he felt like he could share this story with you.

"I just want you to know that..." He clears his throat. "I'm glad to have someone like you as my friend. That you'll always see me for me, regardless."

(Dorian)

It felt good to finally let the words out.

He's been carrying them for so long, he didn't know how much more he could take.

After so much time of watching life go on and seeing others bond from the sidelines, he finds himself finally taking the steps to be more open—more trusting—with others.

He thinks back to the conversation he had with you in Farya's office when you woke up. It was a vulnerable moment for both of you, and you got to see a side of him no one else saw.

The afraid and powerless side.

And you didn't see him any differently afterwards. That was probably the moment that ignited that flame of comradeship, where he knew he could count on you and you could count on him.

He's taken out of his thoughts when he feels a warm hand over his that rests on the table.

"I'm really glad to have you as my friend too, Dorian," you say softly, looking directly into his eyes so he knows you mean every single word. "And I don't want you to hide parts of yourself from me. Tiny Dorian, Back Dorian, or anything in between. I want you to be honest with me about your feelings, because I will be there to listen. Always."

He stares down at your hand resting firmly over his. A sudden, burning heat rushes straight up his collar, and he feels his ears go hot. Your gentle words seem to cut right through him, leaving him entirely…exposed.

It dawns on him how close you both are. The lighting of Kopi's shop catches your face, and he notices things he hadn't fully processed before. His eyes trace the faint, pink line of a scar on your cheek. A permanent reminder of your battle with Dishy. But besides that, he takes in how lovely your smile is. And your eyes, which look at him in the most tender, accepting way. It is a look he has never received from anyone else in his entire existence. In other words, you are…

Beautiful.

His fingers twitch under yours, and he feels his throat go completely dry. He realizes he cannot pull away from your touch, even if he tries. Because, to his horror, he finds that he likes it very much...

THUMP THUMP THUMP

I guess the heart CAN be a treacherous thing.

I got the tiny hank idea from that tumblr post

cracks me tf up

1 day since Keith's Realization…

To say that everyone was only shocked would be a terrible understatement.

No one had seen it coming… or at least they had never imagined he would be capable of doing such a thing, especially not to someone like you.

It wasn't until you were finally kneeling on the cold floor, crying your poor heart out with only a crumpled dollar bill trembling in your hand, that the realization of what happened seemed to set in…

Keith had lied to you.

Betrayed you.

Betrayed all of them.

He wasn’t who he claimed to be, and now the man was gone…leaving behind a trail of devastation that none of you knew how to recover from.

Some mourned the friend they thought they knew. Others resented themselves for falling for his charm so easily. A few could not even bring themselves to speak his name anymore, the syllables leaving a bitter taste in their mouths.

But none suffered more than you.

It was no secret that you loved Keith deeply—and that when he finally revealed his true nature to you, it was like everything around you began to crumble.

And the troubling issue was that none of them quite knew how they were going to save you from it.

13 days since Keith's Realization…

You have always considered yourself a compassionate person. Perhaps too compassionate.

You like seeing the good in others, even if they are too stiff and serious, like Dorian, Daisuke, and Friar; too obnoxious and loud, like The Hanks, Kristof, and Scandalabra; or just plain mean, like Tina, Doug, and Rebel.

You believe people deserve understanding, patience, and kindness. Maybe that is your greatest strength... Or maybe it has always been your Achilles' heel.

Because in the end, that same compassion is what allows Keith to get so close to you in the first place. He is so convincing. You look at him and see loneliness instead of danger. Grief instead of manipulation. Vulnerability instead of deceit.

Heartbroken.

Used.

Humiliated.

No one word can describe what you feel.

And the worst part is that you cannot even bring yourself to hate him. Not completely. Some disgusting, pathetic part of you still misses him despite everything he has done. You hate yourself for that more than anything.

Your days slowly blur together after his disappearance.

You spend hours curled up in bed, doomscrolling endlessly on your phone, absorbing meaningless information just to keep your mind occupied long enough not to think about him. About his voice. His touch. His lies.

Betty worries constantly, while Timothy, on the other hand, is displeased. The clock hates seeing you waste away like this. (And he is not the only one.)

The surprising thing is that you never stop wearing the Dateviators.

If anything, you wear them more now.

You still speak with everyone. Still help around the house. But there is an invisible wall between you and the others now, one you refuse to let anyone cross. Because talking about Keith feels unbearable. You cannot stand the thought of saying his name aloud, only to break down all over again. He breaks into your safe, takes all the crypto in that online account, and then laughs in your face, absolutely rapturous about his deceit. His heartlessness hurts so fucking bad... You have never cried so hard as in that moment.

But now, time has passed, and you refuse to sit here crying while everyone watches you fall apart over a man who has made a complete fool out of you.

How can you, of all people, allow yourself to be manipulated so thoroughly?

The questions gnaw at you endlessly—day and night—festering quietly beneath your skin. And the feelings you try so desperately to suppress only continue to grow worse. Sadness slowly curdles into resentment. Resentment into anger.

Not just toward Keith—but toward yourself, too.

Then comes that morning.

That fucking morning.

The television is playing in the background more as noise than anything else while you sit motionless on the couch, half-paying attention to your phone. Another sleepless night lingers heavily beneath your eyes.

You almost ignore the flat screen entirely.

Until something the reporter says catches your attention:

"Authorities have confirmed the death of a male passenger involved in yesterday’s in-flight incident aboard a private flight bound for Ibiza. Witnesses reported the individual displayed erratic behavior prior to a verbal altercation with members of the flight crew. According to investigators, the situation escalated after the passenger gained access to one of the aircraft’s emergency exits and proceeded to jump out from said aircraft while it was still thirty thousand feet in the air The individual is pronounced dead as of late…"

You feel bile rising in your throat, your vision growing blurry from the tears beginning to form. Your breaths come in short and uneven bursts as the reporter keeps talking, continuing to the next segment, all while your world shatters for the second time.

Something hot twists violently inside your chest. Your entire body feels like it is overheating. Your skin prickles. Your pulse pounds loudly in your ears. Every muscle in your body seems wound painfully tight.

You are angry.

More than angry—you are furious.

The realization scares you to your core. Never in your life have you felt rage this overwhelming before. Before you can do something stupid—like hurl the remote at the television and accidentally hurt poor Telly—you push yourself off the couch and stumble toward the stairs.

You want more than ever to get out of here. To step outside your house where nobody can see you like this—fall apart like this.

But that is impossible.

You feel so trapped even as you make your way up the stairs, your feet hitting each step hard enough to make the wood groan. Everything around you becomes a blur as you head upstairs, your breathing growing more ragged with every passing second.

You do not even think about where you are going. You just need to be away from that room, away from the sound of television static. The door slams behind you harder than you intend, and guilt immediately stabs through you.

Sorry, Dorian.

Your legs finally give out, and you slide down against the door's grain until you are sitting on the floor, body shaking. It does not take long for the waterworks to come.

I hate this, you think as you roughly wipe the hot, fat tears away. The sounds of your hiccupped sobs echo through what you realize is the gym room. Your hands curl into tight fists, your nails digging into your palms. As much as you despise yourself in that moment, there is something—someone—who takes the damn cake.

Keith.

...I hate him.

Keith.

A bitter laugh overtakes you.

"God, I fucking hate you..."

How could he do this?

Despite everything he did—the lying, the stealing, the humiliation—some part of you hoped he would have at least made use of the human life you gave him. Enjoyed it, as he was so determined to do so. He'd live the high life and go on living. Because if he did...

then all that pain he caused would have meant something.

The bastard could even do that!

Instead, he threw it away.

Carelessly.

Recklessly.

Stupidly.

He chose death instead.

A choked sound escapes your throat.

You hate Keith so much.

Yet somehow... you find yourself mourning him.

Can't get any more pathetic than this, right?

Your body still feels too hot to think properly. Your mind is ensnared with hostile thoughts and self-loathing. Maybe that is why you do not notice the tall figure approaching you.

"I would have never thought I'd get to see you like this."

You stop crying and look up to meet a pair of steel-blue eyes. His entire frame is terribly imposing; it is enough to make you want to shrink back.

"Ah shit—Kristof." You scramble to your feet, wiping your sleeve over your now-puffy eyes. "Sorry, I was just—I'm fine..."

If there is someone in the entire house you do not want seeing you like this, it is Kristof. You can already imagine his disappointment at seeing you in such a degrading state.

Weakness is something he cannot stand.

"If you think your attempt at reassurance is serviceable, you are sorely mistaken."

You wince. Even though he betrays no clear emotion in his tone or expression, the hard look in his eyes is enough to make you abandon any attempts at persuasion. You pause for a long moment, trying to find your voice again. Even when the words finally come, they emerge rough and broken from all the crying.

"He's dead."

Kristof does nothing or says nothing. Instead, letting the words hang between you.

"He's dead," you repeat. "And I just... I just can't believe it."

Your heart feels like it is being squeezed to death, ready to burst at any moment.

"After everything he's done, how could he have been so... so careless?"

The last word catches in your throat.

"Did he really value his life so little?" you choke out. "Was it all just some joke to him?"

You are seeing red and find no reason to hold back any longer.

"How could he leave me here with this?" You press a hand against your chest. "With the guilt. With the pain. With all of this shit!"

The tears return in full force.

"He might be able to move on from all this now that he's gone. But I can't! I'm still here!"

The words spill out with venom, the deadly kind.

"I have to wake up every day knowing what he's done. Knowing I let him die! Knowing I loved him too much to see what he really was!"

An angry sob tears its way from your chest.

"I hate him so much, Kristof!"

Your body is shaking again, and the urge to punch something returns in full force.

"Why would he do this? Why? WHY?!"

You are practically screaming in his face, but Kristof does not react. His eyes travel down to your shaking fists, then back to your face, burning with a vengeful fire of his own. The words that come out of his mouth seem to make the world pause.

"Hit me."

You are so stunned, the anger almost disappears. You blink through your tears, staring up at his massive, unyielding frame. "W-what?"

Kristof repeats his words, no less serious. "You are angry—you have every right to feel angry. The violence that surges through you is immense, it must be released in some way. But I don't believe in any of those soft methods Dunk teaches like yoga." He shakes his head in disdain at the word. "No, you must do something more vicious than that. And I am more than willing to help you accomplish that."

It takes you a second to understand what he means, and when you do, you refuse immediately.

"Kristof, no," you press your back hard against the door. "I can't... I can't punch you. That's insane. I'm not a violent person."

Kristof lets out a roaring laugh.

"Oh, but you are my violent delight! Have you forgotten about all our training? You are more than capable of defending yourself, now I want to see you hold the offensive side."

He steps into the center of the gym room and slams a fist against his own chest. The heavy, metallic thud of his armor clashing. "Look at me! I am a vessel built for the absolute limits of human endurance! I am steel, iron, and sweat! You cannot break me! But this rage within will break you if you keep it locked away like this!"

You don't know whether to laugh or cry at this absurd idea of his. But your indecision doesn’t dispirit him in the slightest.

"Come on, Min kjære! Put all of that humiliation, all of that grief, and all of the disgusting lies that skeleton-thief fed you into my flesh!"

Your chest heaves as his encouragement slices right through your defenses. He isn't making fun of you. He is offering his own body to be your punching bag without a second thought. His Viking ways seem to come out at the most unexpected of times.

And you love him for it.

"Do it! Unleash your violence on me!"

With a raw cry, you lunge forward, balling your hand into a tight fist, and swing.

THUD!

The impact shudders violently up your forearm, a dull, bruising ache as your knuckles collide with his solid chest. Kristof doesn't flinch. He doesn't even move an inch backward. He just plants his feet firmer into the floor, his eyes blazing with absolute, unwavering support.

"Ja!" Kristof shouts, leaning straight into the blow. "Igjen! Again!"

With another breathless scream, you throw your other fist. And then another.

You rain blow after blow down upon him, pour every ounce of your fury into Kristof's chest. Tears stream down your face the entire time. And soon your muscles begin to burn from the repetitive motion.

You feel alive again—it's a thrilling feeling.

Fighting your way through the pain has never felt this good. Even as Kristof expertly blocks your more reckless attacks, the smile he gives you is what encourages you to see this through.

With every strike, you pour out the suffocating pain that has trapped you in your own bed for days. You hit him to let go of Keith—tearing down the phantom and the agonizing grief of a closure you will never get. But most of all, your violence is an act of forgiveness for yourself. You strike until you finally forgive your own heart for loving too deeply and for simply being human.

Time loses all meaning in the gym, and eventually you begin to tire.

Your knuckles are stiff and begin to throb. The hostile heat in your skin finally begins to cool, trading the emotional pain for the pure exhaustion of physical release.

The final punch loses all its power, sliding weakly down his chest. Your knees give out entirely. You expect to fall onto the hard floor. But you don't, as Kristof’s massive arms catch you before you can hit the ground. He pulls your trembling, spent body against his broad chest. He holds you tightly as you let out a quiet, shuddering weep.

"Du gjorde det så bra, elskling. Jeg er så stolt av deg." Kristof whispers, his voice a soft, protective rumble. "Ser ut som all treningen var verdt det, ikke sant?"

You rest your forehead against his frame as you take a long, shaky breath.

You can't believe what you just did. It was unhinged, dangerous, and entirely crazy. And yet, looking up at his fierce face, you love him down to your very core for giving this to you. In a world full of lies, Kristof’s honesty is the only thing that feels solid enough to hold you together.

He slowly helps you sit down on the bench. He hands you a clean towel to wipe your face.

"Det kommer til å bli bedre, min kjære." He kneels so he is looking up at you. His smile is tender and reflective. "Det skal vi sørge for."

You trust Kristof. You trust your friends. They don't know how to fix you—you don't either, to be honest. But at least you know you're not alone.

A tiny, fragile smile forms on your lips even with the drying tears.

You are not put back together yet.

But as you look out the window at the setting sun, you know, with absolute certainty, that things will get better.

Someday.

A/N: I realized I didn’t touch on certain characters featured in Gaia's route (inspired this entire work btw), so I'm going to do that. The other character getting a major chapter will be Keyes, the others will be mentioned.

***Note that in-game, Kristof claims to be from Hell, Norway. Bokmål is the primary official written language there.

Translations:

Min kjære! — My love

Ja! Igjen! — Yes! Again!

Du gjorde det så bra, elskling. Jeg er så stolt av deg. —You did so well, darling. I'm so proud of you.

Ser ut som all treningen var verdt det, ikke sant? — Looks like all that training was worth it, wasn't it?

Det kommer til å bli bedre, min kjære. — Things are going to get better, my love.

Det skal vi sørge for. — We'll make sure of that.

I live for MC angst sm even if it hurts

(You)

Unlike Volt, who seems to never have a lack of words, Eddie struggles with what to say to you. Even the tips of his ears turn pink from the discomfort. But when you start to thank him, he immediately stops you.

"No," he says quickly, avoiding your eyes. "Don’t do that."

Your brows knit together. "Do what?"

"Make it a whole thing." He rubs the back of his neck, clearly uncomfortable with the attention. "I just…did what anyone else would've done. There is no need to get all sappy about it."

"Still, you helped me," you insist, "thank you."

His face somehow grows even warmer. "Yeah, well," Eddie exhales, glancing away toward the shelves of liquor behind him. "I guess you're welcome…"

"Charming, isn't he?" Volt asks with a sly smile.

"Shut up."

This conversation is certainly not going the way you expected it to, but you don't mind. The good thing is that now the whole mystery is over. Eddie doesn’t stay long, mentioning to Volt something about needing to check if the lights for the stage are in order. Once he leaves, Volt turns back to you.

"Please forgive our dear Eddie. He's not much of a people person."

"I noticed."

"You would think, as a bartender, he would be more open to conversation. But he'd rather leave that to me and instead focus on making the drinks. But trust me when I say they are one of the best drinks you'll ever have around here." He winks, and you let a quiet laugh slip through.

"I'll hold you to that then."

Volt makes himself comfortable next to you, talking about anything you're open to. It is challenging trying to find topics to talk about with him, given that he doesn't have a human background. So things like childhood, parents, or school are irrelevant. But you make do with what you have and quickly realize Volt is the type of person who could somehow turn even the most mundane topic into something entertaining—sometimes even surprising you in the process.

"You know how to dance?"

"I'm well practiced. It's one of my favorite pastimes, actually." Unmistakable pride seeps into his words. "And how about you, livewire?"

His question is laced with such genuine intrigue that it almost hurts when you reply, "No, I don't really dance—Or at least, I am not what you would call naturally gifted. Thankfully, I haven't brought anyone down with me yet."

"Hmm," he thinks for a moment before muttering, "I think I can work with that."

Before you can ask, Volt gets up from his seat and extends his hand as if it is now the most natural thing in the world. "Care to dance with me?"

You make a surprised sound. "B-but I just said I'm not any good!"

He gives a warm chuckle. "Oh, I know, but that's hardly a reason not to dance. Besides, it's all in the lead." His eyes drift over you with unmistakable fondness. "I would be lying if I said I haven't wanted to dance with you since the moment I first saw you walk through those doors."

As your mind scrambles for a good excuse, Volt has managed to coax you onto the dance floor while promising it will all be fine. By the time you both reach the center, the club is already playing a slow song, and something about the voice sounds familiar to you.

"Julie London?"

Volt gives you a puzzled look. "I've never heard of a London before, surely you mean Julie Laundry. She's one of my favorite jazz singers—her voice is truly something."

So in this object world, they have their famous people too, you think with a smile.

"What's funny?"

"Nothing."

Volt's hand settles at your waist with effortless confidence, warm and steady through the fabric of your clothes. The other remains clasped around yours, fingers long and careful as he guides you into motion before you can overthink yourself into bolting. As Volt promised, he does an effortless job taking control and guiding your steps to align with his. Gradually, you feel your muscles relax under his touch. The music serves to soothe your nerves, leaving you in a dreamy-like state where nothing else matters—just the fact that you're enjoying this is enough for you.

The intimacy of the moment isn't uncomfortable, but it still does something to you. Volt's gaze feels grounding, steady and attentive in a way that makes you feel seen rather than cornered. The desire in them doesn’t make panic crawl up your spine the way you expect it to—instead, you feel a pleasant warmth pooling in your lower belly. Volt guides you through another smooth turn, and an airy laugh escapes your lips before you can stop it.

At some point, you realize you've drifted closer to him than before. Your free hand brushes absentmindedly against the front of his vest, fingertips catching the faint thrumming of his heartbeat beneath his vest. The sensation sends a small shiver through you.

His eyes fall onto your lips, the look in them suddenly heavier now, hungrier. His arm remains secure around your waist as the two of you sway slowly together. Your pulse stutters as you tilt your face upward at the same moment Volt seems to lean down, closing the distance inch by inch. The crackling white glow of his hair paints soft light across his features while your breath catches somewhere deep in your throat.

You're about to close the distance before Volt pulls back. His gaze lingers on your face, lips slightly parted, and a subtle blush on his cheeks.

"Ah…" An apologetic smile tugs at his mouth. "Forgive me, livewire, it seems I have lost track of time."

Your heart is still pounding too hard for you to form a coherent response. What just happened?

Volt’s hand remains at your waist for one lingering second longer before he carefully lets go. "As much as I would love to continue this," he says, voice low, "I am needed to start introducing the performances for tonight."

You try to hide your disappointment as you slowly come back to reality. "Oh, right…"

"But truly," he continues, bringing your hand toward him once more, "thank you for indulging me." His thumb brushes lightly across your knuckles. "You were wonderful company. I do hope you'll consider coming around here again, livewire."

He gives your hand one last kiss before excusing himself toward the stage, leaving you standing there dazed and breathless. Only when you stumble your way towards the table where Skylar is (now joined by Ben-Hwa and Rainey) do you finally let out a long sigh.

"My, look at you," purrs Ben-Hwa, swirling a drink in their hand. "You're all flushed. I take it you had some fun?"

You must look off because Rainey begins to fuss over you.

"Aww, sugar, look at you all flushed up somethin’ fierce." She clicks her tongue softly, already reachin’ for her drink. "Here now, take a swig of this cold pop ‘fore you keel over on me, baby. You look hotter than a nickel stove in July." She presses the glass into your hands with a painted grin.

Too distracted to think, you carelessly chug the bubbly liquid down, desperate for something to soothe your dry throat. You end up choking on it.

"Easy there, doll!"

"Er, sorry." You cough out, immediately regretting drinking too fast.

Skylar gives you small pats on your back. "So, want to tell me what happened back there?"

After you recover from your coughing fit, you manage to explain, in painfully scattered pieces, how Volt introduced you to the club's bartender, Eddie. Or rather, the deeply antisocial man who looks like he hasn't had a good night's rest in a while. Somewhere along the way, you also admit that Volt had asked you to dance. Skylar’s expression grows increasingly smug.

"Oh yeah, we saw you guys dance, alright." She winks while nudging you lightly with her elbow. "So, that Volt, huh? What do you think about him?"

The mere mention of his name shouldn't have made your skin heat up, but it did.

"I think," you breathe, your thoughts now replying back to the moment, distant and private. The familiar flush returning to your cheeks escapes no one's notice, "I think I'm…"

All three objects at the table automatically lean in, their eyes wide with anticipation for your next words. After what feels like forever, you snap out of it and give a bashful chuckle.

"…going to be sore from all that dancing! I definitely wore the wrong shoes today."

Are you serious?!

You reach for the nearest unopened soda can and turn to watch as the handsome host—with a dashing smile that could stop any woman's heart—takes the stage and begins introducing the first act. You subconsciously smile through his entire speech, eyes twinkling with fascination—completely unaware of the disappointed glances heading your way. Ben-Hwa gives a defeated sigh as they finish up their "Dirty" Martini, while Rainey and Skylar only look at each other with wistful expressions. They all think the exact same thing…

She's hopeless!

Time slips by far quicker than you expect.

One performance melts into the next. At some point, Ben-Hwa disappears with a flirtatious wave and the promise of "finding more entertaining company," while Rainey leaves not long after them. Now, only you and Skylar remain.

Most of the patrons have already filtered out for the night, leaving behind idle conversations and the occasional clink of glassware. The music still continues to play, though much lower than before, with the slow humming of jazz flowing through the speakers until the venue begins to grow sleepy.

You wouldn't admit it out loud, but you were sad when Volt didn't come to talk with you after the performances ended—come to think of it—he hasn't made an appearance since Keyes did her closing number.

As you and Skylar are about to leave, you make one last hopeful search for Volt. Rather than finding him, your eyes land on Eddie, who is drying up the last remaining glasses of the night. He looks tired, disconcertingly so. As if on cue, a sudden flicker of the lights goes through the club, and you see Eddie make a pained face, his hands nearly dropping the glass in his hand.

You take one step forward before Skylar calls your name. "Hey, you ready to go now?"

"Um," you hesitate, before making up your mind. "Actually, why don't you go ahead? I have something I need to do first."

Skylar blinks, curious. "Seriously? Like what?"

You shrug, trying to appear casual. "You know, just…something."

Her eyes narrow immediately, clearly trying to figure out the vagueness behind your answer.

"...You're not secretly waiting for Volt to come back out, are you?"

You feel your face go red. "What? No!"

"Mhm."

"I'm serious!"

Skylar lets out an unconvinced shrug, but thankfully doesn't push further. Instead, she grins knowingly and adjusts the lapels of her white cropped suit.

"Alright then. I'll head back first." She pauses before pointing at you. "But if you end up making out with the bar host after I leave, I expect full details tomorrow."

"Skylar!"

She bursts into laughter before finally showing mercy. "Okay, okay! I'm going!"

(Eddie)

By the time the last customer stumbles out of the lounge, Eddie feels like his entire body is threatening to shut down with the lights. No more dealing with drunk patrons. No more listening to Johnny Splash wrecking his windpipes as well as the ears of everyone in a 10-mile radius. Thank god for that!

All that's left is silence. Well…almost silence.

The low buzz of electricity still hums faintly through the walls—sluggish and tired—just like the owner attached to it.

Eddie exhales deeply as he wipes down the last stretch of the counter. His shoulders ache. His knees ache. Hell, even his hands ache.

Volt really overdid it tonight.

Again.

Not that Eddie is surprised.

That man loves the attention too much for his own good. But…he finds himself sort of enjoying watching him take the stage while he serves others their drinks. (Not that he would ever tell that to Volt's face.)

Another flicker passes through the lights overhead. Eddie grimaces, the glass almost slipping from his hand.

Man, he needs a drink… a damn good one.

His mind immediately wanders to the bottle he keeps hidden beneath the counter—where Volt can't sweet-talk half the damn club into trying "just one tiny sample."Eddie snorts quietly to himself before grabbing one of the heavy crystal whiskey glasses from the shelf. He sets it down on the counter before crouching carefully behind the bar.

His lower back immediately protests.

"Fuck," he mutters under his breath, wincing as one knee cracks loudly. His fingers eventually brush against cool glass tucked behind a crate of mixers. "There you are."

He grips the bottle triumphantly before pushing himself upright—and nearly jumps out of his skin. The bottle slips straight from his fingers. He barely catches it against his chest before it can smash all over the floor.

"Jesus Christ—!"

On the other side of the counter stands you. Just standing there, watching him.

Eddie stares at you with wide eyes while his pulse absolutely loses its mind.

"W-what the hell are you still doing here?!" he blurts out. "I thought you left already!"

"S-sorry!" You squeak out. "I didn't mean to scare you!"

"Well, you did one lousy job," he scoffs, pressing the rescued bottle against his chest before setting it safely onto the counter. His heart is still pounding annoyingly fast. "What do you want?"

You hesitate, your teeth catch your bottom lip as though you're trying to figure out how to go about this without upsetting him. That alone already puts him on edge. So much for some alone time.

"...Is everything okay?"

Eddie stiffens at the question. "What are you talking about?"

"I mean..." Your voice softens. "Are you okay?"

Eddie immediately looks away, unscrewing the whiskey bottle just to give himself something else to focus on. His mind, however, is still trying to learn how to process your question.

"…Why do you care?"

You stare at him like the answer should be obvious. "Because you don't seem okay. You were acting strange earlier."

"You have a medical degree or something? I'm fine."

"Are you sure?"

"Wha—Yes, I'm sure! What's with all the questions?" He snaps, his steel eyes going hard. A moment of uncomfortable silence passes between you. It's not long before he starts feeling awkward, even ashamed for raising his voice.

"…I'm just worried about you, Eddie." You finally say, undeterred by his attitude. The gentle tone you're using is one he's heard many times before.

Oh great, another Volt…

"Well, don't be." He takes a breath. "I can take care of myself. Look, if that's all, you can head out now. I'm trying to enjoy a drink here. So, go on—get lost."

You go quiet, and for a second, Eddie thinks maybe that'll finally be the end of it.

"Are you always this much of an asshole?"

Eddie chokes on his drink. Fuck—it goes down the wrong pipe!

"Cough—What did you say?!"

He sees you try to hide your smile at his reaction—clearly, you find this funny. Hah, this little…

"Am I wrong?"

You're brave; he'll give you that—oblivious, but brave, nonetheless. He is surprised by the gruff chuckle that leaves his chest.

"Cute. You talk like that with Volt, too?"

"Nah, just with 'charming' gentlemen like you, I guess." You retort before turning apprehensive, holding back whatever you are going to say.

There's more?! Oh, for the love of—

Eddie rolls his eyes and finally caves in. "Nuh-uh, don't get all quiet on me now. Come on then, spit it out."

Maybe it is because he sounds more annoyed than angry that you find your voice again. "Something is wrong in this club."

Well, shit.

He narrows his eyes. "What? Why?"

You only shrug. "I'm sure you've seen the lights flickering all day. And let's just say Volt wasn't exactly subtle in trying to change the subject."

He rolls his eyes at the mention of Volt. "Of course…And you came here to…what?"

"To help." You offer immediately. Eddie meets your enthusiasm with a tired chuckle.

"Ha. Right. Well, good luck with that."

"Eddie, come on. Please?" You plead, looking like a kicked puppy.

"The hell do you expect me to do about it? Volt's the one who runs the power here. If there's a problem, let him handle it."

"As much as it hurts to say it, I'm afraid Volt might be in over his head about this."

Eddie pauses, then gives a faint grin, "Huh? You're smarter than you look….You actually care about this?"

"Yes, I do."

Eddie doesn't answer right away. Instead, he takes another slow sip of whiskey while watching you carefully over the rim of the glass like he's trying to figure you out. Honestly? He's not doing a very good job.

A few days ago, you were barely conscious in Farya's office with a concussion bad enough that you scared half the damn house shitless. And now—you're standing in front of him, stubbornly poking your nose into problems that have absolutely nothing to do with you. You seem to have a thing for getting into trouble. Eddie can't decide if that makes you free-spirited or completely insane.

His eyes drift briefly over your face. The lingering exhaustion beneath your eyes from recovery. You're stubborn as hell. And for some godforsaken reason, Eddie finds himself respecting it. Maybe even admiring it a little…

"Damn it. You're not going to let this go, are you?"

A grin immediately spreads across your face.

"Nope." You quip, beaming with the satisfaction of knowing you've won.

"I'm going to regret this," he mutters, finishing the rest of the drink in one swing. "How good are you with tools?"

Later that night…

(You)

By the time you finally get into bed, your whole body feels worn out in the best possible way. Your legs are sore from dancing, your head still pleasantly fuzzy from the noise and excitement of the club, and even as you sink deeper beneath the blankets, your mind refuses to fully settle down.

Mostly because of Volt.

You stare up at the ceiling with a hand over your face, already regretting every second you spent letting that man flirt with you unchecked.

Actually, no—you don’t regret it at all.

That’s probably going to become a problem... if it isn't already.

The memory of dancing with him keeps replaying in your head whether you want it to or not. The confidence in the way he led you around the floor, the steady press of his hand against your waist, the amused little smiles he kept giving you whenever you missed a step. Somehow, instead of making you feel awkward about it, he made you feel relaxed enough to laugh through the embarrassment.

And then there was that moment—that almost-kiss.

Your stomach immediately flips over itself at the memory, and you groan quietly into your pillow.

Seriously, what was that?

Volt is trouble. There is simply no other explanation for a man who can look at you for longer than five seconds and completely derail your ability to think normally. Even now, you can still picture the glow of his hair under the stage lights and hear his alluring voice in your head so clearly that it’s almost ridiculous how badly you want to go back already. But after a while, your thoughts drift towards Eddie.

You honestly still aren’t sure what to make of him yet. He’s gruff, bad-tempered, and clearly allergic to vulnerability in any form, but there’s something strangely earnest about him, too. Nothing he does feels polished the way Volt’s attention does. He's blunt if not a bit pointed, but you don't hate it, surprisingly.

You think back to the way he looked behind the bar earlier—exhausted and irritated. He was quick to shoulder all the maintenance for the Breaker Box because he didn't want anyone to think he was incapable of handling it himself.

Yet by some miracle, he gave in to your plea to help:

"How good are you with tools?" You bite your lip, forlorn.

"I can tell the difference between a Phillips head and a flat head, if that's of any usefulness..."

Eddie stares at you for a second before snorting under his breath.

"Eh, good enough for me." He waves a dismissive hand before reaching for another glass. "As long as you're better than Tony, I think we'll be just fine. Get ready to work tomorrow before the bar opens."

"Sure thing, boss."

Eddie makes a disgusted face at you. "Ugh—no, don’t start calling me weird shit."

You look away. "Right, sorry..."

Before you can embarrass yourself any more, Eddie breaks the silence. "You got what you came for, right?" He jerks his head toward the exit while grabbing the whiskey again. "Think I can finish my drink in peace now?"

"Enjoy." You don't want to overstay your welcome any more than you already have, so with a satisfied grin, you wave him goodbye. Right before leaving, you glance back one last time.

"Goodnight, Eddie."

Eddie doesn’t bother looking up from his drink, only flicking one hand dismissively in your direction as if to shoo you out already. But after the doors finally swing shut behind you and leave the electrical closet, he whispers.

"...Night."

The thought of helping him fix the club tomorrow doesn’t sound bad at all. Honestly, it sounds interesting, even if you have never handled electrical work before. But it's the least you can do to repay the debt you have with Eddie, and as a homebody, you aren't going to sit back and let these power surges continue if there's something you can do about it.

Somewhere between those thoughts, your body finally begins to relax properly into the mattress. The tension in your muscles eases little by little until your eyelids start growing heavy. And for the first time in a long while, sleep comes easily. You take pleasure in the fact that Nightmare will not bother you tonight. The last thing you think of is the memory of languid music, warm hands, and the feeling of finally having something to look forward to tomorrow.

 Unbeknownst to you, a certain watchful presence finally lets out a quiet breath of relief, content with the fact that you’re finally safe and at rest.

Eddie by the end:

I did make some changes to the Breaker Boys' storyline bc of pacing and such. It's clear that's something I need to work on cuz I am not used to writing such long works.