𝕸𝖎𝖒𝖎𝖁𝖊𝖙𝖙𝖊

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.

(You)

"Who was the person who saved me?"

When the question leaves your lips, you completely expect Skylar to hesitate, to change the subject to something more lighthearted, and avoid it altogether.

What you don’t expect is for her to smile.

Her eyes go wide with what you guess is excitement. She hurries to pay for the meal, rushes you out of the restaurant, races up the stairs, and only finally lets go of your hand when you’re both face-to-face with your electrical closet.

You look back at her with a bewildered expression. "…In here?"

Skylar nods. "Uh huh."

You look at your closet door again. It only takes a second before a new version of Dorian appears before you.

"Now you've done it."

"Uh...," his words throw you off. "Done what?"

Dorian looks down at you with serious intensity. "You're thinking of getting involved with some of the biggest miscreants 'round here."

The very idea of there being 'miscreants' living in your house only piques your interest in what's behind that door.

"Who?"

His eyes narrow as he begins to list off names.

"Eddie…Volt…Tony."

You almost let out a snort at that last one.

"What?—oh, come on, Dorian," you say, shaking your head. "Tony is no miscreant. Sure, he may be a big flirt and perhaps a bit shallow, but I've talked to the guy plenty of times—he's harmless."

"Harmless." Dorian tsks, unamused by your term. "If that's what you want to call it."

You try to change the subject to something else—something more tame. It doesn't take a genius to see that Tony is not one of his favorite objects to talk about.

"Why don't you tell me more about the others, then?" You put on the most innocent smile you can muster and hope he doesn't push you away. Every other time you've talked to him, he's been willing to tell you about any object you asked about. This time shouldn't be any different.

"…Very well," he says, adjusting his stance to be more upright. "Who would you like to know about?"

"Eddie."

The name leaves your lips without a second thought.

Dorian purses his lips. "Eddie…I don't know too well. He keeps himself hidden inside that bar of his most of the time. And speaking of bars—" He gives you a reproaching look, "do you really think it's a good idea to go into such a place, especially now? Are you sure there isn't any other part of the house you'd like to visit?"

You give him a look of your own, trying to appear headstrong, but you're already nitpicking every changing detail of his face. Despite the collected and neutral demeanor he gives off, he still lets a hint of concern show in his eyes. You wonder if you're imagining the double meaning in his question.

—Any other part of the house where I can keep an eye on you?

That recognizable feeling—the one that lets you know that you are safe—begins to form, surrounding your beating heart. You try not to think about it too much and instead find yourself giving back a reply.

"I'm sure. I've actually been thinking about coming to take a look in here for a while now. Whoever Eddie and Volt are, I still wish to meet them. You don't judge a book by its cover, right?"

Dorian looks between you and Skylar. It seems he, too, knows it's useless to try to convince you otherwise. You're already here and aren’t going to be swayed so easily—you have your stubbornness to thank for that. He lets out a deep sigh before opening the door for you.

"If that's what you want, but I'll at least accompany you inside."

"Oh, are you coming too, Dorian?" Skylar asks, but he shakes his head.

"Don't get ahead of yourself, love. I'm only going to walk you both inside and once you're situated, I'll return to my post."

She pouts. "Aww, you're no fun."

With some help from Skylar, you don't waste any time in activating your breaker box. You feel a giddy thrill the moment the small space of your closet transforms into the inside of a bar.

Your senses are engulfed with so many new sounds and smells, and you almost don't know where to look at first.

Dim lighting casts a warm, amber glow across polished wood floors. The low hum of conversation fills the air, layered with the clink of glass and the soft thrum of music playing somewhere unseen. There’s a faint scent of citrus, alcohol, and something smoky lingering in the air—sharp, but not unpleasant.

It feels so alive—alive in a way that makes your skin prickle.

"Wow..."

You barely take a few steps inside when a lilting voice gets your attention. You feel your breath catch when you see him.

A tall man makes his way through the semi-crowded club, every movement fluid and eloquent as he walks towards you. He's well-dressed, wearing a simple dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up and the collar unbuttoned to expose part of his upper chest. His dark vest is adorned with rows of panel switches, and even the blue overcoat on his shoulder is ornate with power strips and wires. Your eyes travel to his face and you feel your cheeks grow hot when you meet his gaze.

This man is unbelievably gorgeous, almost god-like (What is it with your house and sexy people?). Something about him makes you ponder. Your mind rewinds to your early years in college, back when you had taken an introduction course to Greek literature. It takes a second before your memory is finally able to come up with a name—Prince Achilles.

Yeah, there is definitely something princely about him. The charming smile, the sharp cut of his jaw, the straight, almost regal line of his nose. It’s unfair, really. The kind of face that belongs in sculpture, not a personification of your breaker box.

And then there's the hair. Oh, his hair…

It glows like the light of a thousand moons. You almost believe it before you notice the subtle sparks that come off it, strands flickering like a live current. It frames his face in a halo of something enchanting—but also dangerous—all at once.

Thump

You struggle to swallow, suddenly becoming very aware of yourself. Your fingers curl slightly at your sides—not from fear, but anticipation. You feel like a moth mesmerized by the light of a flame.

Thump Thump

By the time you remember how to breathe, he's already in front of you. He carries that same citrus scent you noticed earlier, sweet and fresh. That, paired with the hint of whiskey, he's mouthwatering…(wait, what?!—)

"My, my…" He chuckles, a low, warm sound. "What a delightful surprise—a brand new patron!"

You can't seem to find a speck of rationale behind your thoughts, not when those sultry eyes are busy taking you in. He's—he's…

Beautiful…

The man raises a brow before his perfect lips turn up into a smirk. "Beautiful? Well, aren’t you a charmer? Hm, you're not that bad looking yourself, sweetheart."

Your eyes go wide as saucers. Heat floods your face so fast as your brain is left scrambling to catch up with what your mouth just said without permission. This can't be happening!—

"I—uh…" Like an idiot, you stand there with your mind blank and lips parted. No words come to you now, all the more reason you want to shrink into a ball and disappear from the world. Thankfully, the man finds this more amusing than moronic.

"I'm sorry, did I make you uncomfortable? You'll have to forgive me then, I know I can sometimes come off as too much." He pouts, slight worry softening his face.

"N-no," you rush out, your face still burning. "No, you didn't make me uncomfortable. I just wasn't expecting…"

"Me?" He finishes.

You nod, and he chuckles again. The honeyed sound is like music to your ears.

"Then allow me to introduce myself. My name is Volt," he extends a hand out. "And what would yours be, my dear?"

You tell him, hesitantly letting your hand fall into his. He leans in, slowly bringing it up to his face, giving you enough time to pull away. He plants a kiss on the back of it. When his lips make contact with your skin, you feel a small zap pass between them. It's not painful, but it's enough to make a quiet gasp escape you.

"A lovely name," he hums. "Especially for someone with such a striking face like yours."

Obviously, Volt loves to flirt—and he's quite good, you must admit. You don't bother to hide your flustered smile, taking in the sight of him more closely.

"Striking?"

"Oh yes, distracting so." He purrs, his English accent caressing his vowels. "I imagine it would be quite difficult to focus on anything else with you around. You have quite the reputation around the house, Live wire."

The pet name makes your heart skip a beat. The way the name dances on his tongue feels so easy, so natural. You like it.

"I'm eager to explore it for myself…"

A brisk cough can be heard from somewhere behind you. Volt's eyes leave yours for a moment to acknowledge the rest of your party.

"Why, if it isn't our favorite pair of glasses, Skylar, and…Dorian? My, this is a real surprise, indeed! What brings you all here?"

"Hi, Volt!" Skylar quips. "We brought a guest."

"So I gathered," he says smoothly, though his attention lingers on you just a second longer than the rest.

Dorian steps forward slightly, his voice steadfast. "We won’t be staying long. The human has some questions they'd like to ask you."

"Is that so?" His eyes narrow just a fraction. "Let me guess—is this something to do with the…accident?"

A quiet beat passes between you all, until you decide to speak up, more determined than before.

"Yes, that's right. I was told someone here helped me," you say. "…I just wanted to know who it was."

Volt studies you, but no longer with the sexual charge from before. He's searching for something, measuring your words.

"…You don’t remember anything?" he asks at last.

You frown slightly, shaking your head solemnly. "Not as much as I'd like. It's all blurry, sometimes I get sudden flashes, but that's about it."

Volt presses his lips together, debating on what to say. He looks back at your group, first at Skylar and then at Dorian. Something unreadable passing between them—you don't know what.

"Please," you plead gently, causing his eyes to fall back onto you. "If you know something—anything—I’d really appreciate it if you didn’t keep me in the dark."

He exhales, running a hand through his flickering hair. The motion sends a soft ripple of light through it.

"…You’re right," he says after a moment. "You deserve an answer. Wouldn't want you coming all the way here for nothing."

He offers his arm to you.

"Walk with me? You can ask your questions while I show you around. I won't forget that this is your first time here, so a tour is still in order."

The invitation is too tempting to decline. But you still find yourself looking back at your friends. Skylar looks thrilled, Dorian…less so, but neither of them stops you. And you find that to be enough.

"…Okay."

Both objects watch as you tuck your arm into his without another word.

"Try not to miss her too much," Volt calls out lightly over his shoulder, his playful smirk returning. "I promise I’ll return her in one piece."

Skylar’s grin widens instantly, like she's witnessed something she’s been waiting for forever, while Dorian’s face tightens and his eyes track your departing figure. They both remain by the entrance for a minute longer and Skylar finally breaks the silence.

"Sooo," she starts. "Volt made quite the impression on her, didn't he?"

Dorian says nothing and Skylar rocks back on her heels, undeterred.

"She really got all flustered," she teases, a small laugh slipping through. "I mean—not that I blame her? It’s Volt, after all."

Dorian exhales, gaze still fixed in the direction you disappeared. "The human is a smart one. She won't be so easily won over with just sweet words. She came here for answers, not to fool around with the bar owner."

Skylar hums, unconvinced. She taps a finger thoughtfully against her chin, her expression shifting into something more contemplative.

"True…but the heart can be a treacherous thing, my friend."

Dorian finally looks at her fully, brows drawing together slightly. "What exactly is that supposed to mean?"

Skylar’s lips curl into a knowing smile, her brows lifting in a smug manner.

"I think you know what I mean."

He stares down at her for a long moment before rolling his eyes.

"My days, don’t be ridiculous..."

With that, he turns on his heel, clearly done with the conversation. "I have to go now, duty calls."

"Already!?" Skylar calls after him, unsure of what she said to offend him. "Come on, don’t you want at least one drink?"

Dorian doesn’t answer her. The door shuts behind him with a sharp slam, but the sound manages to get drowned out by the club's bustle.

Skylar blinks.

"…Geez," she mutters, folding her arms over her chest. "What’s got his hinges all rusted?"

The Breaker Box is truly a sight to behold. You wonder why you hadn't come here sooner? You see many familiar faces sprinkled around the place. Volt, ever the gracious host, accommodates you in a seat near the empty wooden bar. You start out with small talk in the hopes of getting to know more of this handsome stranger, who reveals to be the embodiment of electricity itself.

You're not surprised. Ever since you first laid your eyes on him and his glowing hair, you couldn’t shake the feeling that you've seen the blue-white hue before. You kind of expected to get a sudden flashback from it—and hopefully find out if Volt was somehow involved—but much to your chagrin, that doesn’t happen.

When you muster up the courage to ask, he shakes his head sympathetically.

"I'm afraid not, live wire. Even though it was my electricity you bared witness to, I was not the one controlling it."

"Then who—"

The lights above the bar begin to flicker. You pause and glance up at them, taking note of their inconsistent rhythm, before looking back at Volt. There is a hard look in his eyes, but when he catches you staring, his expression turns back to that casual mask from before. You still catch one of his hands, resting on the bar, clench into a tight fist.

"Does that happen often?" You find yourself asking.

"Hm? Oh, that's nothing to worry about. It's just a small surge. Completely normal around here."

Something about his dismissive tone makes you disbelieve his claims. You really like Volt—he seems like one of the only people here who's willing to tell you about what happened. But if what Beverly said is true, you're walking on thin ice. Maybe it's better to let this slide, for now.

If you can have your secrets. So can Volt.

A door from behind the bar swings open, and a rugged young man comes out carrying some crates loaded with sealed liquor bottles. He’s broad-shouldered, movements efficient but tense. His sleeves are rolled just below the elbow, exposing tanned forearms. He doesn’t seem to notice the two of you because he keeps cursing under his breath and muttering words you can't quite make out.

Volt straightens from where he leans against the bar. "Speak of the devil—Eddie, there you are! You're just in time to meet our guest."

Eddie looks up when he hears Volt, mild irritation clear in his face. But the moment he sees who is next to him, he stops. The crate in his hands dips slightly, like he's forgotten he's even holding them.

"The human?" His voice is rougher than Volt’s, edged with disbelief. "…What’s she doing here?"

The words sting a little and your face falls. Volt quickly steps in.

"I’d imagine if we don’t poison the mood—" he shoots the dark-haired man a pointed look, "—they’ll be joining us for the headliner tonight."

When Eddie doesn’t respond, he continues.

"And…finally get the chance to meet their savior in shining armor."

You take in the man before you.

Where Volt is polished and radiant, Eddie feels grounded and solid. Real in a way that borders on rough. His hair is a mess of wires—black, grey, streaks of red and brown tangled together. There’s stubble lining his jaw and even if it’s a little unkempt, it suits his face nicely. His clothes mirror the rest of him, functional and worn-in, stitched together with practicality rather than style.

Something about him tugs at you—like a dream you can’t quite remember. You begin to feel warmth stir inside your chest and you know it’s not the liquor.

"So, you're Eddie?"

Reader realizes she's a freak 😈

And of course I had to add the DE! National Anthem as one of the song rec (blame that one tik tok edit)

(No I am not dead, just very done with the spring season)