Covered in You

The daughter problem was one as old as time itself. Every family with a substantial amount of wealth was met with it, at some point in their lineage, which they all hoped came after an array of healthy sons had already been born. Bad word through Florentine streets liked to insinuate that, after the scare of two eldest daughters, Lorenzo and Clarice had gone on a childbearing spree that would forever placate the inheritance question - eleven children, none the less - which filled the Palazzo Medici Riccardi with noise and bustle throughout the entirety of your childhood. 

It wasn’t to say, however, that your parents had never loved you. If anything, being the first born into a new generation of Medicis had granted you an affection that just grew as you developed into an astute little girl. You’d soon realised that you held a power unlike any other kid in Firenze, and you’d learnt to grasp it equally as fast: being the apple of your father’s eye meant he never, under any circumstances, was able to say no to you. 

As merely a baby, the thought of seeing you cry when trying to wean you made your mother insist that the wet nurse breastfed you for one more year. You hated horse riding, yet you asked for a new purebred horse as a gift every single birthday - always delivered - which ended up overcrowding the Palazzo’s stables. Raised a lover of the arts, just like your father, you insisted he read Dante and Petrarch to you every single night until late into your teenagehood, something he did with gusto. From clothes, to jewelry, to whatever whims you may possibly come up with: it was always said and done. 

Coming of age shouldn’t have meant for that to stop, especially because your father continued to be proud of the woman you’d become. Well read, wonderfully educated, and with an interest in the finer side of things - for a few years now, the talk of the city had been how Lorenzo de’ Medici’s eldest daughter possibly was the most gorgeous woman in the whole Republic. Your hand was a sought-after commodity, it was no lie - you were well aware of the power you held, both to the outside world as well as within the confines of your family home. 

One unassuming afternoon, however, your father would approach you in your chambers and change your whole perception of things, bringing with himself a request you never thought would come. 

Lorenzo was a busy man, so when you saw him stroll through the open door to your room with practiced subtlety, you rose to your feet. 

“Padre, che bella sorpresa,” Smiling brightly, you put away the handkerchiefs you’d been embroidering and straightened your skirts. “I assumed you were out on business.”

“Thankfully, I have some free time today,” His lips thinned into somewhat of an affable grin, standing so the ray of sunlight peeking from your balcony framed him in gold. “But I did go see Giovanni this morning, to discuss something of great importance.”

The story of Giovanni Auditore was one which you’d heard upwards of a million times. He’d been there to save your father on the day a younger him fell into the Arno river, not knowing how to swim: Lorenzo liked to joke that, had it not been for the Auditores, the Medicis would have ceased to exist on that fateful day. It was a debt to Giovanni which he’d carried throughout his life, whom he was good friends with as a result. 

“May I ask, what was it you had to discuss?”

Your father’s usually quick wit seems halted for a second, as he struggles to find the words with which to continue his speech. It makes you slightly worried - was there truly something major going on in Firenze? And, if that was the case, why were you being informed about it?

Soft footsteps approach the door to your chambers, revealing the eternally composed image of Clarice. Your mother watches the exchange with a slight twinge to her brow, hands clasped before herself, remaining in complete silence. 

If anything, that only served to worsen your worries. 

“Father?” Your tone now carries that fright, tilting your head in slight question. “What’s going on?”

Lorenzo lets out a deep sigh - he knew his daughter had always been the most perceptive of the bunch, but he’d hoped to keep her calm and ease into the news without causing a scene. 

“Some time ago, I made up my mind about an arrangement with the Auditores. And with your recent coming of age, that arrangement is due to be fulfilled,” His hand lands on your shoulder, a futile attempt at comforting you. “Your hand was promised to one of his sons.”

The revelation doesn’t even sink in for a few seconds, pulling a sharp shriek from the confines of your throat when you realise that your father’s expression denoted nothing but seriousness. Hand clasped over your mouth, you take a step back to rid yourself of his hold. 

“Padre, no! Say you do not mean it!” You shake your head in desperation, utterly horrified. “What Auditore?!” 

“Ezio Auditore, the second eldest.”

There was no need to introduce Ezio Auditore: every girl in Firenze knew of him and his brother, their teenage feuds with the Pazzis and their infamous womanizer habits. Either of them would have been a terrible choice, yet Ezio just seems like the worst out of both options. A troublemaker, full of himself, and always in need of showing that he had the upper hand. Unlike his brother, who was known to have started to earn his spot in the family business, Ezio had no apparent prospects other than lady-killing and doing whatever it was he did, roaming the streets of your family’s city. 

“Ezio Auditore!” You feel lightheaded, dramatically dropping to sit on the bed while glancing at your father in shock. “Don’t you know of his reputation?”

At the sight of your theatre, your mother hurries to tend to you, feeling your forehead with tense hands. “Dai, Lorenzo, see? I told you, this was not a good idea!”

“He is a good kid,” Firm on his stance, Lorenzo does not react like Clarice, brows sinking deeper into a frown. “And he comes from a good family. I owed the Auditores a favour, this is me repaying it.”

His words turn your sadness into momentary rage, in utter disbelief. “For how long will Giovanni’s act of heroism hang over your head, padre? Is it worth handing your daughter over?”

Lorenzo’s jaw tightens. “Giovanni saved my life. And even then, this isn’t about that.”

What kind of debt could your father possibly have to the Auditores, that it could not be repaid with a deposit from your family’s bottomless funds? A tear slips down your cheek, which soon turns into desperate sobbing, along with your mother’s quelling murmurs. 

It wasn’t as if you were naïve. You understood how things worked for girls like you, and this was nothing but procedure. You’d always known love was a thing for peasants - your parents had only met once before they got married by proxy, while your mother was still in Rome. It was always a given that your father would have the last word in deciding who your hand would go to, but having in mind your situation, the arrangement he’d made seemed nonsensical. 

“But father, you cannot do this to me. I am a Medici,” You shake your head and try your hardest to get some pity from him. “What about Charles?”

Some years ago, when you were freshly fifteen, your brother Piero fell gravely sick, and could not accompany your father on his diplomatic visit to France. Instead, you’d swooped in and begged to take his place as a companion, which he’d begrudgingly accepted - for a few weeks, you mingled with the noblest of members of the French royal family, amongst which a young Charles d’Orléans caught your eye. Count of Angoulême since he was eight years old, Charles was charming and unlike any of the sons of Florentine noblemen: highly educated, interesting, and a legitimate prince du sang, which meant he was a direct successor in line for the French throne. 

Luckily for you, you’d also captured his attention, and since that visit you’d spent three years exchanging passionate letters that travelled through frontiers for your love. It was not a public affair, but keeping anything secret in the Medici house was almost impossible: your siblings knew of it, which meant your parents did too, and never mentioned it much. You’d always taken it as a silent approval that, come your eighteenth birthday, Charles’ formal proposal would come in a letter that wasn’t handed to you by a hooded messenger. That your father would read it, smile proudly, and send you off to France without question - you knew he was keen on establishing some bonds with European houses such as the Valois-Orléans, which meant that this relationship was akin to a gift fallen right from the sky. 

And yet, when you utter the name of the French nobleman, Lorenzo de’ Medici’s face is drained of any color. 

“You will cease to exchange letters with that man,” His words are cold, calculated, and utterly devastating. “Forget about him, completely. You are going to marry Ezio Auditore and that is final.”

“Padre, what do the Auditores have?” Your voice comes out strained from crying. “Charles is a count, and a prince du sang! Ezio Auditore is a nobody compared to him!”

Lorenzo opens his mouth to respond, but your mother intervenes before he can, rubbing your back in circular patterns. “She’s right, Lorenzo. Are you sure you have thought this through?”

But he remains rigid, firm in his decision. Lorenzo just takes a breath before looking at you in a way you’d never seen him do: with genuine anger in his eyes, one that lets you onto the first ever denial you’d receive from your father. 

“There are reasons for this union far past your comprehension. The Auditores are a wealthy family, you’ll have a life as lavish as the one we’ve given you for the past eighteen years. There is no France in the picture, and no reconsidering. The wedding arrangements start from this point onwards.”

You and your mother stare at Lorenzo in shock: he barely ever lost his temper, but he is close to doing so debating such a trivial matter as his daughter’s wedding. “Ascolta, figlia mia. I have no need to even warn you about this beforehand, much less to tolerate a tantrum over it. You’ve always been a bright girl. I’m sure that, with time, you’ll understand my reasons.”

Pouting, your head rolls onto your mother’s shoulder, and you cry even louder while you hear your father’s defeated sigh, followed by his footsteps leaving the room. For some reason, despite knowing how life worked for noblemen’s daughters, you’d never thought this day would come for you too. 

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That same night, in a different corner of Firenze, Giovanni Auditore’s troubles haunted his time in his studio. The spread of parchments before him just seems like a mangle of hieroglyphs he isn’t fit to decipher, despite being nothing more than the normal accounts from his business: there was too much in his mind for numbers to make any sense. 

Lorenzo de’ Medici had visited him earlier. It had been a while since he hadn’t stopped by their Palazzo, so he was received with open arms and engaged in long and fruitful conversation, just as they usually did when they met. But at some point of the discussion, his face had turned pale, his expression darkened, and he’d told Giovanni something that made his blood run cold. Something Lorenzo shouldn’t have been the one to discover. 

He’d followed the reveal with a plea for help, a request: that Giovanni took the offer for his daughter’s hand, and married her to none other than Ezio. That Federico, despite being the eldest and still uncoupled, was not who he wanted his daughter to be with. And, of course, being that Lorenzo was his good friend - and a powerful man, who’d just given him some crucial information - Giovanni had almost blindly accepted the deal. 

He’d done so without even thinking of the fallout, the fact that now, he had to tell Ezio about the deal. And he loved his son, but he knew of his temper - his second born could be a bit difficult, at times, and entirely more toughheaded than his brother. 

Giovanni had seen a brightness in his boy throughout his childhood, which was often overlooked due to his love for troublemaking. Despite giving him more headaches than his brother ever had, Giovanni knew that Ezio would one day grow to outlive both his and Federico’s legacy in the Creed, which was why he’d decided to introduce him to the family’s secrets at just eighteen years of age. Since then, he’d seen a noticeable shift in his attitude - he carried himself as less of a teenager, and took his responsibilities even more seriously - but the fact of his enormous ego still remained attached to his young age. Ezio understood the sacrifices he had to make for the Creed, but Giovanni doubted that he’d ever take the news he had to deliver with a smile on his face. 

A firm knock on the door prompts Giovanni to beckon his son inside. Ezio steps into the studio oozing his usual aura of confidence, which made him stand out wherever he went. Both his sons had turned out unusually tall, but only Ezio could capture the attention of a whole room when he walked into one. 

“You wanted to see me, padre?” Evidently, after accompanying Lorenzo to the door, he’d told Claudia to alert Ezio when she saw him and locked himself in the studio. It had probably been a few hours since then, as his son enjoyed the city streets deep into the night, but it had been a worthwhile wait. 

“Sit down, Ezio,” He says firmly, signalling to the cushioned chairs that faced his desk. “You’re going to need it.”

Immediately, a worried expression settles into his son’s features, who takes the seat without asking questions. 

“I had a meeting today. With Lorenzo de’ Medici,” Giovanni doesn’t look at his son while he thinks over how to approach the topic, joining his hands together by just his fingertips. “And he revealed some worrying information that, if true, will need to be handled with care by the Creed.”

Ezio immediately leans forwards at this, his attention fully captured. “What did he tell you?”

“It is too early for me to reveal that, Ezio,” The patriarch shakes his head firmly, and Ezio slumps back into his seat. “Mario and I will have to investigate and contact other members before we can verify the veracity of Lorenzo’s claims. But even though I cannot reveal much, I do have to entrust you with a vital part of the operation.”

His son’s eyes widen, as does his smirk. “Does Federico know about this?”

“No, he doesn’t.”

His sons had developed a sane rivalry ever since they’d both began assassin training, all over which one of them was trusted with the biggest of tasks. Ezio knew Federico had him beat with his extra years of experience, but even then, he strived to be more skilled and show his father that he could do his job much better than his brother ever could. It looked like, for the first time in the past two years and having in mind his experience with the Medicis, Giovanni had finally realized this. 

“I’ll be happy to help,” Rubbing his hands together, Ezio slips into co-conspirator mode, ready to be let into his father’s secrets. “What do I have to do?”

There is no true way to soften the blow, Giovanni realises, so he just decides to send it in at full force. 

“You’ll have to marry Lorenzo de’ Medici’s eldest daughter.”

It’s almost like, in less than a split second, Giovanni can see his son’s confidence completely dissipate into thin air, and be immediately replaced by anger. 

“No.”

“Ezio, this is not up for discussion…”

“No, I will not do it,” Enraged, Ezio pushes back his chair and stands to pace the room. “Father, do you know how insufferable that Medici girl is?”

Ezio knew very well of the family’s eldest, because she had been a major pain in his rear ever since Claudia had decided to become her best friend. She walked through the streets of Firenze with her head held impossibly high: the lady was as egotistical and spoiled as they came, relishing in the fact that she’d been born a Medici, which she used to see herself above everyone else. Ezio had always despised this altive attitude and, despite her undeniable appeal, he’d always kept a considerable distance from her. It also helped that she seemed to hate his guts in return. 

All of which made him question the fact of this union even harder. 

“Why not Federico?” He whines, arms crossed over his chest. “Lei mi odia. At least, Federico would be a better option.”

Giovanni raises a questioning brow, unimpressed. “I thought you didn’t want your brother in on this?”

“I didn’t know this was the task at hand,” He huffs, falling back into his seat without much decorum. 

Giovanni rolls his eyes. “Lorenzo requested you specifically. He trusts you, after what you did for him.”

It’s slightly revitalizing for Ezio to be reminded of the trust he’d earned from the Medicis, but he cannot hold the thought when the reality of his situation loomed so close over him. If Lorenzo really did like him, why would he place the burden of marrying his spoiled daughter on his shoulders?

“I hope you understand that this is for the good of our organisation, figlio mio,” Calm and collected, Ezio watches his father place a palm on the dark grain of his desk. “With time, all will be revealed, and you’ll be glad you listened to me. Besides, how bad can marrying a Medici be?”

“I’ll have to come back to you about that, father.”

Fall, 1982

“That still doesn’t sound good.”

Routine had been an easy thing for you and Eddie to settle into ever since you met. Two years of the healthiest friendship you’d ever had flew past, in which not a single day had been spent separated - since the time you met Eddie crouching on the grass of your trailer park, you’d become absolutely inseparable. From the moment you left your house in the mornings, to the second you went to sleep, he was always there - even when you had nothing to do, you shared your boredom together. Just like you did that afternoon.

Sixteen had hit you both as hard as an incoming truck. School had taught you that your body would change, but you’d never expected the complete one-eighty your mind would also spin into. Your closet had morphed into something rebellious and darker, and childhood toys that had spent some years decommissioned were officially put into their final resting places of boxes under your bed. Posters of bands you and Eddie enjoyed now plastered both your rooms in messy collages, and the hobbies you’d once obsessed over were now forgotten and replaced with what you’d deemed ‘adult aspirations’. 

Physically, your mother insisted you were growing into a young woman. Seasonal closet switches were now riddled with tears as she put piles of clothes away that did not fit you anymore. She insisted it was the fact that you were growing up, but you were sure that not being able to buy the new and more expensive pieces she knew you liked at the rate you were outgrowing the old had to take some part in it. 

At least, the change had not been as sudden and fast as Eddie’s. You wouldn’t have believed it, if it weren’t for the fact that you saw him every day, but you swore he had completely morphed in the span of one season: like he’d been stretched vertically by some unnatural force, Eddie had grown taller than even his uncle, and he’d soon filled his frame with early muscles after spending the whole summer working part-time at the local garage. He’d always been scrawny, but now, he’d totally lost the childhood fullness of his cheeks and gotten a clearly defined jawline along with sharper eyes. He’d kept growing his long hair, and, just as you had, he’d gained a completely new attitude. One that was cocky, confident in his alternative looks, and sure of his abilities - a side of Eddie that was new to you, but you’d be lying if you said you weren’t terribly fond of it. 

Even his twin bed had been outgrown, as Eddie’s feet almost poked out of the end while he lazily laid on top of it, keeping his beloved guitar close to his chest. You liked to watch him strum the metallic strings in search of melodies to lace together, mirroring the way his favorite rockstars contorted their fingers into notes they switched at inhuman paces. Anyone who knew Eddie well recognised how, since the day you’d gifted him that guitar, his hands had practically lived glued to the instrument’s neck. 

That day was no less, as your back met his wall while you sat with him on the mattress, legs thrown over his knees to form a perfect cross of limbs. Eddie’s ability with music was impressive, having in mind how he’d never had any education on it past his own research and his obsession with his favorite bands: melodies came to him as naturally as water flowed down a creek, and he’d already been able to compose a few well-sounding songs with Corroded Coffin. All that was left, of course, was giving them some lyrics. 

He’d tried to sit down and write some before, but, as it turns out, words did not occur to him as easily as pure music did. His lyric notebook was, perhaps, the only thing Eddie had ever tried keeping hidden from you - until you stumbled upon it, full of ripped pages and angrily crossed-out words, and the excuse that his songs ‘just sounded better without words’ crumbled into red-glowing cheeks. 

But, born from that instant, a new secret of your own had arisen. You’d taken a composition notebook that would easily pass as school-related, and, during late nights where you couldn’t sleep, you’d mumble the melodies that Eddie would drill into your head from practicing day-long and tried to put words to them. 

It was dangerously easy, to the point where, at some moment in time, half the pages had been scribbled through with lyrics that didn’t even belong to existing melodies. Just like music was for Eddie, writing had become an escape from daily life to you - a way of processing difficult feelings, of letting out what was always too hard to say aloud. 

…Which, of course, meant that your notebook had to stay as a complete secret to Eddie. 

The fact that it looked like an unassuming school supply, however, had given you an advantage that perhaps made you too sure of yourself for a long time. You had the luck of being able to tell Eddie that you were just catching up on an assignment whenever you wanted to use the notebook in his presence, which was often: the background music of him composing made you concentrate much better on what you wanted to express, which had also led you to try and write during band practices in the school fields and gymnasium. It had been like this that you’d met Robin, a curious freshman who played the trumpet and had noticed you more often than not in your lonely writing quests. She, however, had found the ability which Eddie always lacked on the first time she’d ever gotten your homework excuse: she was able to call your bluff. 

Robin was someone Eddie would like. She was weird in a quirky way, and always blunt with everything she had to say about your lyrics. The girl was a perfect subject to run all of those song skeletons through, because you knew you were always getting the most honest answer you could from her. 

But, since her relationship with your secret hobby was far too close, you did not dare to bring her up to Eddie in any way, shape, or form. For months, you’d continued secretly scribbling on that notebook as he composed, and he had never said a thing. 

Until today. 

“God-fucking-damnit,” His profanity wakes you from your daydream, grumbling as he gives up on the guitar and reaches from the bed to slot it in its stand. That particular melody was a more complex one, which had been drilling both his and your head for weeks as he struggled to find the right notes to make it whole. You have to practically bury your nose in your notebook as he stretches to reach his bedside table, catching a glimpse of how his shirt rides up his stomach a little bit too high. 

Two clicks of a lighter warn you before a cloud of cigarette smoke blurs your vision of the page, which Eddie intently blows your way to get your attention. In a silent exchange, you direct a glare and a knowing brow lift at him, which he just playfully smirks at before taking a second puff. 

“Here.”

Two ringed fingers shove themselves in your field of vision once more, which hold the cigarette over to you as a peace offering. 

You still remembered the first time your friend smoked, because it had also been your own. Just about the start of last summer, you’d both been lounging  around Hawkins’ public pool when Eddie caught sight of a newly-opened package of Marlboro reds, fallen off the purse of a middle-aged woman. He’d been unable to resist the urge of nicking them off the ground, and, as you always did, you’d tried your first cigarette together while hiding behind Eddie’s trailer. 

Both of you had almost coughed up a lung on the first puff, and you’d gone home reeking so badly of tobacco that your mother had, for the first time in those last years, uttered the famous ‘if your friend jumped off a cliff, would you?’ argument. She’d shortly realized that it was no use, after all, knowing that if Eddie were to ever do something like that, you’d mindlessly jump while holding his hand. 

Since then, Eddie had become an increasingly frequent user, a vice which you sometimes partook in on moments of calm such as those. But, in the last few months, the instances in which you’d share a cigarette were starting to become scarce, and it was all because of your refusal to share the smoke. 

You’d tried to pass it off as a health concern, but that theory had been dismissed when Eddie realized that, if you were given a cigarette of your own, you’d smoke it without issue. The reality of it was embarrassing, and Eddie loved to try and tease it out of you, but you’d never budge: watching him change that summer had done something strange to you. 

You had started to look at your friend under a different light. He wasn’t kid Eddie anymore; not the boy you’d seen bald-headed, covered in mud from slipping up the shore of Lover’s Lake, bundled up in winter clothes that were always too big for his frame. He was Eddie from Edward, with a capital E, who was morphing into a man too fast for your comprehension; who you liked seeing play his guitar a little bit too much and shared absolutely everything with; the guy who had outgrown you in a summer and now wrapped his arm tightly around your shoulders one too many times, whose physical closeness has always been a constant, but is now suddenly nerve-racking for you. Eddie, who has a way with words, and a nice smile, and perfect lips, and smoking the same cigarette which has touched them now does not seem right, because it’s the closest you’ll ever come to actually kissing them. 

“I don’t feel like it.”

Softly, you push his hand aside and resume your scribbling, which your friend does not take kindly. 

“You never feel like it anymore!” Dramatic, Eddie slots the cigarette back between his lips and acts dismayed, hand clutching his pearls. “You treat me like I’m sick with something. You know you can trust me, right? I’m not contagious.”

If anything, you were the one who felt sick whenever you were around him, but you don’t get a second to react before his fingers sneak to poke into the side of your abdomen, unable to contain writhing under his touch. 

“Stop!” Between giggles, a swat of your hand sends his own back to where it belonged, leaving him feigning injury after slapping his abdomen without much thinking. Your palm feels as hot as your face when you realize what you’ve done, but thankfully, he seems too focused on playing his dramatic part to notice. 

Eddie never had any bad intentions, but when he was frustrated with something, the boy could be a painfully annoying distraction. This was especially apparent whenever he saw you doing something productive - it was as if he figured that, if he himself could not get things done, you shouldn’t be able to either, and it seems like you’re pushing the line too far with your frantic ‘note-taking’. It’s a ticking time bomb, a neon bullseye that is dead-set on you and Eddie has clearly realized already. 

“Come on, close that notebook already,” He whines, blowing clouds of smoke to rest above your heads. “You’re always writing in it now. Are you in some secret extracurricular I know nothing about?”

“No,” You retort, trying to twist your mind in search of the last parts of your current verse. Just a few words you’d like to squeeze out before closing the book and making him forget about it, a selfish thing - you’re struggling though, especially when he seems unusually clingy and touchy, free hand resting on your thigh and clasping at the skin there. “It’s just some assignment I’m behind on. I’ll be done soon.”

But Eddie doesn’t buy it, and he curiously inspects you for a few seconds while finishing off the cigarette and tossing its butt into the half-empty Coke on his bedside. 

“I don’t think you’re actually doing homework there.”

The sureness of his words catches you off-guard, stopping your pen just to stare blankly into the paper. You’d fallen right into his trap, because as you’re processing your shock, the endearing smile he directs you soon turns to a devilish smirk, and his quick fingers slip the notebook out of your grasp. 

“Eds, no!”

Your quick instincts make you tunnel-vision, eyes on the notebook: body spread out on the bed, Eddie’s hands dangle it as far from you as he can, above his head and out of your reach. Without thinking, and in your desperation, you stumble out of your position and crawl over his body,  reaching to grab the book before he can have the bright idea of combing through the pages. 

But Eddie has decided to mess with you badly, so he folds his arm and swings it in a completely different direction when you’re almost about to get it. Mindless, you follow it, and slip to fall flat on top of him with a shared huff when he dangles the notebook out of the bed. The drop of your body on his makes him loose grip of the book, which falls open on the ground, and you realize in just what kind of position you had gotten yourself into. 

You stare at Eddie for a second too long, who also seems hazed out of his playful state for a moment while your face is just a breath away from his. The hint of tobacco still lingers on his lips, but you’d have been lying if that wasn’t the most tantalizing thing you’d ever smelled in that very moment, when he was within reach, and only a short but distant inch was what separated the comfort of friendship from the endless bounds of something larger. 

It, however, only lasts a short second, before your palms are on the mattress and you’re pulling yourself right off of him. 

“Sorry,” You mutter, looking down as you fix your shirt as an excuse to hide your blushing cheeks. 

“It’s okay,” Eddie just sounds startled, sitting up as he reaches to fix the pages that had fallen in such a strange position. His hand smoothes over the cover, brow raising as he offers it back. “I didn’t want to forcibly read it, but you act like you’re hiding something from me. I thought we didn’t have any secrets.”

The composition notebook sits between you, the culprit for the sudden awkwardness between you and the closest friend you had. Eddie was right. 

For months, you’d been twisting the narrative in your mind, and experiencing feelings that could very much ruin the realest and best thing you’ve ever known. Moments like these, hiding feelings that would never be reciprocated and bottling them up, would only ever break your relationship in a way you could never handle. You didn’t have any secrets, because you were friends. Nothing more. 

“I’ve been keeping it kind of hidden, because I thought you might laugh at me.”

He seems interested at the fact that you’re opening your heart, perking up at the words. “When have I ever laughed at you?”

“I don’t know,” You shake your head. “Never, but… It’s a new thing I’m trying. I don’t know if I’m very good at it.”

Trembling hands open the notebook on the last written page and hand it over to him, who grabs it like the pages might dissolve if handled too roughly. Eddie’s expression lights up almost in an instant when he recognises the familiar structure the words have, and the title you’ve given the page: ‘Eddie’s unfinished song: possible lyrics’.

“Is this..?”

You just nod slowly as he reads through the whole thing, nodding his head along as he clearly lets the melody play out while processing the lyrics. It’s just a couple seconds, yet it feels like you’re waiting for an eternity before he finishes the piece and breaks into a dashing smile. 

“Are you serious?”

“It’s not finished,” Your hands scramble to return the notebook, but it's firmly held in his hands, and he is now skimming back through the previous pages. “Eds, it’s just a stupid hobby I’ve picked up, since I spend my days listening to what you compose. It’s nothing, I just…”

“Stop,” His command makes you instantly fall silent, now noticing that the grin on his expression is not amusement, but a deep admiration. “I love it.”

“Do you really?”

“You have to be kidding me,” he repeats, “Yes, I do. These sound like something Bruce Dickinson would scream right into a microphone. If I had known you were so talented, we’d have been putting these on our songs a long time ago.”

It’s enough to make you melt, yet you manage to stop yourself from turning into a puddle before he digs too deep and finds songs that are way too personal for him to be snooping through. Eddie, however, seems entranced at how you write metal lyrics, and keeps commenting on the fact that he’s astounded as to how you’ve managed to keep it hidden for so long. 

“Seriously,” He’d kept looking at you with admiration, even after you’d discreetly taken the notebook out of his hands with the excuse that ‘you wanted to surprise him with the rest’. “I want you at our next band meeting, this time as an active member. We’re going to try some of these the next time Corroded Coffin gets together.”

“But you have to promise me something,” In your moment of elation, the way he grabbed your wrist took you by surprise. “You’ll never keep things secret from me again.”

A few days excruciatingly extend into three weeks, which more so feel like three months. 

Having pulled yourself out of your usual big city routine kept you bored throughout your stay in Chimney Rock. Most would argue that there was nothing like the tranquility of a small town, but you’d grown accustomed to the bustle of the city, as it also accompanied your daily life. Not interacting with family had made you pour yourself into your work since you left college, and so now, having come back home to spend your day with almost nothing to do felt unfulfilling. 

It wasn’t as if you were intently avoiding a purpose: after all, your mother was gravely sick, and you taking care of her was one of the reasons why you were there in the first place. However, it isn’t easy to do so when her deep resentment practically barred you from just being in the same room as her, spare for cooking for her and helping aid in those things not even her toughheadedness convinced her she could do alone. 

She just did not want to talk to you, and it was heartbreaking. But you knew the reason why, and that was the toughest pill to swallow. 

Tension lay thick in every hallway of your childhood home, its colors dulling along with your mother’s with every day you struck off the calendar. Her condition was a grave one, and its aggressive nature clearly affected her more with each passing day, as you were relegated by your mother herself to stay in the sidelines and watch without acting. Arguments grew in number and scale, always ending with you slamming the door you’d always quietly shut as a teenager, to then cry your impotence into your twin bed’s sheets. 

What was worse was that, despite her health quickly dissipating and her constant anger at your presence in her home, she’d realized that you were her only vehicle to the place she frequented the most: the parish. She wanted you out, but at the same time, only you could drive her up and down to church with the frequency you did - and, with every time you brought up the elephant in the room, a new day of worship was added to the list. You’d gone from that initial Sunday visit to practically attending daily mass, as your mother poured the rest of her energies into worship and ‘personal prayer sessions’ with Wicks. 

You didn’t know what those entailed, but you were appalled at the fact that she would refuse to listen to reason and instead allow that man to worm his way into her brain, convincing her that miracles were more than possible. 

It was an easy fix - refusing to take her to church would end all of your indoctrination concerns, but there were big disadvantages in that plan. Despite the fact that you knew your mother couldn’t resent you any more than she already did, you were not cruel enough to take away the only moments of her day which brought her peace. Besides, once Wicks had laid off the directed attacks, your focus in church had shifted from the Monsignor onto something much more interesting.

Father Jud. 

Solving problems was your profession, but the question of Father Jud was one which circled in your mind unanswered for longer than you were willing to admit. He was a good man. Often, he would greet you after service and check in on how everything was going, assuring you and your mother that he’d pray for the both of you - and, for some reason, his words always felt comforting. It soothed you in a way you’d never imagined yourself enjoying; if the tables turned, you knew that getting that message from Wicks (or any other priest, for that matter) would feel wrong, like they did not truly mean it past their attempt of putting up a good face. After all, just praying for a miracle to happen was nothing but wishful thinking. 

But Father Jud was genuine, with his soft smiles and gentle way of speaking about faith. You were glad your mother seemed to also enjoy his blessings, because he was the only reason why you were still sane after listening to Wicks’ sermons for more than half a month.

Still, your interactions are limited to polite waves and the occasional, two-minute chats outside the parish before making your way back home, always with your mother involved. You’d never even considered interacting with him outside of the normal - hell, you’d never imagined you’d even see him leave the church, for that matter, as if you’d forgotten he could have a life outside of it. 

That morning had been the worst yet. Exactly three weeks since your arrival, your mother had woken up earlier than usual, and went to go down the stairs while you were still asleep. You’d warned her time and time again that her body was growing fragile, and soon, she wouldn’t be able of even walking short distances without help - but, of course, she’d dutifully dismissed what you said, and lost her footing near the end steps after her legs did not respond properly. 

You’d found her on the floor after hearing her yelp and waking up in a frenzy, almost tripping as you rushed out of bed. Thankfully, she hadn’t fallen down the full staircase, but she’d still bumped and scared herself enough to agree with you for once. Aided by her condition, her bruises turned out to be wider and nastier-looking than you’d expected, so you made sure she wouldn’t move from the couch while you quickly headed out to get some arnica cream.

Chimney Rock’s local pharmacy was cramped. The small establishment fit as many products as it could in hallways made up of disorganized shelves, which cost you a good ten minutes of walking around before spotting the product you were looking for. 

“Finally.”

You had walked through the labyrinth of drugs to make your way to the register then, paying and quickly aiming to leave the shop - that was, of course, if it hadn’t been for the fact of a familiar face who’d just entered the pharmacy, looking at the shelves with a deep frown. 

It wasn’t as if you needed to talk to Father Jud. Clearly, he hadn’t noticed you, and you could quietly take another hallway and just walk the long way to the exit. He would never know you’d passed on greeting him, because, let’s be real - who else greeted a priest outside of church, if not devout parishioners who frequented that place too much? You were none of that. Did not want to be associated with it, in any way. 

But his presence calls to you differently. He was always kind, a good person to be around - like the clerical collar didn’t even exist when he spoke to you. And you guessed that returning that kindness back cost nothing - it didn’t have to be religious. Just human. 

“It’s really difficult to find anything in this mess.”

Surprise is soon replaced with a warm smile and call of your name at the sight of you, impossible to not return. 

“I’m glad to see you.”

“Same goes, Father,” You rub your arm rather awkwardly, suddenly embarrassed. That was out of character for you. “I can help you, if you need to find anything. I practically memorized the whole shop while looking for what I needed.”

“Ah, yes,” He lets out a chuckle at your joke, and you see yourself strangely pleased. “I’ve just been sleeping less lately, with all the storms. I need some Advil to calm my headaches.”

You frown as he continues to scan the shelves. “If I can offer my advice, Father? Unless they’re strong, migraine-like headaches with pulsating pain, you’re better off regularly taking Tylenol. Advil is a bit stronger than needed for a normal headache.”

He doesn’t dismiss you, or look at you weirdly for your intrusion. Father Jud just cocks his head at you, like he is actually interested in hearing what you’re saying. 

“Huh. I’ve always just grabbed the first thing I see on the shelf,” He chuckles. 

“I mean. At the end of the day, they’re both drugs that work, and both are detrimental if used in excess,” There it is, that shyness again - it consumes you when you realize that you’re talking way too much, leading him a few steps down the hall to grab him a box of Tylenol. “But I’d recommend this for a milder pain.”

Your smile turns awkward as he takes the box with a thank you, realizing that you’ve never felt so out of your element with him. Thankfully though, it seems as if Jud has a superpower when it comes to you: the ability of making you feel comfortable in even the worst situations. 

“You seem to know a lot about this,” He comments, walking side by side towards the register. 

“I went to med school,” You simply blurted out, unsure of why you were now starting to open up about your private life to the local priest. 

“Oh!” But Jud seems genuinely surprised, greeting the clerk before paying while still maintaining your conversation. “I had no idea.”

You just nod as the clerk puts his pills in a paper bag, similar to the one you’d been handed. Then, you walked out of the small shop in tandem, stopping by the entrance to say your goodbyes. 

The sky above you was still that depressing shade of grey. It would rain again that night. 

“Oh, actually,” Before he lets you walk away, his handsome expression contorts into one of concern. “How’s your mother doing? I imagine you’re here to pick up her medicine.”

You just raise the paper bag he looks at, huffing a defeated sigh. “I wish.”

It leaves him puzzled, and why wouldn’t it? It sounded like you would rather prefer your mom needed drugs for you to buy, because the real reason for your annoyance isn’t a logical one.

“My mother is a toughheaded woman. There’s no one in the world who can change her mind whenever she is convinced about something,” You just sigh, disappointed. “And she is convinced that she shouldn’t trust anything that doesn’t come directly from the hands of God.”

Father Jud just blinks, and you know he’s already figured out what you implied, but he still has to ask. “What do you mean?”

“My mom doesn’t believe in doctors to cure her. She believes in miracles.”

A silence settles between you at the gravity of your words, which you continue to make even darker. “There’s a reason why I’m here. I’ve been trying to convince her for weeks, but she doesn’t want to listen to me. She has an aggressive form of cancer, but she’ll tell everybody she is just sick. And it is becoming worse each day that passes without some sort of treatment.”

“My mother is choosing to slowly let herself die before listening to me.”

Telling that priest your personal dilemma came way too naturally. Maybe, you should start to measure yourself more whenever you are alone with him. 

“Holy shit.”

That surely manages to shake you out of the wave of sadness beginning to overtake you, watching as Jud’s lips contort into an awkward grin. “Sorry. I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” It somehow manages to make you laugh, the fact you’d shocked a priest so much that you’d gotten him to break into blasphemous language. “It’s my cross to bear, I guess.”

“You shouldn’t punish yourself for it,” He shakes his head, and for a second, a small faltering causes his hand to raise and instantly lower. Like he was aiming to physically comfort you, but quickly decided against it. “I’m sure… You just have to reach her in some other way, a way she will agree with, to make her see things differently. You’re her daughter. You’ll get her to listen, eventually.”

“That’s the problem, Father,” You shake your head, only managing to utter a sad smile as your mind went back through every argument in the past few weeks. “I’m her daughter. And she’d never listen to me, unless I put on a cassock and started preaching in your parish.”

Deflated, you just manage to give him a meek goodbye and assure him that you’d be in church the next morning, before turning around and heading to your car. 

No one could ever understand the way you felt. The threat of losing your mother was scary enough - even despite the canyon-sized rift between you, she was still your mother, and you loved her too much to watch her do this to herself. To know that you had the resources to help her, to get her into remission or at least extend her lifetime, but she was in constant refusal. She did not trust you, nor did she trust your intentions. She did not trust the only way she could ever get the future you knew she wanted, and the thought was killing you along with her. 

Your reflection stares back at you from the windows of your car, and Father Jud’s words about how you were her daughter replay in your mind. Your response was the hard truth you were hurting to accept: you could never be the one to reach your mother. The Church was the only voice of reason to her, and lately, Wicks did nothing but spew constant bullshit about God’s will and his ability to grant miracles, making it seem like he was a genie whose lamp was rubbed every time you completed a prayer. It pained you to admit, but only a man in his position could ever get through to her.

The realization hits you harder than a truck, and you can swear you see the glow of a bulb light over your face on the window.

“Father Jud!”

Tearing through the silent street, your yell finds the priest before he can manage to mount his bicycle, turning to watch you jog his way.

“Is everything okay?”

“Come to my house for coffee.”

You don’t realise how direct of a proposition that is, but thankfully, Father Jud doesn’t give you any reasons to be embarrassed at your behaviour. He just offers you a curious look, silently asking for an explanation. 

“If you talk to her without Wicks around, and agree with me when I bring up getting treated, she might actually give in,” Nodding enthusiastically, you have to measure yourself before grabbing his shoulders. “Please, Father. You’re the only way I can think of making her listen.”

It’s clear he’s conflicted: he wants you to have your victory. To have you talk to her and get her to agree yourself. But he’s also flattered at the fact that you, of all the people he’d met in Chimney Rock, would deposit your trust on him to help you in any way. 

“I can be there whenever it’s best for you,” He finally agrees, and you feel a sudden wave of relief crash upon you. Maybe, the end of the war was nearer than you thought. 

“Good! Any afternoon works. The sooner, the better,” The aim was to get her treated before it was too late, and you knew the clock was ticking quickly. “Tomorrow?”

“Sure,” Now he’s the one who is smiling awkwardly, and you wonder if you’re being too enthusiastic about this. “I’ll be there.”

Not much had changed at Chimney Rock. 

During the spring, the air still smelled of damp leaves and fresh mud. The thunderstorms were still constant, keeping the asphalt in that perpetually blackish shade of grey. The forest trees still swayed in invitation as your brand new BMW took every turn with sharp precision, being led into the Hellscape that you had once managed to abandon, vowing that you’d never return again. 

Il Diavolo was still a place of congregation, even if your memories of the most God fearing people you’d ever known came from those who frequented it. It was good to see, hypocrisy was still rampant in that place. People looked at outsiders with weird grins. But you were not an outsider. You were something worse. Much worse. 

“If you’re going to stay here, make yourself useful. Take me to church.”

You were a traitor. 

“I don’t want to argue with you when you’re like this, mom.”

It had been three days since you’d arrived. You’d packed your bags in a rush, stuffing cashmere turtlenecks next to the only amount of willpower you had left before coming back home with a guilty expression. First time in ten years. 

You hadn’t been received with fireworks, but it wasn’t as if you hadn’t expected that already. Still, what you did not imagine was that your mother would take a vow of silence for 72 hours, only breaking it on a Sunday morning after uttering her usual grumble. 

“There is nothing to argue about. Take me to church, it’s Sunday.”

“You know what I think about Jefferson Wicks, and unless he’s changed in the last 10 years, which I find unlikely…”

“Don’t you dare speak about the Monsignor like that,” And then, she’d grabbed her chest tightly, bunching up fabric under the fingers which were slowly becoming paler and skeletal. Her face said it all. 

You’ve disappointed your mother enough in this lifetime. Continuing to do so wouldn’t help your case. 

The parish still stood high up on the top of the hill it had been confined to, a place far from the town’s bustle as it lay nestled between evergreen trees. Black moss grew on the aging stone in streaks from the rain, even more imposing than the last time you saw it. Our Lady of Perpetual Fortitude could be beautiful to whoever looked at it from the outside, a hidden gem in upstate New York, but appearances usually worked just like that: you never know the true nature of something until you look at it from the inside, and you’d learned that with time. Religion itself has taught you that.  

Such is your momentary stupor that your mother has to call from inside the car for you to hurry with her chair, or service would start without her.

The inside was still dark, and it still smelled of incense and humidity. The chill when you crossed the door, as well as the lack of that central cross piece, never failed to send shivers down your spine: it was all still the same. The same old pews, the same dirty windows, the same marble floors which now made your heels click in a frightening rhythm. It was all the same, and all the reason why you’d refused to come back in the first place. 

Mom liked to sit in the front. There was a space reserved for her chair there now, almost right under Wicks’ pulpit, from where she surely loved to keep worshipping that man like a divinity. A select group of people occupy their spots, each seemingly preassigned, as you seriously consider what to do with your body. 

“Mom, I might wait for you outside. I just have to make a few calls and I…”

She doesn’t say anything, but her silence is enough to quieten you. It's cutting, a warning sign to not embarrass her in public with another argument. 

“You have a chance to redeem yourself from the disappointment you’ve been for the last ten years, yet you won’t even take it.”

You end up sitting on the pew next to her, deciding not to dig yourself into a deeper hole.

Jefferson Wicks comes out not long after. His hair is fully greyed out now, longer and disheveled; it makes him look crazier, if that was ever possible. Just like back then, he seemed to have found a new circle of devout followers to keep scaring with preachings, out of which only your mother and Martha Delacroix were familiar faces. He walks with the same conviction and speaks with the same highly ego, as if God had given him the right himself. 

But there was something that had changed about Our Lady of Perpetual Fortitude. Just one thing, if small in that sea of unwanted memories, which served to distract you from suppressed thoughts for the next half hour. 

He came out behind the Monsignor - with matching vestments, but clearly a step below him. A young priest, probably around your age. An unknown face.

He barely spoke. The young priest carries out the service dutifully, like clockwork, working around Wicks’ needs and wants while your eyes remain trained on him, analytical. 

“Who..?”

Your mother only utters a tight-lipped shush, which serves to convey that she wants you to stay silent for the rest of the mass. Wicks’ homily was coming up, and it felt like the air had quietly shifted, as if everyone in the nave had jointly leaned forwards in anticipation.

But you knew what it meant, because you were now the newcomer. You’d seen it happen time and time again, since you were a naïve kid until you turned into a skeptic teenager who noticed the game Wicks liked to play with his congregation. It was your time to get piled on, the sole reason why you’d tried to get away from coming back to church.

“The world we live in wants us to believe many things,” Jefferson Wicks’ booming voice makes you jump in your spot on the pew, thankful for having kept your sunglasses on as you look up at the man on the stand: bright, white light illuminates his face from above, contrasting the overall darkness which envelops the church when he speaks. 

“It wants us to believe that family is replaceable. That it has an expiration date. That leaving is growth, that walking away from it takes courage. That if you abandon what made you, raised you, and fed you, you are becoming something greater. This world we live in applauds young departure, especially when it comes disguised under the costume of education. Of intelligence. Of so-called progress.”

Out of the corner of your eye, you see your mother’s lips thin, expression falling into complete seriousness. Stirring in your seat, you cross your legs in anticipation of what is to come. 

“They’ll leave The Church and call it enlightenment. They’ll trade God’s neverending wisdom for unproven theories and sterile laboratories, cold instruments and supposedly clever explanations. For the illusion that they can play God, to somehow correct what is his will in the world.”

“They call it research. Empowering the human race. Healing the world. But I’ll tell you what it truly is.”

You stare at the tips of your kitten heels while hearing the creak of several pews, as if Wicks’ audience is leaning into his words. “It is refusal!”

Spit particles fly, highlighted against the bright artificial light falling on the Monsignor. It’s like a weight is placed on your shoulders when he yells, pointing angrily at the crowd. He directs it towards no-one in particular, but it feels like he is doing so directly against your chest. “Refusal to kneel before God. Refusal to trust his existence, refusal to accept that human suffering is not a flaw of his creation, but a crucial part of it!”

There’s a sickness stirring in your stomach, making you rearrange your seating position once more. Your mother’s expression is unreadable, constantly avoiding your eyes. The sole thought that she has been hearing these types of targeted speeches for ten years, enough to rot her thought into complete submission, makes you want to lean forwards and puke right at the feet of Wicks’ pulpit. But you won’t give in. No matter what he says, you will not be stirred enough to leave your seat and give him what he wants, what you know he is searching for as his eyes scan the congregation and meet yours for a second. You look at his satisfied expression with defiance, finally looking him in the eye so he can see you aren’t scared of him. You won’t give him what he wants. That’s enough to wipe the satisfied smirk off his face, as he quickly rethinks his words. 

“...We are told this refusal is a brave one. That it requires the sacrifice of leaving home, of leaving this Church, of leaving the family God placed you in. The sacrifice of leaving the parents to age, ache, and pray without the presence of the child they gave so much to raise.”

A creak echoes through the nave when your mother shifts in her wheelchair, and you return to looking at your feet. “That absence is easy when life is full. When the body is strong. When ambition is louder than what truly matters.”

But then, Jefferson Wicks lowers his voice into something dangerous, and you know things are about to turn south.

“But illness has a way of calling the absent back.”

Your head snaps fast enough to crack your neck, looking back up at the pulpit. All of the confidence you’d just held had suddenly vanished, giving foot to genuine distress.

“And, suddenly! The ones who left somehow remember where those doors were!” You can almost feel the floor shake at the Monsignor’s words. “Suddenly, they remember faith! They remember devotion!”

“Or, perhaps… They remember what truly remains when a life begins to end.”

Blinking quickly, you’re unsure of what to do, watching in horror as your mother’s frown slowly deepens. She was listening. She believed it. That sick man’s words were holy to her, and you did not understand how. 

When you look back up, however, your stare meets that of the young priest. His way of looking at you is different: there’s compassion in his eyes, an apologetic look that only extended to the way he looked at you. And though it only lasts a second, you ponder about it for longer, while his frown returns to glance upwards at his superior. “We must be careful not to mistake proximity for love. To not confuse return with repentance. We mustn’t believe that standing beside the sick’s bed erases the previous choice of having left it unattended for years.” “God sees the true heart! He knows whether a return is born out of humility… or convenience.”

You’d had enough.

The pew’s creak sounds like the ring of a victory bell for the Monsignor, who continues his speech with a satisfied grin as you stand up to leave. Heel clicks follow you out, growing faster when you catch a glance of your mother’s trembling lip as she watches you go for a second time. Feeling the shameful glances of the whole congregation on your back, you exit the nave, shutting the heavy door with a slam.  

That was the true Church. A place of constant judgement and biased beliefs; of shame and forced repentance. A toxic place which didn’t accept any other ways of thinking other than the one which had been deemed right thousands of years ago. You weren’t the reason why your mother had refused to speak to you in ten years. It was The Church’s fault. 

Above you, the greyish sky rumbled in anticipation, presaging the incoming storm. Moments of stress such as those called for a cigarette, which you briefly wished you held less harmful knowledge on. Instead, you must conform to angrily chewing a few sticks of peppermint gum while sitting against the hood of your car, waiting for service to be over. And when it does, you must watch as everyone leaves in good spirits, acting like nothing had really happened. You remembered the feeling of belonging, which came from a place of superiority rather than actual community: they were all happy because they hadn’t been the ones who’d been targeted. Because they’d chosen their side, and it had to be the right one, since it came from a man of God. 

It’s even worse when you catch just who is rolling your mother’s chair out of the parish. Monsignor Wicks, helping the ill woman himself after her daughter had abandoned her mid-service. It surely painted him in a holy light, as a group of loyalists soon congregated around him in search of approval. You just slotted on your dark sunglasses despite the grim weather and started going through your emails, not even wanting to see how your mother continued to be deep in conversation with the priest. “I’ve never trusted sermons that end with casualties.”

The crunch of gravel and the sound of an unfamiliar voice pulls you from your phone screen, glancing around to find that unknown face again. The younger priest. He’d approached you slowly, hands held before his green-and-white vestments and bearing that same apologetic look, which now reflected through all of his expression. 

“You must be really new here, then.”

To your surprise, the man just smiles softly, offering you a confirmation nod. “That’s a good assumption.”

“I was sent from Albany, just a few months ago. Jud Duplenticy. I’m the assistant pastor.”

His hand holds out politely, looking full of transparent honesty. He doesn’t seem like a bad man. He’d approached you when no-one else had. And despite all of your own prejudices, especially when it concerned that specific church, you had not been raised a rude woman.

Sliding your sunglasses up to the top of your head, you take his hand in a firm shake, reciprocating with your own name. Strong, surprisingly big palms encase yours for just a brief second. “I apologise for what happened earlier, in the name of our parish,” A big sigh accompanies his words, ones which make you frown in confusion. “I don’t usually make it in time to apologise to any of Wick’s victims, but… Well. It seems like you know the Monsignor already.”

“Sadly, I do,” He holds intense eye contact when he listens to you, one which makes you want to shrink into yourself - though not necessarily in a bad way. Not in the way you’d wanted the earth to swallow you while sitting on that pew. “I was a part of Wicks’ congregation for a long time before moving out of my mother’s house. He’s been doing the same thing for years. It’s just the first time I’ve personally been a target of it.”

He stays silent for a few beats, clearly considering the information you’d just given him about his superior. “The Monsignor has a difficult character.”

“Tell me about it.”

A light chuckle forms between the two of you, though it’s only shared for a few seconds.

“I just hope this doesn’t discourage you or your mother from continuing to attend mass,” His eyes trail back to where your mother is still talking with the Monsignor. “She is an avid parishioner.”

“She’s always been,” You cut, looking in the same direction as him. The scowl which stealthily creeps onto your expression is promptly caught by the pastor, though he just observes quietly. “And I’m sure nothing Wicks says will ever discourage her from worshipping this cult.”

You realize what you’ve said a second too late, eyes wide as you turn to the man with a guilty expression. Somehow, however, there’s still a light smile on his lips.

“Sorry, Father. As you can see, I’m not much of a believer anymore.”

“You don’t need to apologise,” He reassures, voice soft. “If anything, it makes sense that you aren’t. This church has given you reasons not to.”

“But that's what I was sent here for. To mend the wound the Monsignor has widened for years.”

“Yeah, well. You’re gonna need a lot of gauze for that.”

 He just utters a sad sigh. “That’s what I’m starting to notice.”

Just as you start to worry about having discouraged the man, you notice your mother approaching through your peripheral, now being assisted by Martha Delacroix. The Monsignor seemed to have vanished into thin air while you were busy talking with Father Jud. 

“It was nice to meet you, Father, but it looks like duty calls,” You straighten yourself, both physically and mentally, as you start to preview just what the ride back to the house would sound like. Surely, ‘disappointment’ was the kindest of things your mother had in store to call you in a few seconds. “And don’t worry. I’m afraid I’ll be stuck with church duty for as long as I plan on staying in my mother’s house, so don’t doubt that you’ll see us both here next Sunday.”

“Losing two parishioners to Wicks isn’t my worry,” He retorts quickly. “I’ve seen enough of those walkouts myself to know it’s inevitable. However, turning your feelings about faith around sure is.”

Though you try to suppress it, you can’t help but utter a scoff. “How?”

“You shouldn’t have to see accompanying your mother to church as a burden, or as a task to get rid of. You should want to come here. It should be a decision that comes from your own will.”

“I’m afraid it would take a miracle to rekindle my faith, Father.”

His smile just widens, hands clasping behind his back. “That, or a good enough priest.”

For a second, the sureness in his tone surprises you, enough to barely return his smile as he turns to greet your mother. 

Yet once you’re on the road, you can barely listen to her reprimand. Your thoughts are still on the young priest, constantly circling around the words he’d said. I’ve never trusted sermons that end with casualties…This church has given you reasons not to… But that’s what I was sent here for.

It had made you mentally scoff. An understanding priest was a hard thing to find, and you doubted you’d suddenly stumbled upon one in Chimney Rock, of all places. Still, it was intriguing. 

Smut tags (SPOILERS): Fem Masturbation, Cunnilingus, Vaginal fingering, Orgasm edging and denial, (slight?) brat taming, Vaginal sex, Rough sex, Pronebone, Overstimulation, Multiple orgasms

Darkness overtook Firenze when Lorenzo had decided to look out of his window that night, aiming to get some fresh air before heading to bed. Nothing could help contribute against his sour mood - after a long day of work, his wife had been grilling him about the state of their windowsills all throughout their measly dinner, despite knowing that he had no time to fix them on his own - much less, the money to pay for someone to do it. 

Lorenzo’s family had never struggled financially in the Medicis’ wealthy Firenze, but a recent rough patch had pushed them towards excessive saving and forgetting the taste of meat for the past few weeks. If anything, it had only served to make him more irritable - and it didn’t contribute to the fact that he was never really a ray of sunshine. 

On top of everything going on, Lorenzo would leave for work at the crack of dawn to find pieces of broken roof tiles scattered on the ground before their door, clearly fallen on their own by some mystery of nature. He had just huffed and shoved the shards away with his foot, hoping his wife would never notice them and make him pay for renovations, until a whole piece of windowsill had substituted the brick red fragments on the ground one morning. Evidently, the half-rotten wood framing their window had had literally been ripped off in the middle of the night, a defect which had not been as easy to hide from his disgruntled lady. 

It was along that time when he learnt about the criminal roaming around the streets of Firenze - or rather, hopping from roof to roof, because Florentines said the wanted Auditore avoided the slammer by traversing the city through anywhere but the ground. It had gotten so bad, archers had started to post up on roofs with specific instructions to look for the hooded man, all without luck.

While the Pazzi continued to look for the fled Auditore family, Lorenzo didn’t give much care to whatever the political implications of that whole scandal were, but he did know one thing: that goddamned criminal was the one who had broken his windowsill.

He had to be, and so he had become the most major pain in his rear and the orchestrator to all his suffering - firstly, because the uproar he was causing in the city affected his business; and secondly, because thanks to his climber complex, he’d had to mess with their rotten windowsills, and now Lorenzo’s wife had been complaining for weeks that their house and life was falling apart. 

He’d make the guy pay, Lorenzo just didn’t yet know how - not until he looked out of the window that night. 

Because there he was, so plainly in view with his bright-white attire, the opposite to a shadow of the night. Hanging on to someone’s windowsill, as was expected - the wanted criminal peeked through the window of one of the houses across from Lorenzo’s, arms never faltering despite supporting his whole body weight on just a thin piece of architecture. Well, of course he had broken Lorenzo’s, if he acted like that. The real question was how he hadn’t broken that neighbor’s yet. 

It’s then when Lorenzo realises just who lives in that house - it’s Giulio’s apothecary, and like every other male in the neighbourhood, he knows of the young apprentice the old man housed with open arms. The girl with the boxes of medicine always stole masculine attention when she walked out in the mornings, be it from younger boys or married men, without ever noticing it herself. 

Unsurprisingly, it made Lorenzo even more annoyed. How did that Auditore get whatever he wanted? To walk off unscathed, and to watch the most beautiful girl that corner of Firenze had ever seen? Jealousy seeped in with fervour - what if he actually knew her? If he sneaked regularly into her room without getting seen, if that was the reason why the roofs of the apothecary’s neighbouring houses were unusually more damaged? 

Lorenzo had never thought clearer than when he had the following idea. With an evil smile sneaking onto his features, he had carefully closed his window, planning his visit to the Pazzi palace the next morning. 

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Your day started off weirdly. 

Something pushed you to stay in bed later than you usually did - past sunrise, that was, golden light streaming in as a thick river across the wooden floor of your room. Well, you knew what it had been: your late night restlessness had knocked you out cold and made you sleep in, tangled in your sheets after having dreams of impossible lust with your evasive lover. You didn't even know if to classify him as such, because even though Ezio’s kiss on the roof had felt fervent with hidden passion, he was still missing from Firenze. 

This was a continuing worry as you rushed to get dressed and almost tripped down the stairs, finding Guilio behind the counter of his already open shop. Pestle in hand and a sweet scent wafting through the air, he offers you a smile instead of a reprimand.

“Were you tired?”

“Exhausted,” You lie, offering an apologetic smile as you approach the boxes ready to be filled and delivered. “I’m so sorry, Giulio.”

“No need to apologise,” He waves off your worry, signalling towards some of the products he’d laid out for you. “Either way, it’ll be a short one today, so it’s fine if you start a bit later.”

“Are all these vials to be delivered to Cristoforo?”

“Yes. Remember, he’s setting up his stall near…”

“...La Cattedrale, yes, I remember,” Dashing through the workshop, you pick some of the dustier bottles in some forgotten cabinets. A swab of your thumb over the labels reveals their names hidden under layers of grime. “And these were for the Rosso family, correct?”

“You’re right,” Your mentor seems impressed with your quick thinking, clearly having forgotten the order himself. “Their youngest is down with a strange ailment, bless his heart. I think those might be of good use.”

You make a mental note to bump that delivery to the top of your list, grabbing a few more things before heading out. 

“See you later, Guilio!”

“Take care.”

And so your day officially started, morning sun toasting your skin the second you left the shop with your usual quick step. Neighbours and wandering vendors all greeted as you passed, familiar faces you were never shy to show some kindness to. 

The city buzzed with life early every day. It was what you loved most about it: unlike the countryside, you could still manage to swim through the floods of crowds with places to go to, and still not recognise most of them, no matter how many times you might pass each other every time you took the same paths. Each day brought forth a new adventure, new experiences, places you still had somehow never been in, having to ask locals for directions despite your growing time in Firenze. You loved it all. 

Consumed by positive thoughts, the walk to the Rosso residence seems quite short, as well as the following deliveries across the city. Your day’s short list ends with Cristoforo’s stall near Santa Maria dei Fiori, so you proudly cross the penultimate item off with a flick of your used lead and start making your way towards the famous cathedral. 

By far, the colossal structure was what overtook you the most during your first days in Firenze. Approaching it and seeing it peek over already tall buildings like a sleeping giant dropped in the middle of the city felt almost constricting, a human feat so perfect your poor mind couldn’t even begin to comprehend it. Winding alleys behind the dome reveal its sheer magnitude, a visual effect so appalling it seems like the whole building threatens to fall on top of you.  

Cristoforo’s stall was set up near the cathedral’s main entrance, which was neatly decorated in a mosaic of red, green, and white marble. But you weren’t there to sit and stare at the impressive front like you usually did, even zooming past the glitter of yellow gold from the Baptistery’s doors: your client was already beckoning you to him, and you still had plenty of work waiting for you back in the apothecary. 

“Buongiorno, signorina. Got what I need?”

“Buongiorno, Cristoforo. Sì, take a look.”

The crooked beak of his doctor mask dips into his chest as he peeks into the box you offer, chock-full of his usual order of metallic medicine vials. They’re the same ones most doctors in the city sell, as well as the ones you’d started directly selling to Ezio a while back. 

But, God, why must your mind wander back to him in such a moment? Feelings of yearning flood back into your head, soon blending with the recollection of what you did last night. How your body burned with desire for the ghostly figure, how you’d seen his handsome face drawn under your eyelids when you shut them close, how your fingers had found their way between your legs with a mind of their own…

So is your captivation, that when Cristoforo’s glove merely brushes said fingers, they seem to burn a flaming red, instinctively making you pull the box closer towards you before you accidentally drop it. 

“Are you okay?” The doctor chuckles as you regain consciousness, hands up in a show of peace. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

A loud cough escapes you when you choke on your own words, crimson washing over your whole expression. You hand him the box like it’s on fire. 

“Sì, I’m al- I’m okay. Just… You know, same as always.”

Thankfully, he doesn’t ask any more questions, and the fact that his expression is hidden behind the mask does wonders to quell your embarrassment. He just hands you your usual bag of florins, which seems to weigh the same as always, and offers you a gentle cock of his head. 

“So..?”

“Ciao, Cristoforo,” You manage, failing as you try to channel confidence before walking away.

His goodbye sounds distant as you leave, waving back with a smile to redeem yourself as your mind scrambles to distract itself with anything other than Ezio Auditore: the day ahead, yes, the recipes you had to prepare and bottle once you got back to the apothecary, as well as a promised lesson by Guilio to prepare some ointment for which you’d been waiting on the ingredients to arrive for weeks…

“Mi scusi, signorina.”

… So distracted indeed, that you almost come face-to-metal with a city guard’s ornamented chest plate. 

You’re so caught off guard, you barely manage to take a step back and mumble an apology, looking over the three men who have approached you out of nowhere. The one in the middle - whom you had almost bumped into - seems to be the captain, accompanied by two other soldiers in caps and menacing expressions. 

“Do you need anything, signori?”

“We are looking for someone,” The guard tilts his head down, inspecting you like he was crossing off a checklist in his mind. 

When he utters your name, you freeze up, eyes widening in recognition. “Do you know her?”

You had a slight suspicion of what this was all about, but your mind was too busy trying to figure out how anyone had found out. It had been over a month since you had seen Ezio Auditore. You could try to pass it off like you didn’t know who they were talking about, but you had the impression that the guards knew exactly who you were, and were just using this to tease you - a twisted game of cat and mouse. 

You’d get out of it with dignity. 

“That’s me,” You puff your chest, gaining some of that lost confidence. “What did you want from me?”

Even if you cannot see his face, the guard seems impressed that you gave yourself in so quickly. 

“Is that so?,” He scoffs, “Well, we have trusted reports that you have been seen interacting with a criminal wanted by the city.”

His companion passes him a ripped poster, parchment half-crumpled. The captain practically shoves it in your face. 

“Look familiar?”

A hooded Ezio Auditore stares back at you, the same smirk which haunted you in every corner of that city. 

You take a deep breath in. 

“I have never seen that man in my life.”

The guard doesn’t say anything. You just see his hand grip the paper tighter before nodding an order to his men. 

Immediately, both guards step behind you, and they seize your arms before you can say anything. Your initial reaction is to fight:  trying to fling your hands around, kick them, scream loud enough for the whole square to be alerted of the altercation, but nothing seems to help.

You’re lifted off your feet when you try to stop them by dropping like a dead weight. 

“This is an unwarranted arrest!” You protest, hair quickly slipping out of your do to fall down on your face. “This city is being corrupted from the inside!”

“You can keep screaming that in your cell while we hold you for questioning,” He cuts, as sharp as the blade he flaunts before anyone who dares to intervene. You can only watch the crowd that formed around you when they forcefully turn you to a different direction, pushing you to walk by dragging your feet through the ground. 

The fight you put up doesn’t stop, insulting the guards and making everyone’s heads turn as you’re taken prisoner through one of the busiest streets in Firenze. You know where you’re headed - straight towards Palazzo della Signoria, where you’d learnt Ezio’s family was kept locked up before being executed, just like Giulio had once told you. 

Oh, no. Giulio, Ezio - the thought of them being in danger or never seeing you again brings a tear to your eye, which soon breaks into a waterfall as you’re dragged down winding sets of stairs. None of the guards address your state as you’re pushed harshly into a measly cell, surrounded by stone darkened despite the lack of light inside. 

“You’ll be taken for interrogation soon enough,” The guard says, though you don’t even look at his face while you lay defeated against the wall. “Cut the act and say the truth.”

With that, the metallic door is closed shut, and you’re left to grieve on your own. 

The idea that they could persecute Giulio afterwards churns your insides. Arrest him, close his shop, do him some type of harm; it just pains you to think that the man who had offered you so much might suffer from your irresponsibility. He warned you. He was the first to tell you not to dig too deep, to not ask strange questions, and it finally got you where you so desperately seeked. 

But strangely, the other part of you regretted nothing. You wouldn’t go back in time and refuse treatment to Ezio when he climbed into your room that night. You wouldn’t take back your agreement to partnership. You didn’t regret the kiss on the rooftop, and you didn’t want to forget his memory. It felt painfully greedy to need it all in such a situation, knowing what it might cost you, but you wanted it anyway. 

It wasn’t as if you knew of Ezio’s current location, but you knew the spots he frequented. How he moved through the city. How his lips tasted.

You would never speak. 

You’d take the gallows before doing so. 

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Brick tiles are tinted tangerine as the sun hides under the walls surrounding Monteriggioni. It’s a pretty picture - paired with the peace of that little town, which seemed completely asleep without shops, taverns, or even people wandering the streets, one could probably watch the sunset with nothing but the occasional neighing of horses as background noise.

That was, until Ezio arrived and decided that sundown was one of the best times of day to train himself by sparring and swordfighting against his uncle’s guys. For months now, the tranquility nighttime brought to Monteriggioni had been replaced by the grunting of men and clashing metal, previews of the silent war Ezio was preparing himself for. 

Admittedly, that day had been difficult. Returning to Monteriggioni the night before, with the urgency of some much needed alone time, had left him quite tired the morning after - a mental haze which was promptly replaced by the most feral need a man could ever have. 

It pushed him to train like a madman. Even his usual companions comment on his ferocity, too scared to say anything else to the boss’ nephew, who seemed to have raging thoughts in his mind. He can see the fear in their face as he manages to take down three of them in what was supposed to be a friendly swordfight.  

There’s nothing friendly about the way all three roll on the yellowish dust, eternally thankful for the fact that all training swords had fully bluntened blades. As he helps them get up while mumbling apologies, Ezio cannot stop thinking about his next steps. 

When would he return to Firenze? Soon, but not that same week. He’d wait until the start of the following one to avoid the danger of having guards on high alert. Every day, his ability to sneak around became better, but he could never discard the idea of some sleepy guard having seen him last night as he fled the city.

It was the biggest act of self-restraint he’d ever accomplish, that one. Because, if even God knew something right, it was the fact that Ezio would trade anything to return to you that same night. To tell you what he saw, what he knew he heard, and show you what he could do about it. 

“Well done, Ezio.”

Mario Auditore catches him off guard as he helps the last of the men, who thanks Ezio before defeatedly dusting his hands off.

“Uncle. You saw me fight?”

“I watch you almost every day,” He chuckles, “It’s my job as a mentor.”

The young assassin just nods in silent agreement, a shy smile spreading on his lips as he puts away his sword.

“You’re getting better,” Mario compliments, hands on the railing which surrounds the training ring. “Today though, you seemed fiercer. Is there anything troubling you?”

Unfortunately, the thing which troubled him was far from what he could admit to his uncle. “No, not really.”

“Then, if that is the way you’re learning to fight normally, you’re on a good track, nipote!”

Both men share a laugh as Ezio leaves the ring, suddenly distracted when looking over the ghost town. 

“Actually, I did have something on my mind,” He trails slowly, watching Mario’s reaction. “I was just wondering when it wouldn’t be risky to return to Firenze.”

“Return? Weren’t you there yesterday?”

“Yes,” Ezio watches as his uncle crosses his arms over his chest, a pensive look on his expression. “I still have some pending business.”

“Urgent business?”

Did fucking the apothecary’s apprentice until she couldn’t think anymore count as urgent business?

“Yes.”

“Maybe give it some time, then,” Mario sighs. “A day or two more. Stay hidden until it's time to strike again.”

“It’s what I was thinking of. Thank you, uncle.”

“It’s no problem, boy.”

The quiet re-instilled at the end of the training session is promptly cut short by the clicking of hooves entering the town. Alerted, both men approach the balcony which peers from the villa down to the rest of the houses, watching as a grey horse storms rapidly into the main road. 

“Is that..?”

Their informant was a young boy from Milano named Federico, whom Mario had appointed as a news carrier regarding everything which could affect them happening in Firenze. It was unusual to see him lately - months had passed since the Auditore tragedy already, and things were definitely quieting down. 

However, it seems as if the information Federico brings to them that afternoon is quite important, going up the stairs in sets of two when he sees both men. 

“Signori,” He speaks loudly when he finally reaches the top, out of breath. “Something happened.”

“Breathe, boy, don’t strain yourself,” Mario approaches him to place a hand on his shoulder, concerned with the state he’d arrived in. 

“What is it?” 

Ezio had a bad feeling in his gut, which only worsens at Federico’s terrified look.

“A girl was arrested wrongly today, just in front of the Duomo. They picked her up and took her without reason other than some rumours about… Well, about her having a relationship with Signor Ezio.”

The assassin’s blood runs cold, silent as Mario presses on about the details.

“...She’s the apothecary’s apprentice,” He offers a nervous look at Ezio. “It’s not looking good for her. They’ve had her locked up in the Palazzo della Signoria all day.”

Ezio trusted Federico with keeping his mouth shut - that was why he’d been the only one who he’d casually entrusted with the job of keeping a discreet eye on you while he wasn’t in the city. It also explained why the boy looked as nervous as he did, having galloped to the Auditore villa the second he heard all the details.

But Ezio doesn’t need to hear anything else, and he doesn’t want to wait another second. Both the other men’s voices are tuned out of his hearing when he thinks about you locked in a jail cell, looking out the small, barred window just like his father had on the night Ezio looked for him. Put in danger because of him. 

“Ezio! Where are you going!?”

Sheathing his actual sword instead of the bluntened one with a soft hiss of metal, Ezio looks at his uncle with determination. 

“I’m going to get her out.”

“Get her..? Nipote!” But he’s already going down the stairs, practically flying to get to the horse Federico had left near them. “Who is this lady? Are those rumours true? How..?”

“There’s no time to explain, uncle!” He calls out, redirecting the horse quickly and pulling his hood up. “Just send some men behind me to go to their apothecary, the one closest to the Palazzo itself, to get her mentor out too before they try to get him as leverage. I’ll get her to safety myself.”

“And sneak into the Palazzo while all of Firenze’s guards are on the lookout for you?!”

Ezio can’t even feel the danger - he just sees your face under the moonlight, eyes wide and mouth parted after he kissed you for the first time. 

“I’m not letting them win again.”

With that, the sound of galloping echoes across the town again, quickly disappearing far off into the distance.

“You heard him, boy,” Mario scoffs, nodding for Federico to go look for some backup, which he catches immediately. The senior assassin can only sigh, heading back inside to prepare their villa for guests.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

You’d never seen the city from so high up. 

Your cell was almost on the very top of the tower, overlooking the piazza and city pushing far into the distant fog which loomed overhead. It was squat - nothing but stone walls and a barred window, save for the luxury of a wooden plank hung on the wall to serve as a measly bed. Instead, you just sit by the far end of it, the one which faces directly towards your only portal to freedom, and watch as thin clouds are pushed to reveal the round moon adorning the sky. 

A short interrogation had been carried out earlier, after spending hours in that hole they called a subterranean jail, just to learn the fact that you refused to utter a single word to any of those men. You had no idea who they were - besides the guards, other figures stood before your blurred vision, their restlessness growing as they urged your captors to keep insisting on certain questions. But you didn’t say a thing, and though it earned you several nasty bruises across your body and a spot in L’alberghettino, you were satisfied with your vow to silence. 

Nevertheless, your refusal to even plead for mercy seemed to have convinced them of your involvement with the wanted Auditore, to which you had been sent to the elevated cell ‘in wait of your lover’ - they believed that Ezio would come and try something stupid, to which you had been set up as a mere prop to his distraction; a trap for a wild animal. 

It was the real reason why you were being held captive: to be used as bait. Such a realisation kept you unable of getting some shut-eye, dread haunting you from the four dark corners of that cell. Just like Ezio had been the reason for your downfall, you’d be the reason for his - a true story of star-crossed lovers, they’d called it, before shutting the heavy wooden door behind you with the slide of a metal lock.  

All-consuming, you pray that those thoughts don’t come to fruition, mind buzzing with the idea of Ezio putting himself in danger for the sake of your safety. You hoped he was not that foolish. That he wouldn’t try infiltrating the heavily guarded Palazzo for your sake, proving the hypothesis of those men who wanted nothing but to see him take the gallows. 

A thud distracts you from your overthinking. 

You can only furrow your brows before you hear fast shuffling, metal clashing against metal, and another heavy thump against the door. The relatively silent altercation shoots you up straight from your seat, standing before the entrance with a spooked expression. Pricking up your ears, there’s the distinct sound of something heavy being dragged away, momentary silence, and the jingle of heavy keys. 

The door is being unlocked. It opens slowly, with just a subtle creak. 

It’s him. 

“Ezio!”

It’s not a yell - your voice comes out so pained, so desperate, he feels as if you’ll break when you run to his open arms. The thought breaks him. 

Your lips crash onto his with an urgency which is immediately reciprocated, hidden under the shadow of his hood. He holds you so tenderly, despite your precarious position, not daring to push you away for a second. He wanted this, needed to feel you were okay since the moment he heard the news.

“You came back for me,” It’s the only thing you manage to whisper as you pull away, fingers locked impossibly tight onto his biceps. A strong hand pushes away locks of stray hair from your face as delicately as he can, and you swear you can see the worry in his expression even when it is shadowed by his hood. 

“Did you really think I’d leave you here?”

Distant calls alert your savior, who holds a calloused palm over your mouth before you can say anything. 

“We can’t stay here much longer,” Fairly, you were still in enemy territory, and it was not the most appropriate place for a love confession. You just nod vigorously against his hand and listen carefully, trying to identify whether there were men coming your way or not. 

“You have to follow my every move. Keep up with my pace, be my shadow. We can’t speak. We can’t run. If we leave without being detected, it’ll all be much cleaner.”

When he removes his hand, your lips stay sealed, waiting for him to make the first move. 

“Bene,” He is the first to leave the cell, standing next to the wall as he jokingly invites you to follow him. You think he’s just being chivalrous, until you notice the poking feet he tries to hide with his figure behind the cell door. 

“Don’t worry about him. He’s sleeping.”

You scoff quietly, visibly delighting him when an amused smile spreads on your lips.

Down those same winding stairs you go, now darker than when you’d first been dragged up while barely conscious. Ezio’s footsteps make no sound, his clothes don’t rustle like other fabrics - he’s used to this, leading you out of that prison at a brisker pace than you’d expected. 

He stops at the end of the steps, so suddenly you almost crash into him. Biting your lips at the guilty thought, he barely peeks his head out to the incoming hallway, checking up and down thoroughly. 

When he turns and nods, you know you must continue. Ezio is quick in redirecting you towards a different end of the hall, but you see the silhouette of another guard laying still on the ground. Just how had he made it all the way to the top without being spotted once?

There are more stairs to take, so you placate your thoughts and follow Ezio without uttering a single word. His pace is almost hard to keep up with, having in mind your battered figure from the previous interrogations. But you don’t have to tell him to stop - just as you’re thinking it, Ezio slows down dramatically, raising a finger to his ear while staring back at you.

Footsteps. Someone was coming up the stairs.

Ezio thinks quickly. He stays in the corner and places a quick hand on your chest, gently pushing you against the wall so you blend in with it. You can only focus as he keeps it there, palm strong and spread open over your sternum, holding you with security. They are getting closer. 

The guard isn’t given any time to react.

That same hand that had been holding you quickly meets the guard’s neck in what you think is a punch, until blood starts to spill on the metal of his armour. A gasp escapes you when the man immediately drops to the ground with a loud thump, gushing from the same orifice Ezio’s blade had easily slid out of. You watch as the knife retracts back into the inside of his wrist with a quick movement, like it had never even been there. 

“What the..?”

He grunts, moving the corpse’s legs to the side with ease so you can walk past it. 

“...You shouldn’t have seen that.”

You were not naïve. Talk of what Ezio did spread like wildfire through the city, and though you'd heard the word assassin thrown around time and time again, you’d never seen him actually kill someone so brutally, in front of your eyes.

His hand finds yours again, this time squeezing harder than before. 

“These men took my family from me. They took you, and planned to do the same thing,” His look is intense as he stares deeply into your eyes. “I don’t kill for pleasure. I just know the system is corrupt, so I take justice into my own hands.”

You continue to follow him after that, walking past the corpse and down the stairs once more.

“You do not need to explain yourself,” You whisper. “This is a dangerous situation, I was just shocked.”

“I do not want you to think I am a heartless killer.”

You finally reach the bottom of the stairs. Ezio stops before opening the door, staring back at you in the darkness. 

“You’re anything but heartless to me.”

Your shared look lasts a second, before realising you had to keep moving. 

Down more and more hallways you went, eventually making it out of the building without being detected. Half-crouching, Ezio had rushed you behind a wooden cart, signalling for you to stay low as he checked the perimeter. 

“There’s a horse there,” He mutters to himself, though never losing the hold on your hand. “But there is no way we can reach it. There are no places to hide, and there’s guards everywhere.”

“What if we run?”

Your companion’s head snaps back in a flash, staring at you like you’d said something crazy.

“You cannot be serious.”

“I’m fast enough,” You shrug, amused at his reaction. “Chi non risica non rosica.”

Just as you think he’ll discard your idea, Ezio seems to consider it slowly, staring out into the distance. He checks the way to the horse once, twice and thrice, before turning to you and nodding his head. 

“We’ll run when I say so.”

A rush of adrenaline surges through your body as you position yourself, ready to start running without cramping up from crouching. Focused, Ezio watches the soldiers who parade along the back of the palace, waiting for the perfect moment in which a clear path would be revealed to lead towards your only way out of the city. 

“Now!”

A tug stands you from your position and you immediately make a run for it, dashing down the street with your objective in mind. It all happens so quickly, you’re already halfway to the horse when whistles and yells ring behind you, calls for backup and guards urging each other to run towards the escapees. 

Ezio moves swiftly, like he’d done endless practice runs of that same situation: the second you’ve both caught up to the horse, he turns and effortlessly raises you to sit on the horse, which leaves you almost too flustered to position yourself correctly before he himself mounts the animal. It only takes a surprising few seconds before the sound of galloping hooves echo through the streets of Florence. 

“Faster!” Holding onto Ezio for dear life, you barely manage to glance over your shoulder to realise more guards are catching up to you, each with their own steeds. Arrows fly from above as archers fire from the rooftops, their whistling ringing too close to your ears for comfort.

“We have to lose them first,” Ezio comments, his voice sounding calm overall.

“How?” Is the last thing you manage to utter before Ezio digs into his satchel and throws something at the ground, making a cloud of dust suddenly envelop you. 

Before the itch of the sand can reach your eyes, you shut them close and press your face against his back. You have no idea how, but Ezio is somehow able to see through the cloud and takes a sharp turn left at a crossroads. 

To anyone else trying to escape, Florence’s labyrinthical streets would’ve been a terrible disadvantage. For Ezio, however, his knowledge of the city’s every turn and hidden passage turned that fact into a powerful distraction tool which had gotten him out of many life-or-death situations. Behind you, the guards had moved forwards through the sand, while Ezio had taken a completely alternate pathway. 

He just chuckles as you cough out dust in the back, slowly opening your eyes to see you were riding through a narrow, winding street, finally approaching the outside walls. 

And sure enough, you were out of the city in no time, having long left behind the sounds of soldiers as Ezio made the horse quickly gallop through open fields. 

“You were not lying,” He says suddenly, and you swear you can hear the smile in his expression. “You’re a fast runner.”

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

A long ride takes you to Monteriggioni, half of which you spend half asleep, with your cheek pressed against Ezio’s back. The sound of his breathing and heartbeat were stable, a constant rhythm which lulled you in and out of slumber every time his muscles shifted. He didn’t say a word when he knew you were resting. Only God knew what they’d done to you in that tower, but Ezio did know it must’ve left you beaten. 

The tuscan town is sleepy, more so in the middle of the night. It was eerily quiet, surrounded by buildings with boarded windows which had obviously been left vacant for many years.

“There is no one to fill them,” Ezio had responded when you asked, now riding into the main road with an easy step. “We’ve been trying to change that.”

Atop the highest position in Monteriggioni, you finally saw what Ezio had dubbed as the Auditore Villa. Its upkeep wasn’t the greatest either, but it stood magnificently, with winding stairs and an inviting fountain leading up to the mansion. 

“Welcome,” He dismounts the horse with ease, offering his hands out to help you do the same. “To my hideout.”

It was strange seeing the place you’d once fantasised about, picturing where Ezio would hide for weeks on end away from Firenze. It had never crossed your mind that he did so in a family-owned villa, but nevertheless, Ezio seemed to come from an influential lineage - one you didn’t know much about.

“Piccolina!”

A sudden yell cuts the night when you reach the top of the stairs, coming from a familiar voice: Giulio leaves the house with his arms wide open, beckoning you towards him.

“Giulio!”

Ezio watches you bolt towards your mentor with a smile on his face. Inside you, an overwhelming feeling of relief had spread through your whole chest the second you collapsed into the old man’s hug, tears threatening to fall.

“Giulio. I’m so sorry,” His comforting hand rubbing your back makes you break down against his shoulder, sobbing softly. “I’m really sorry, I did not listen to you and I got involved in something which put you in danger, and I…”

“Calm down, calm down,” Your mentor reassures you, pulling you back to hold your shoulders paternally. “That doesn’t matter anymore. What’s important is that you are safe and well. Signor Auditore told me everything.”

You look through your tears in confusion. Ezio had been with you the whole time. 

“What..?”

“Young love! It leads us to make rash decisions.”

A man had emerged from the mansion wearing a good-natured smile. It crinkled the edge of his eyes, one of which was milky white and crossed over by a thin scar. He looked older than both Ezio and you, but not as old as Giulio, keeping his still dark hair slicked back and his frame wide and tall. 

You hear Ezio groan in embarrassment, sounding closer to his young age than ever before. “Uncle…”

“Nipote! Glad to see you back in one piece,” The man, Ezio’s uncle, approaches him with a fraternal pat on the back. “I’m glad to see you both back, actually.”

You’re the next he greets, holding your hand in between both of his. “I’m Mario Auditore. Welcome to our family’s home. You’ll both be able to stay under our protection until you decide what your next moves will be.”

“Signor Auditore. Thank you for helping us and opening your home to this inconvenience,” You politely shake his hands, slightly bowing your head down in gratitude. “And for helping Giulio while Ezio rescued me. I’ll be forever grateful.”

“Inconvenience?” The man just scoffs, shaking his head. “This house is too big and too empty for guests to ever be a burden. And I’m not the one you should be thanking! Ezio was the one who sent my men after your mentor while he rushed for you the second he heard about your troubles.”

The burning look you turn to give Ezio would have made a weaker man melt. You were planning on personally thanking him later on, but that was something you were not about to disclose.

Mario, however, instantly senses the tension and is quick to act upon it. “It’s horribly late. Ezio, how about you take the lady to her room, while I take care of Giulio?”

The man just nods in agreement, hand falling on the small of your back as he directs you into the mansion. 

Pristine white marble makes up the inside, though the walls seem unusually empty, spare for a small assortment of paintings. You can hear the conversation between Mario and Giulio as they remain on the first floor and Ezio leads you up the stairs, something about how surprised he’d been at the sudden knocking of their men at his apothecary’s door. At least, you knew Giulio had never really been in danger, but that was thanks to none other than Ezio and his quick thinking. God knows what would’ve been of you if you’d survived the night in that tower, or what would’ve been of Giulio if they’d decided to keep torturing you despite you not budging. 

Thankfulness could’ve brought you to tears when Ezio led you into an elegant bedroom, only lit under the soft glow of a few candles. The curtains are drawn shut, their fabric made of the same maroon velvet which lay folded by the end of the canopy bed, revealing the pristine white of the sheets underneath. It was a long shot from the dark hole that was L’alberghettino, with its small window and splinter-ridden wooden plank.

“This is it,” Ezio removes his hood when you enter the room, revealing the strands of dark hair which have fallen out of his ponytail and onto his forehead. You can tell he has lost part of his overbearing confidence, deciding to stand close to the door as he lets you inspect the room. “I am sure you want some time to rest. I’ll…”

“I want you to stay.”

Ezio might be an assassin, but you knew he was also a gentleman. The tension between you two was palpable, but he’d never act upon it unless he knew you for sure wanted it at that moment - and it was a delicate one, given that you’d been kidnapped and tortured for most of the day. 

“I do not want to sleep alone tonight.”

His inhale is slow, but deep, nodding along as he reaches to shut the door with a quiet hand. 

Ezio meets you at the foot of the bed, taking your hands in his. “I was terrified when I learned you were in danger. How did it happen?”

“I was just doing my job, like every other morning, when I got stopped by three guards right beside the cathedral. They told me they… had trusted reports that I’d been seen interacting with you. I got taken despite saying I did not recognise you.”

His dark eyebrows weave in worry as you continue. “I just don’t understand… Why now? We have not seen each other for weeks.”

“It has an explanation.”

Ezio’s sure words stun you for a second, leaving you to cock your head, puzzled. “What do you mean?”

“I was in Firenze last night.”

Blinking quickly, you push away the thought of what you’d done aside. “You were?”

He just nods slowly, his focus on you remaining intense. 

“Why didn’t you… come to see me?”

“I did.”

And suddenly, the memory rushes back like water down a spring: in your immediate haze, you’d seen a flash of white through your window, but you’d simply attributed it to your wishful thinking. It had just become apparent that what you’d seen had been far from a figment of your imagination, as he was implying - and the sole thought makes you want the earth to swallow you whole. 

“Did you..?”

“I saw it all.”

“Ezio!” Embarrassed, you cover your face to hide the flush that spreads over your cheeks, leaning into him. 

“Do not be shy, now,” Carefully, his hold on your wrist removes one of the hands which covers your face. “I also heard what you were saying.”

Your feelings were so unfamiliar that your immediate reaction was none other than awkwardness, but hearing the way Ezio’s tone morphs into something deep and sultry serves to reignite that feeling in your core. It gives you the confidence needed to utter your next words. 

“What was it?”

“My name.”

You swear you feel your stomach turn upside down before Ezio leans down to kiss you, strong arms soon enveloping you as close to him as possible. He isn’t hurried, but there is an urgent passion in the way he almost devours you with his mouth, barely letting you space to breathe. 

“Do it again for me. In front of me,” The words are whispered in your mouth between kisses, which you inhale with a wanting sigh. “Let me undress you and show you what I wanted to do to you last night.”

Only one nod of consent is needed before Ezio picks you up with ease, just to gently throw you back onto the bed. The sight of him towering over you with that look of crazed want on his expression makes you rub your legs together, beckoning him to come closer.

Before you can begin to help him with your clothes, he starts to untie your sleeves, followed by the laced bodice of your gamurra. It was clear that you were not the first he’d ever had to undress, though the same could not be said in your end. The idea of Ezio being more experienced makes you momentarily self-conscious, but the feeling immediately slips away when his head travels under your chemise, kissing your upper thighs before untying your garters. 

The unexpected feeling makes you squirm, giggling when Ezio finally emerges after sliding off your stockings. 

One last layer of thin fabric separates your body from complete bareness, which Ezio is eager to remove himself. And when he does, he stares at you like an unwrapped present, just taking in the full sight of you for a few silent seconds. 

Your lips part, but you do not have time to utter anything before he does so himself.

“You’re the most gorgeous woman I have ever seen, dolcezza.”

Rough fingers hover over the purple marks which grow on your skin, from your legs to your stomach. His ghostly touch caresses your hurt, expression morphing into something furious.

“The men who did this to you will pay,” He assures, and by the way he rubs the bruise on your waist with a tender brush of his thumb, you know you’re right to believe him.

“I should not have left you alone in Firenze.”

“No one could have predicted this, Ezio,” Breath ragged, you cannot look him in the eye as his hand inches upwards to cup your breast. “You mustn’t torture yourself for it.”

“I still should have been there,” His comment is idle, as if he’s not rolling your pebbled nipple under his thumb with devilish intent - to watch you come undone under his simple touch. “I want to make you feel good. To make it up to you.”

And though Ezio is the last person in the world who’d ever had to pay you back in any way, you nod desperately at what he says, lips parted to let out soft and unfamiliar mewls of pleasure. That damn smirk spreads on his lips when he sees just how eager you are, legs squirming under him in anticipation. 

“But let me be a bit bad before that, amore mio,” Suddenly, the warmth of his touch is replaced by a gust of cool when he stands up off of you, and you whine in protest. “I know. But I want to see you touch yourself first. Like you did last night.”

Incorporating yourself on the mattress, you watch as Ezio takes a step back from the bed, single-handedly beginning to undo the belts which hold his gear in place. 

“Show me how eager you are for me. Spread your legs.”

You swear you get a rush of pleasure similar to the one his touch provides when he talks like that, shyly unclasping your thighs to reveal yourself fully. His cape falls to the ground with a muted thud, and you realise just how many layers he’d have to undo before he put his hands on you. 

Ezio mutters a curse at the sight of you before him, realising how this was, if anything, the hardest task of self-restraint he’d ever accomplish. 

“Use your fingers. I want to see how wet you are.”

A sharp inhale rushes into your lungs when your fingers merely brush over your clit, sliding right into the slit you aid in spreading. Ezio’s breath turns as ragged as yours at the sight of your glistening core, aching in desperation to take him in full. 

“All that, and I barely even touched you,” Even in the tensest of moments, his cockiness shines through, a mask for his insatiable feeling of want. 

“Ezio,” His name comes out in a slur, and you swear you can see the twitch in his crotch at the unexpected callout. He watches as you give in to pleasure and start rubbing your fingers against your core, using your own slick to ease the movement. 

“Undress faster. I need you.”

“Fuck,” Two could play the talking game, and by the sound of his rushed mutter and the way his pace picks up, you know you have good stakes in it. He’s mesmerized at the way your sighs turn into moans, how your legs sensually shift up and down, sliding against the sheets in your search for that high. How the two fingers soon become three and four, now shamelessly teasing that bundle of nerves in charge of giving you pleasure. 

“Only two,” Ezio warns, now finally down to his loose shirt and pants. “Do not be greedy.”

“Hurry up, then,” You complain, daring enough to tease him with your words as you continue with your relentless pace. Back arching off the mattress, you let another dramatic moan fall through your lips when he removes his shirt, revealing part of what you’d spent days and nights fantasising about. 

It’s apparent he spends his days training and climbing through the city. You’d always thought the physique of men in the sculptures which adorned the Florentine streets was something divine and unattainable, but it was clear that Ezio was an exception to the rule. If you were to lean in and touch his abdomen, you’d expect to feel cool marble, not the warmth of his olive skin - every muscle in his body is defined, especially those of his arms and back, which bulge when he flexes them to remove his sleeves. You’re so smitten at the sight of him, that you almost forget about the fact that you’re pleasuring yourself in front of him, which he uses to his own advantage. 

“Is this how you want to act?” His tone is more playful than demanding, but it still sends a rush of adrenaline down your spine. Ezio crawls onto the bed, but doesn't get on top of you - instead, he quickly seizes your thighs and easily drags you towards him, to which you let out a surprised yelp. 

It makes him chuckle, hooking the back of your knees on his shoulders. You can’t help but flush under his gaze, seeing how his hungry look takes you in one last time before allowing himself to touch you. 

“Ora tocca a me.”

You don’t think you’ve ever felt something similar to the anticipation stirring in your stomach as Ezio dips down, pressing kisses and suckling skin around the inside of your thighs as he makes his way to your cunt. A wet lick of his tongue laps through your whole slit just to start, and the sensation immediately makes you tighten your legs around his head. 

This seems to amuse him, which in turn makes you moan louder, feeling the vibration of his chuckle ring through your body as he sucks on your bundle of nerves. Your mind had never even crossed this possibility, but it feels overwhelmingly good to have Ezio feast between your thighs. 

You settle into the feeling slowly, beginning to rock your hips in tandem as he helps your movements with the hands holding onto them. You don’t know what you prefer - if when he settles his lips on your clit, or when his tongue travels lower and teasingly dips deeper into you, letting you rub yourself against the arch of his nose. Either way, your mental debate is crushed when his tongue settles back higher and a finger emerges out of nowhere, gathering up your own slick. 

Only once had you ever dared to touch yourself, and even then, you hadn’t tried to push your fingers much deeper than just the surface. But now, Ezio was in control, and his dark eyes search your expression for discomfort as he starts to dip just one finger inside of you. 

It was a strange sensation, that of feeling something inside you, especially Ezio’s fingers: they were much different than yours, rough from the constant friction of climbing and weapon-wielding, while also considerably thicker. But he makes it work, curling his touch to reach a spot inside you which earns him the loudest call of his name and a hair pull. 

Your other hand falls on your mouth, mortified from embarrassment, but Ezio is fast to remove it. 

“I want to hear you.”

“The whole villa will!”

“I don’t care.”

He’s cracked the code to make you come undone, breathing quickening at a much faster rate than earlier. You can see what you’d only catched a glimpse of earlier by yourself, approaching you at a hurried pace, but Ezio sees it too: His lips and finger leave you and you feel like you crash back onto the mattress, looking down in despair. 

“You cannot come yet,” He denies, leaving his spot between your thighs before leaning over you. “I have to make sure you’ll be able to take me.”

Your cheek grows wet from his kisses and your own residue, which is still staining his chin. “I can do it.”

“Show me, then,” His voice seemed to have dipped an octave lower, now spoken directly into the shell of your ear. “With two fingers.”

Blinking quickly, you can only utter a huff at the digits which position themselves before your entrance before urgently nodding. 

It’s a more uncomfortable feeling than just one, but you’re distracted by Ezio’s mouth yet again. You can taste yourself on his tongue when he dips it between your lips, sloppily making out with you as his fingers finally bottom out. A few seconds are granted for you to settle into the feeling before he starts slowly pumping them in and out, pace measured but consistent, and the discomfort washes away to give path to pleasure. 

When he notices, you break under him, as Ezio picks up the rhythm to a wild one - you bite his lip in your attempt to muffle your sounds, which only seems to rile him up further. 

“Since you thought you could ignore what I say to make yourself come,” He teases you devilishly, “Let’s see how close we can get you without letting it happen.”

His tortuous pace and evil condition has you uttering a string of curses and pleas to continue which mingle with his name, all of which seem to harden the bulge that presses into your lower stomach. In the stir of the moment, you reach down and grab it into a handful, which makes his hips stutter and head fall into the crook of your neck with a huff. 

But Ezio is quick to counter your response, as he reaches to seize that hand with his only free one while beginning to suck at the skin between your neck and your shoulder. Your giggle had soon turned into a sigh, knowing for a fact that you’d have yet another purple mark on you the following morning. 

His multitasking is clearly working, because you see yourself almost reaching to touch the height of your orgasm before Ezio’s fingers plunge out of you with a slick noise, and you’re left denied for a third time that night. 

Frustration almost makes you want to cry, and your lover has noticed that. “Mi dispiace, dolcezza. I swear, I won’t torture you any longer,” Despite all of his teasing, his smile is as warm as ever, and you can’t help but returning it before grabbing his jaw and pulling him into another kiss. 

Before he reaches to undo his pants, he raises the fingers he’d had inside you and suddenly puts their tips into his mouth. 

“You taste as sweet as you look.”

“Ezio!” A loud laugh rips from the depths of your chest as you smack his bicep, watching him smile slyly. 

“See it yourself,” He retorts, offering both of his fingers by placing them in front of your mouth. You only raise a playful brow and stick your tongue out. 

It’s slightly salty, but neutral, though you’re not focusing on the flavor at all - you just watch how Ezio’s look turns from endearing to spellbound as you suck and lick on his fingers, circling your tongue around them to make sure they’re perfectly clean. It only lasts a few seconds before he pulls them out just to kiss you again, even more pent-up than before. 

You can feel his hands working between your bodies as he undoes his pants, stepping back from you as he finally goes to remove them. Involuntarily, your tongue dips out to wet your lips when his cock finally springs free - it’s thick, and large enough to leave an impression, if your eyes blowing wide open serve as any indication. Now you understood why he was so hell-bent on widening you up. 

“You will break me in half.”

“That is what I have been dreaming about doing,” His sly retort makes you blush, as you see the ceiling above you disappear once more behind his bulky shoulders. 

You stare down between your bodies while Ezio positions himself, greedily sliding his dick up and down your folds. The feeling makes you shudder, bracing onto him when just the tip begins to prod into your entrance. 

“We’ll take it slow,” He reassures, kissing your cheek and earlobe as his hips start to gradually move into yours. 

Once again, the start is a pain, but the way your breath falters and your hails dig into his shoulders serves as a guide to how much he could keep inching forwards. Eventually, his tip finds your bottom, and you both let a shuddery sigh of relief before daring to move once more.

It’s a whole different feeling - neither yours or Ezio’s fingers could ever compete with how his cock fills you completely, leaving no gap unattended. It’s a perfect fit, and by the way Ezio mutters a curse into your ear, he seems to have noticed the same thing. 

But then, he starts moving, and any painful stretch quickly vanishes to give foot to real, shared pleasure. Ezio knows how to keep and build his paces in a constant manner, and as he does, the pitch of your moans keeps increasing, hands tangling into whatever you can find - whether that be the now undone bedsheets, or his tied-up hair, which you purposefully tug. 

This makes Ezio utter a growl, which is more of a warning sign to you as his next thrust completely knocks the wind out of you. From then on, his speed doubles, and you find yourself arching your back up and off the mattress, completely lost in the pleasure. 

You chant his name like a bible hymn, once for every single time your mind has wandered back to him in the past few weeks. Once for every night he’d passed away from you, which could’ve been spent doing this instead. 

“You feel so fucking good,” And it’s like he’s reading your mind in that moment, because his hand snakes under your back to bring you impossibly closer. “We should have done this sooner.”

He seems amused at the way you cannot articulate a sentence, only nodding in between moans. One final, deep kiss is planted on your lips before Ezio slips out and turns your body over in a swift motion, leaving you to suddenly lay on your stomach. 

Uninterested in teasing you any longer, his strong hands anchor themselves on your lower stomach and lift your rear higher, aiming to facilitate his entrance. And when he does so, you swear you can see stars, because Ezio had somehow managed to fit himself even deeper and hadn’t given you a moment to assimilate it. 

Long gone was your previous concern of not being heard, unabashedly asking for more and more as Ezio’s pounding made the bedframe hit the wall and the canopy swing to the rhythm. You were sure you hadn’t just been heard by those sleeping in the villa, but by the whole of Monteriggioni, surely disturbing the peace of their early morning. 

Your grip on the bedsheets makes your knuckles whiten, wondering just how high Ezio’s stamina could possibly be as you glance back over your shoulder. The sight elicits a moan in itself - his skin, just like yours, was covered in a sheen that made his biceps and pectorals glow under the candlelight.

“Don’t look at me like that,” It’s something between a whine and a groan, which pulls him down to lay atop your back in search of your lips. His rhythm doesn’t falter, even in such an intimate position - your arched back perfectly fits his hardened abdomen, bodies melting into one. 

Lips trace a messy pattern across the skin of your neck and back, and just then, you feel it again, this time stronger than ever - a wild orgasm rips through your body as Ezio holds you close to him, blurring your vision for a couple of seconds. 

You’re out of breath. Never in your simple life had you thought that the human body was capable of experiencing such pleasures, but you were more than glad that none other than Ezio Auditore had been the one responsible for teasing them out of you. However, as you regain your senses and come down to your physical body, you feel it again: Ezio’s cock keeps pounding into you, and it shows no signs of stopping. 

Your sounds of pleasure soon turn into cries of it, a feeling so raw that you have to claw into the pillow before you just to get a grip of something.

“It’s too much,” You beg, feeling tears begin to well at the intense feeling.

“I know,” Ezio’s tone is comforting, pressing a small kiss to the crystalline drop that slides down your cheek. “But you can take it from me. I know you have one more in you, amore.”

When a sneaky pair of fingers manage to snake their way onto your clit, your head is thrown back in pleasure, too overwhelmed at every sensation: Ezio’s kisses and whispered praise, his skillful digits, and the way he keeps battering your hips into the mattress. All of it, combined with the fact that every nerve in your body seemed to be raw, manages to break the coil in your stomach for a second time, just moments after the other.

“Cazzo, you’re too fucking tight,” Your stacked orgasm had possibly tightened every muscle in your body, as the sensation inside you finally manages to snap Ezio’s pace and break his words. His forehead rests against you as you ride your wave, thrusts soon becoming quicker and sloppier. 

“Inside me,” You moan, only able to muster the strength for the two words which make Ezio come completely undone. 

One last, powerful thrust: it’s all you need to moan in tandem as your insides finally see themselves completely filled. Ezio’s groans are music to your ears as he empties himself inside you completely, finally letting his body fall over yours with a thump.

His weight would be crushing in any other circumstance, but now it feels comforting, grounding - letting your eyes close shut, you revel in his warmth until your breathing is synced, remaining in that comfortable silence.

It’s only broken by Ezio’s kiss to your lower neck, and the obscene sound of his cock being pulled out from you.

“We will clean up soon,” He promises, aiding in turning your body around so he can see the glow in your expression. “Are you okay?”

But you can only mutter a faint yes, which makes him smile as he brings you closer towards him. If anything, this was even more intimate than having him fuck you: his arms tangled around you and his breath on your warm skin, whispering sweet words while you felt his seed slowly spilling out of you.

“I can prepare a bath for us. Get ready for round two.”

You groan at his joke, making him utter a deep chuckle. “Does your stamina ever run out?!”

“Not when you’re nearby,” His tone is hungry again, wanting more as he teases your earlobe with his teeth. “We have a lot of time to make up for, no?”

“We do,” You laugh, head falling against his forehead. “But we have got all the time in the world now, haven't we?”

For some reason, your words make him stand straighter.

“You plan on staying?”

You can only look at him in confusion, before embarrassment suddenly overtakes you. Have you misunderstood all of it? Did he not want you there?

“I- I know you’re a busy man,” Hurried, you also fixed your position, worried eyes staring into his. “But nothing would make me happier than to stay with you, through whatever you have to do. That is, if you do want my company.”

He seems to notice his mistake quickly when your words come out meekly, a comforting hand raising to cup your face. “Of course I want it. There is nothing in the world I would want more,” Ezio sighs, clearly in a mental struggle. “But it worries me.”

“What does?”

“Putting you in this position,” He confesses it like a secret, voice low. “Life with me won’t be easy. It isn’t safe. And I would curse myself for eternity if something ever happened to you because of me.”

Reality dawns on you like a bucket of cold water: Ezio was scared. Tonight had been a preview of what could happen if you chose to stand by his side, and it had terrified him. You could see it in the way he looked at you like you might break, or vanish into thin air if he didn’t have a hand on you every second. He just needed some reassurance. 

“Ezio,” You hold his hand over your face, smiling softly. “I’d rather live a life of danger, than live a life without you.”

Your words seem to knock the wind out of him. “You cannot mean it…”

“I do,” You suddenly lean forwards, hovering right over his face. “Besides. If anything, choosing a beating over giving you away surely shows you that I am serious with my words.”

“Don’t remind me,” He groans guiltily, hands clasping your waist as you move to straddle him. 

“I mean it,” You’ll keep insisting until he breaks. “I mean it because love you, Ezio.”

Suddenly, it’s as if the silence in the room became denser than the air itself. The words had slipped out, and even though they came from a sincere place in your heart, you did not want to suddenly scare him by being too direct.

“Ezio, I…”

“I love you too.”

You both stare at each other with wide eyes, though it doesn’t take long before you dip in to kiss him deeply again. He nods as you repeat it over and over against his lips, and you know it’s true - the feeling had been bubbling in your chest for weeks on end, but only now had you realized that it was real, and it stemmed deep enough that you’d continue to put your life on the line for him it the situation called for it. You wanted a life with him. You were sure of it. 

He’d never imagined your reunion would be like that. 

Eddie would be lying if he said he never thought about it before, how seeing your face again would affect him. Deep inside him, he’d always hoped you’d bump into each other one day at the supermarket, that you’d still remember him but somehow had forgotten what happened between you. That he’d be able to get you back. 

But with every year that passed, his teenage dream saw itself crushed under the weight of his realization that you were truly, utterly done with him. That he’d hurt you past the point of fixing, and you had decided to build your adult life as far away from him as possible. 

Still, there was always a small glimmer of hope within him, sparked back to life whenever something reminded him of you - which wasn’t a strange occurrence. He still remembered how it had almost gotten extinguished when he found out what you were currently up to. You’d reached for the stars and managed to dance with them - a stark opposite to the turnout his life had ended up having. Surely, there was no way he even held a tiny corner of your memory with all of the successes coming your way, and it was officially impossible that you’d both mindlessly walk into the same store one unassuming afternoon. 

That was, until the current turn of events brought you back to Hawkins. 

The tinkling bell above his head alerts the florist of her new customer, who she greets with a cheery grin. Eddie had never bought flowers from an actual shop: he immediately felt out of place, alternative style clashing with the colorful spread and sweet smells surrounding him. On the very spare occasions where he’d had to make that purchase, a number of times he could count in one hand, he’d just bought some off a grocery store and ripped the price tag off without much care.

But this felt different. Heavier. He had to express the sorrow he felt in his heart appropriately, which had been multiplied by the grim situation you found yourself in. After turning back and forth in his bed that night, he'd decided that cheap flowers just would not cut it - so, making use of an early lunch shift at the record store, Eddie had pocketed what he’d scraped from the bottom of the piggy bank and taken the road to a nearby town. 

He’d heard about that shop opening not long ago, but he’d never expected it to be such a big establishment. Wooden shelves line up into aisles which fill the space with clutter, housing from gardening supplies to premade bouquets of the most colorful variety. 

“Good afternoon,” The girl behind the counter calls for Eddie's attention before he can move any further, still smiling at him while snapping irregular stems off a freshly-made bouquet. “Can I help you with anything?”

Caught by surprise, he stutters slightly, unusually awkward. “Yes, uh… I’m looking for some flowers for a funeral. Dunno if there’s a specific type, or…”

“Oh, no,” She looks unusually shocked at the news, or at least that's what it seems like to Eddie. Were funeral goers not amongst the usual clientele for a flower shop? 

“I am so sorry to hear that,” Clasping one hand over the other, she leans forwards on the counter, peeking her head out towards the shelves. “Just in the last aisle there, you can find most of our pre-made bouquets and wreaths catered towards funeral services. If none seem right, you can always come back here and have one personalized with your own choices. Our deliveries are guaranteed in less than 24 hours.”

“Thanks. I'll have it in mind,” Eddie can't help but let out a huff at the idea of how much a personalized bouquet could cost him, making his way down to the last hall.

Walking between heaps of blooming flowers feels slightly constricting, a sure nightmare for someone with pollen allergies. Overwhelmed by the smells, Eddie takes in the selection at the funeral section. It sure is a grim-looking aisle compared to the others: the sight of certain flowers is immediately associated with the tributes placed over a casket, or the wreaths positioned under a memorial photo. A single lonely shopper stands by the end of the hall, hooded up and idly staring at an overflowing bouquet. The picture doesn't help to settle Eddie's nerves.

To him, the whole selection looked beautiful, carefully arranged by colors - he’s unsure on whether he should take the biggest and most expensive array, or choose something quaint and thoughtful. Had you ever mentioned a favorite flower? Yes, but maybe, having those in a bouquet meant to be an offering for your mother’s funeral was a bit distasteful. Or was it? 

Eddie pushes his hair back and out of his face, grumbling when he realizes he forgot his hair tie on the bathroom counter. Great. Slowly scanning the flowers down the aisle, he stops by the middle, leaning into a particularly massive bouquet of overflowing lilies, carnations, and roses, all in a pristine white tone. 

A tag hangs from one of the flowers, with a cursive text Eddie has to tilt his head to read. It talks about the meaning of each type: lilies to represent the soul, carnations for innocence, roses for love - all in the color of peace and purity, which made it a perfect choice in Eddie’s eyes. Appropriate for the setting, and hopefully, helping to convey a hidden message. 

Bracing for the surely astronomic price tag, he goes to turn the small cardboard cutout around, but another hand beats him to it: Eddie’s palm almost encases the delicate fingers which hold onto the label, a showcase of carefully manicured nails.

“Oh- Sorry,” Embarrassed, Eddie signals for the stranger to have a look first, stepping back without realizing who he was talking to. “I didn’t see…”

“Eddie?”

Imagine his shock when he finally scrutinises the stranger properly, past the dark hood over her head and the fake prescription glasses sitting on the tip of her nose. Eddie also exclaims her name back like a question, nerves immediately catching up to him.

“What’re you doing here?”

The words leave his mouth before he can process them, wanting to slap himself in the face at your dead-panned look. 

“I think it’s kind of obvious,” You glance around at the funeral flowers, raising a perfectly plucked brow at him. “I think I should be the one asking that question, honestly.”

Could the Earth just swallow him whole already?

“Ah- yeah. Right,” He blinks quickly, mind rushing to figure out what he should do. Tell the truth, or lie again? “... I was just thinking about getting flowers for tomorrow, too. As a gift.”

You take in a short inhale, nodding slowly. “You’re coming to the funeral?”

It doesn’t feel malicious, but Eddie senses a weird tone - did you not want him there, or had you thought he was not going to show up?

“Yeah. I, uh, your mom…”

“I get it,” Thumb and index smooth over your temple, shaking your head in apology. “You were at the wake, too. It was a stupid question.”

“It wasn’t.”

“Eddie,” Your sad sigh worries him. It seems like you’re ready to leave his vicinity, which serves to make a dent in his heart. “I just- I’ve been thinking about everything I said the other day, and I just want to say that I’m sorry. I was a bit harsh.”

“Hey,” Concern immediately rises inside him at the sight of your upset expression, just like it used to do back then. “You… I made a mistake. You were right to be annoyed.”

“I just don’t think it was okay to blow up like that, especially in the place I did,” You sigh, instinctively pulling your hood downwards like an angsty teenager. Eddie Munson, of all people, was being more mature about this than you, so you might as well have been acting like one for longer. “It’s just that coming back to Hawkins has resurfaced a lot of the feelings I forgot I had. This town is stuck in time for me, when it’s clear that everyone else has moved on.”

For no apparent reason, the end of your sentence seems slightly cutting, but Eddie has no time to think about that. 

“Let me buy you these.”

His sudden cut makes you raise a brow in confusion, which soon raises even higher when you see him begin to grab the large arrangement of white flowers out of its shelf. 

“Eddie, you don’t have to do that.”

“Yes, I do.”

“No,” He only freezes when your hand clasps onto his bicep, head snapping at your touch. You realize merely a second later, and retrieve it like his clothes are scalding hot. “Eddie, those are expensive. You really don’t need to.”

“Your mother was also important to me.” 

Eddie’s tone wavers into an emotional territory when he utters those words, which makes your heart break even further. “I want to make it right with you. Start over. Show you I care. It’s not about the money. It’s like, some sort of peace offering.”

You cannot help it, but Eddie’s reasoning serves to tease a hint of a genuine smile from you. It’s impossible to deny. 

“Alright, then.”

The narrow hallway’s walls are brushed past by the flowers as you both make your way towards the register, where the clerk directs a bewildered look to the two of you. It wasn’t unusual that you’d both be attending the same funeral, but clearly, that had not crossed her mind before. 

Even after buying the arrangement and declaring it your gift, Eddie insists on carrying it all the way to your car and positioning it inside as best as he could. 

“A Cadillac isn’t exactly ideal to carry anything,” He huffs, watching how the massive arrangement pokes from above the exposed seats. “You’ll have to hope no flowers go flying when you start driving.”

“Or close the top off.”

“That, too.”

Sitting against the door of the car, you let a giggle escape you, which sounds like music to Eddie’s ears. Not only did it seem like you’d made some progress together, but you were also laughing in conversation with him. It felt like he’d been dreaming about that moment for more than half a decade now. 

“I want to take you out for coffee.”

… And his excitement had clearly made him delusional, because he was sure he had just crossed a line again. 

Your smile vanishes as fast as it had arrived, looking at him in shock. “What?”

“I… Sorry. I know you might still hate me, but I would like to have some time with you so we could talk about everything. Like we used to do.”

Though he’d never been a master at deciphering emotions, there had been a time when Eddie could just look at you and know what you were feeling. It stings him now that he watches your face morph through seven of them, and he seems unable to recognise a single one of them. 

You’d stared down at your shoes for a few seconds before looking back up at him. “Okay. Like old times.”

He isn’t sure why you feel the need to remind him, but he just nods, satisfied with the response. 

“How about tomorrow morning? Early pickup, Benny’s Burgers?”

“...It definitely has been a long time since I ate something hearty for breakfast.”

“Then it’s decided,” Eddie looks exalted. “That way, you can also have some calm before the service in the afternoon. I’ll be there too.”

“Sounds good,” Though you look sad, you manage to utter a small smile his way. “Thank you, Eds.”

His heart jumpstarts into a faster rhythm when you utter that nickname for the first time in years, leaving him awestruck as you get into your car. Eddie just stands there, a dumb smile plastered on his face as he watches you drive away. He follows the vehicle out of the lot with his head, turning around while shyly rubbing his neck. He’d finally made it right.

End of the Summer, 1981 

Despite the fact that September creeped right around the corner, the temperature in Hawkins had not lowered a single degree. Evidence of it was Eddie’s overworked AC unit, which hung from the window as it leaked water all over his bedroom floor. 

Wayne’s trailer only had one room, which he’d insisted his nephew take the second he’d been dropped off at his home. For the first few months, it had remained sterile, as pristine as his uncle had left it - the boy had been much too shy to make it his own, besides the fact that he’d had no real interests to proudly display after he got taken from his father.

But that had been the moment Eddie’s life had truly started over, and with it came a flurry of good memories - all of which had your face mingled between them. 

You had marked the night you both discovered D&D as Eddie’s shifting point. The year that came after saw a more outgoing version of him day after day, stirred on by the good people who now surrounded him in his life and him finding joy in simple things such as games or music. You and Eddie had spent the whole winter boxing yourselves in your rooms, making up stories and playing a version of Dungeons and Dragons which only included the both of you. Eddie loved that game, and spent every class obsessing over writing new campaigns and briefing you on the character ideas he came up with. 

Many other activities brought you two together, but what you had discovered during a February weekend was surely the obsession to end all others. 

Some record store had recently opened in town, and you and Eddie had been meaning to check it out for the longest time. A particularly boring, snowy Saturday had been your queue to wrap yourselves in the thickest clothes you owned and cycle all the way down to central Hawkins, where the Rollin’ Records logo greeted you with the buzzing of halogen lights. 

The inside was comfortingly warm, half-heartedly greeted by a teenager who didn’t even look away from her magazine when the two of you waddled in through the door. It didn’t really matter, because both of you let out a gasp at the sheer size of that store, all full to the brim with what seemed like millions of physical music pieces. They hung up on the wall and made up piles across the display tables and racks, from cassettes to vinyls, citing every possible artist you could’ve ever imagined. 

Both you and Eddie were too broke to afford a Walkman in the middle of the year, and right about that moment, you chastised yourself for not having asked for one last Christmas. What you two had gotten, however, was some pay from each of your guardians so that you’d have extra money to spend on stuff, which you’d pocketed before leaving to the store. Besides, Eddie had been tinkering with a boombox Wayne had bought back in the early 70’s, which he insisted he could fix in a second when he got a tape to finally listen to. After what he’d done with your bike, you did not doubt the boy, and had agreed to each buying one album of your liking to take home and listen to. 

Mindlessly, you’d strolled up and down the halls for what could’ve easily been more than an hour, checking out every single one of the albums on display. Even the clerk had finally acknowledged you at some point, asking if you were going to buy anything or just go through the inventory for her. You’d have taken at least 50 cassettes of your liking, all including songs you loved, but had finally narrowed it down to one: Dynasty by KISS. I Was Made For Lovin’ You was always guaranteed to make you scream along to the lyrics, and you just loved the funky Dirty Living whenever it came on the radio. Besides, KISS’ painted faces on the cover had made you laugh when you picked the tape up. It was decided. 

Eddie, however, was not having as easy of a time to choose as you had. You approached him at the Heavy Metal section while waving the KISS tape around, siding up to him while he stared at the selection in complete absorption. 

“Heavy Metal?” You lightly poked his ribs with your elbow, giving him a teasing smirk. “I didn’t take you for a headbanger, Eds.”

“I’ve always liked the style,” He points towards a poster depicting Van Halen’s 1979 World Tour, letting out a small smile. “No one in the world can ever look cooler than a rockstar.”

He wasn’t wrong, but the idea tickles something in you. “Does that mean you’d like to grow out the metalhead hair?”

Shyly, Eddie rubs his hand over his curls. They’d grown out beautifully dark and shiny, perfect coils which fell over his forehead like chocolate snail shells. 

“And what if I do?  Are you making fun of me?”

“No!” Your strong negative reaction almost startles him a bit, to which you back down with an awkward smile. The image you’d gotten of Eddie as a rockstar in your head had been nothing to make fun of. “I… I honestly think it would suit you.”

His eyes light up momentarily, like you’ve just given him the world’s best compliment. “Do you really?”

“Yeah.”

He can only process it for a few seconds before shaking his head out of his mental haze. “Uhh, yeah. Okay, I really need to pick this tape now.”

But instead of returning to the job, your friend turns to look at you, eyes almost pleading. “Since I can’t choose, you should be the one to do it.”

“What?”

“Come on, help me out here,” Eddie gets closer to you, lowering his voice so your conversation is just out of the clerk’s earshot. “That girl has been looking weirdly at us for the past fifteen minutes. She’ll kick us out soon if we don’t buy something.”

He isn’t wrong: the Rollin’ Records employee looks completely fed up with waiting for her only customers to leave the place, so you turn towards the rows of cassettes and take a step before Eddie. 

The selection is just too wide: Iron Maiden, Mötorhead, Scorpions, Rush; their covers all stare back at you in their varying degrees of weirdness, waiting to get picked. You were starting to get sucked into the infinite loop Eddie had been trapped in, and knew that you’d never be able to just choose one while they were all presented in front of you like that. 

So, your solution? Closing your eyes. 

You shut your eyelids with decision and ghost your fingers over the cassette tapes, stopping whenever you feel like it. Ignoring Eddie’s questioning words, the winner is fished out of the bunch, opening your eyes to a simple cover.

It's a motion-blurred picture of a man, glowing pink while surrounded by the darkness of a forest. He raises a sword and a shield like he is lunging into an attack. 

“...Black Sabbath.”

You hand Eddie the Paranoid tape, content with your decision. You’d definitely heard about them before, but it was an old album - your father had mentioned that band once or twice, for sure. It somehow felt like the right choice for Eddie, who stares down at the tape curiously. 

“Trust me. My intuition never fails,” Humming contentedly, you take the lead as you walk towards the register, followed closely by your friend. 

“We’ll see how good your intuition really is when we get back to the trailer.”

Since then, the rest was history. Black Sabbath had kickstarted what became one of Eddie’s first loves, right after D&D: his obsession with heavy metal. From buying every single one of their albums to covering his room walls with posters, that first Black Sabbath tape had been the start of the metal thunderstorm which would come during the following months. Many more bands were added to his rapidly growing collection of music, and you saw first-hand how his style slowly started to morph into that of his favorite artists. 

The summer buzzcut was probably the last time Eddie seriously cut his hair: since then, he’d forced himself to learn how to take good care of it, afraid of ever having to lose it again. When the summer finally rolled back around, he could tie his curls into a small ponytail by the base of his head, and had shyly decided to ask you and your mother about what hair products he should be using to keep it nice. 

You’d insisted that he’d have to cut it to style it and keep his ends healthy, but Eddie refused going to a barbershop again in fear that they’d cut it too short and undo his progress. That only meant one thing, being that you were the person Eddie trusted most with his artistic visions: at the very start of June, you’d sat him down in the middle of his living room with wet hair and a towel placed around his shoulders, snapping locks and ends off while he dramatically cried out that you were cutting it way too short. In reality, he’d loved it: the back growth was intact, and he could finally see something through the bangs you’d cut in the front. 

“You’re gonna be my personal hairdresser for the rest of my life,” He’d teased you, “I hope you’re up for the job.”

However, the hair transformation wasn’t the only change Eddie had decided to implement in his life in his pursuit of making it more metal. There was one thing, that one vital piece of the puzzle he was desperately trying to place down: he didn’t know how to play any instruments. 

For his birthday, you’d decided to commemorate the tape which had started it all and had spent weeks running around Hawkins in search of anything Black Sabbath related. You didn’t want posters or merchandise - Eddie was determined on getting it all himself - you wanted something truly special and hard to find. From the Family Video to thrift store bins and knocking on people’s doors, you did not stop until you got what you wanted: an old british man living around the outskirts of town had sold you a VHS containing a performance of Paranoid that Black Sabbath had done in 1970, in a TV show called Top of the Pops. It had cost you a couple months’ pay, but even if you’d gotten scammed, seeing Eddie’s reaction to it had been more than worth it. 

That video went top 1 in the Munson household charts, as Eddie played it in the background during every second he spent at home. No matter what you were doing: having dinner, playing D&D, doing homework, or just hanging out; Ozzy could always be heard repeating the same lyrics, which ended up getting drilled into your skull. 

Eddie had completely memorised the video - from the switching camera angles to the way Tony Iommi and Geezer Butler handled the guitar and bass like they were magic. His next idea had been born precisely from that. 

“I have to learn electric guitar.”

Which, of course, had led to the question of where he’d even find a guitar to practice with, which he had covered: he would simply work his ass off all summer, to buy a beautiful model he’d been drooling over for ages. He’d shown it to you a million times before - with jagged and pointy edges, the guitar he wanted was a B.C. Rich Warlock NJ Series in the special edition crackled red paint, which you thought looked absolutely rad. 

From the second he’d told you his plan, you’d agreed to it. Just like with everything else happening in your life since you met him, you’d do this together: Eddie would work and save up for his guitar, and you’d be his moral support and get the job alongside him so you’d also have some extra cash to spare. 

A whole summer of scooping ice cream and cleaning cars had passed, work made surprisingly pleasant because of the fact that you were doing it alongside your favorite person in the world. It did not mean, however, that the both of you hadn’t ended those three months in absolute shambles: if anything, the picture of you laying on Eddie’s bed in a starfish position while he lined up dollar bills on the floor was more than enough evidence of it. 

The heat must’ve been bringing the last months’ memories to the surface, because your mind can’t help but wonder while you focus on the thin stream of cool air which dances over your face. Some Judas Priest played in the background while Eddie counted under his breath, both sounds you’d completely tuned out to listen to the AC whirring. Maybe, if you concentrated enough on it, you’d make the damn thing spin faster using telekinesis. 

“It’s not enough.”

That, however, had been enough to send you straight up and off the bed, leaning over the mattress to find Eddie’s big brown eyes staring back up at you. The sad twinge in them makes you want to cry. 

“I’m short of $200. Goddamn it, I knew we should’ve also spent Sundays car cleaning.”

“Come on, Eddie, that would’ve been too much. Working every single day of the week during summer break doesn’t make it much of a break at all,” You raise a brow, scanning over the crumpled cash. 

Besides, your Sundays that summer had been spent doing something else. Apart from the guitar thing, you'd both had the idea to cover the town in posters advertising your very own Dungeons and Dragons club, which Eddie had dubbed The Hellfire Club. Hoping it would attract the much needed rest of players for your ambitious campaigns, what Eddie had been hoping would be a crowd of people had only ended up being a quartet of thirteen year olds with scared faces knocking on your door. 

Every Sunday since then had been dated as Hellfire day, where the group of you would get together to play under Eddie's intricate DM narratives. Clearly, it had been a busy season.

“Have you counted it more than once? Maybe you missed some.”

“I counted it five times, it’s not there,” Eddie grumbled and covered his face with his hands, dropping hard onto the floor behind him. “Fuck’s sake. I’ll have to wait until next summer to make the rest, now.”

It was what working off the books in Hawkins and struggling to find enough neighbours willing to get their cars cleaned meant. You hated seeing your friend like that, and had spent the rest of the afternoon doing his favorite things with him while furiously machinating. 

After a few days, Eddie had stored the piggy bank and vowed to forget about it until a year had passed, but you had other plans. One afternoon, you were let into his trailer by Wayne while Eddie was in the shower applying his long hair routine, under the guise that you’d forgotten something there last night. Then, guiltily enough, you’d stolen his money. 

It was all for a good cause. You knew he’d refused to pool the money you’d each individually earned with your hard labour, but apart from contributing at home and buying yourself the occasional trinket, you did not need that much cash laying around when there was a nice way of spending it. You’d seen how excited Eddie had been that he’d finally get his very own guitar, and so his reaction to being unable to buy it after watching him slave himself away all summer had crushed you. You needed to make it work for him, one way or another.

So you’d placed the order for the special edition in your local music shop, and after weeks of waiting, you’d swindled the rest of the cash and dashed down to the store as fast as possible, worried that you were carrying that much money on you for the first time in your life. The nice clerk had even helped tie the heavy package onto the back of your bike after picking it up, and had sent you off on your merry way with a smile that was ten miles wide. 

You’d never felt more important than you did that afternoon when you cycled into Forest Hills, which was the immediate trigger to your best friend opening the door to the outside. 

“Hey!” Excited to see you, he hops off the trailer porch and approaches you with a smile, curls still bloated with water. “Wayne said you were here while I was in the shower. I don’t remember seeing your bag laying around my room. What’s that?”

“Christmas came early,” You smile cryptically, locking the bike onto its usual fence post. “Wanna help me get it off?”

He doesn’t say anything, just looks at you with such a confused expression that it almost makes you laugh. Together, you take the package into the living room of his trailer, which you’d made sure to previously strip of any stickers which could give away the surprise. 

Wayne looks over his shoulder when the both of you tumble in with the big box, chuckling at your insistence that you have to drop it carefully. “What the Hell did ya order, kid? Looks like a piece of furniture.”

“And it weighs like one, too,” Eddie complains, straightening his back like a middle aged man. “You never told me you were buying anything this big. Why are we opening it in here instead of your house? It’ll be a pain to take back to your trailer.”

“Because, silly,” You roll your eyes, swiping one of Wayne’s cooking knives off the counter. “It’s not a package for me. It’s for you.”

He truly has no idea, grabbing the knife off your hand with a confused expression. “Me?”

“Yes, you. Come on! Open it already!”

Even if the youngest Munson hasn’t caught on yet, you feel the heavy look his uncle gives you, stepping closer to watch the scene as Eddie struggles with cutting the tape.

“Finally.”

All rid of its plastic bounds, Eddie carefully opens the box and removes the wrapping paper. However, when he finally recognises the logo printed on the case, he just freezes. 

For a second, you think he truly has lost all ability to move, reaching to poke his shoulder. Did he not like it? Was he mad at you for spending the money, had he figured it out? 

“Eds..?”

The second you make contact with the cotton of his shirt, Eddie snaps out of it, grabbing your arm and forcefully pulling you onto the ground with him. You let out a loud yelp as you crash directly into his chest, enveloped in the tightest hug you’ve ever gotten while your friend rolls you both on the floor out of pure excitement.

“The- You- No! You! Did! Not!” Laughter bubbles out of you while still trapped in his embrace, nodding along to every single word he yelled at the top of his lungs.

“What- When? How?!” Finally standing the both of you back up, you watch as Eddie keeps spouting monosyllables while fumbling to open the case. It’s then when you realize that Wayne had been watching the whole exchange with a knowing grin plastered on his face, raising his brows comically when you blush redder than a tomato. 

The silent exchange is only interrupted by Eddie’s high-pitched yell, eyes watery at the sight of his new guitar. It truly was a beautiful instrument, and it fit Eddie’s personality like a glove. 

“That’s a nice lookin’ 6-string,” Wayne ruffles Eddie’s curls as the boy caresses the crackled paint, chuckling to himself. “How do you call it? Very metal.”

“Indeed…” Eddie raises the heavy instrument out of the case with care, standing on his feet and solemnly tying the strap over his shoulders. Eddie had grown substantially during the last year into his teenage shape, which meant the big guitar fit him better than ever. “How do I look?”

Your cheeks hurt from smiling so much, tilting your head endearingly. “Straight out of an album cover.”

It had been hard to rid yourself of the endless hugs Eddie gave you for the rest of the night, even if you did so very reluctantly. He’d chastised you a bit for paying for it with your own money, but you’d gotten defensive while insisting that it had been your pleasure to split the cost while returning him half of what you’d been left with - besides, he just could not get mad at you with how over the moon he was, tearing through the manuals as he figured out how to tune it.

“Now,” Ever the ambitious boy he was, Eddie bites his lip as he turns the keys on the head delicately. “We need the rest of the band.”

You threw your hands on your face and dropped yourself onto his mattress, earning a laugh from him. “How many more summers is that gonna cost?!”

But as you stare at the Dungeons and Dragons poster he’d hung on the wall, it suddenly comes to you like a lightning strike, stumbling to sit on the ground beside him. 

“Hellfire!”

“What?”

“The Hellfire Club members. Gareth mentioned once his dad kept an old set of drums in his garage, and Jeff knows how to play acoustic guitar. Can’t be that far from electric, if he manages to get one,” Excited, you grab Eddie’s arm. “You should actually make a band, Eddie.”

“Holy shit. You’re right,” You can almost hear the cogs in his head turning as he plans it all over, and you already know he is picturing himself on a stage, playing for Woodstock ‘69 levels of crowds. “You’re right. You’re always right, you’re literally an angel on earth.”

“Enough with the ass-kissing, Eds,” But even though you roll your eyes and poke your tongue out at his cheesy comment, the fact that he’d said it like he meant it made your heart skip a beat. “I just happen to have good ideas, that's all.”

“The best of them.”

“Eddie! You already have the guitar, no need to push it!”

“Okay!”

Sleeping had been a real challenge on the night of the wake. 

Seeing Eddie had brought forth memories which you’d vowed to keep under wraps for the rest of your adult life, remembering clearly how distraught you’d felt as you cried in the passenger seat of your mom’s car. The almost 11 hour drive to New York had been an ugly reminder of just how much more distance you were adding to your friendship, on top of the abyss the summer’s events had opened between the both of you. The night before leaving, that’s when he had decided to finally admit to what he’d done. He’d broken you completely, as if you weren’t already, discarding four years of the most intense of friendships you’d ever had like it had meant nothing to him. For what? Had it all been worth it? Did it work out in the end?

You’d made yourself the promise that you’d never look back, and even when you started to pursue your music career, you tried to not think of him, even if you knew that deep down you were chasing the dream for both of you. That every single one of your achievements, every record you broke and every chart you smashed through the roof had a little piece of him attached to it. You’d never get rid of Eddie Munson, and that had become even clearer when he showed up on the day of your mother’s wake. 

You hadn’t exchanged many words, just sat in that familiar comfortable silence you were always able to keep between yourselves. Despite what he’d done and how much it made you hate him, you knew how important your mom had been to him. You knew that she’d vowed for him when it all went down, how she’d begged to make you listen to him and answer his voicemails after she’d given him your landline herself, but you just did not listen. Would things have changed if you did? Should you have heard her out? What was he thinking about? All those thoughts fluttered around in your mind as you shared the rest of the cigarette and quietly grieved, too scared to shatter the fragile peace which reigned between the two of you.

When he finally speaks again, he does so after a while of mutual sobbing, curls hiding the sadness in his eyes. 

“I’m sorry,” He repeats, and it’s clear he is letting out the thoughts he’d held for the past seven years, the endless ‘I should’ve told her this’ reminders  which crossed his mind almost every week. “To this day, it hurts me to think how things ended up between us, angel. I should’ve…”

“Don’t call me that,” You cut off sharply, feeling a jolt of something hidden burst through you at the mention of that nickname. “It’s been seven years of silence. You don’t get to call me that.”

“I tried calling you.”

“It clearly wasn’t enough,” you spit. “If our friendship was worth one summer of ‘bad decisions’ and two weeks of blowing up my answering machine, I don’t have anything else to say to you.”

Eddie’s mouth falls open and closes again, like a fish trying to breathe out of the water. You weren’t making things easier for him, but he’d already expected that. 

“I never stopped asking your mom about you.”

His words silence you, too shocked to even process a response before he continues speaking. “I did stop calling, but it was because, when you changed your number, I knew you were completely done with me. You didn’t come back for Christmas, Easter, or Summer breaks. You were gone. I respected the decision you took, but I couldn’t stop thinking about you.”

“She never said much, either. Your mom was an angel on earth. She knew how to keep your wishes of distancing yourself from me while still never shunning me. She told me you were good. That you were doing what made you proud, chasing your dreams. I only realized how true that was years later, after I had completely lost contact with her.”

His hard gulp makes you bite down incoming tears. Your mother had kept you both happy while she could, even if the other had no idea of it. She’d never mentioned Eddie again after you left it clear that you wanted nothing to do with him, and told her that you’d be changing the number on your landline to stop him from calling. She never uttered his name once more, but she’d still kept contact with him in secret. It did not feel like the treason an eighteen year old you would’ve proudly declared - it felt right. Something she’d do. She was just being a mother. 

Silence had reigned again after that, only cut when the funeral home staff came to inform you that it was about closing time. Despite Eddie’s helping hand, you’d picked yourself up and dusted off with dignity, finally able to look him in the eye. 

Taller, stronger, with eyes deeper than ever before: Eddie had turned into a proper adult, whose kid self seemed to have been lost in those pits of dark chocolate bearing a tired expression. You know you have to apologize to him, too, but it is not the time nor the place. The idea of meeting him outside of a strictly formal setting seems too frazzling, though. You have no idea of what words to use for goodbye, but clearly, he’d imagined that moment many more times than you ever did. 

“Life has changed so quickly without you,” He utters a deep sigh, a mix between relief and tiredness. “I never thought we’d meet again… like this.”

“I think it was Mom’s final wish,” Your voice comes out meek, small, walking with him towards the funeral home’s parking lot. “To bring us together again. Even in death, she manages to get her way.”

Your comment sparks a shared smile, very much needed in such a moment of tension. 

“It’s a nice thought.”

You just stare at him in silence, stopping before your paths have to divert once more. There are only two more cars left in the public lot: your sparkling Cadillac, and a beat down, black, ‘74 Jeep Cherokee. Both of you raise a brow at the other. 

“...I see you’re well off.”

“...And I see you’ve moved on from the van.”

He huffs. “Yeah, well. I didn’t need that much useless space anymore.”

You still remembered for how long Eddie had saved up to get his own van after earning his license, insisting that he needed the back to move all of the Corroded Coffin equipment when they went from gig to gig. You guessed that was his subtle way of saying that the band had been dissolved long ago.

“Oh. Damn it.”

“Yeah.”

More silence, and this time, it was getting awkward. You’re starkly reminded of the very real difference between the two of you, and it doesn’t feel comforting. 

“I… I guess I'll see you around. In a few days.”

“Yep.”

“Will do.”

“Okay.”

“Okay. Goodnight.”

“Night, Eddie.”

You’d played it cool, but it had taken you 2 minutes of driving on the road to break down at the whole interaction, which carried all the way until you got home and deflated on the bed. Just a few exchanged sentences, seeing him after so long, had broken down the barriers you’d dutifully built for years on end. He was that magnetizing, such a vital piece of your life that you’d discarded without a second thought. 

Seeing him again would be asking for trouble, and you knew that. But if Joyce’s advice was to be followed, you knew what you had to do when you woke up the following morning. 

It had taken a while of scrolling through your mom’s phone book and a couple of rings, but now, you walked into one of your favorite diners in Hawkins like you owned the place. 

You’d chosen the spot despite its popularity, but you’d gone the extra mile to ask for a layer of privacy and had decked yourself in the chic sunglasses and silk headscarf combo to avoid any unwanted stares. The waitress had almost jumped when she realized who she was receiving, speech growing high-pitched as she led you down rows of occupied tables. 

The booth you’d chosen, the one cornered by windows, had the sheer privacy curtains drawn down and an anxious woman tapping her foot under the table at the speed of light. The clicking of your high-heeled boots alerts her of your presence, sliding out of her seat with shocked eyes rimmed in mascara. 

“Woah. You really do look like a music star.”

Robin hadn’t changed a single bit. Having in mind that she was two years younger than you, it made sense that she had not grown as much out of her young teenage aesthetic, but even her personality remained the same. You laugh at her words, taking off the sunnies to look her in the eyes. 

“It came with the contract.”

She’s almost too mesmerized by you, moving her hands up and down without much coordination. “I… You… Sorry, look, this is so weird, but you’re literally an award-winning singer and songwriter, and I don’t know what to do with myself. It’s so hard to think we were friends in highschool, and now I keep your tapes next to my Madonna ones. I feel like I’m fan-girling too much and you are totally put off by me right now. Can I hug you? Is that allowed?”

“Oh my God, Robin,” You roll your eyes and flash a smile, taking the step forward yourself. “Just come here.”

It’s almost as if you feel her stress ooze away when you wrap your arms tightly around her, which she reciprocates with the same enthusiasm.

“...You even smell expensive, damn it.”

She looks around as you sit down, humming happily. “I’ve never seen this place so empty during the mornings.”

“I had this part closed off.”

“Oh. Right. Makes sense,” She clears her voice, suddenly shy under your watchful gaze. 

“I heard the news. I’m so sorry for your loss.”

Robin had met your mom just once or twice, and like every one of your friends, she’d loved her like she was her own. The story of how you had met Robin was funny. You liked to watch your high school’s band practice whenever Corroded Coffin wasn’t playing, because being surrounded by music always helped get your juices flowing for songwriting. And so, one day, a 14 year old Robin who’d always struggled to keep her mouth shut had just come up to downright ask you if you wanted to try out for band, and you’d suddenly realized how weird you must’ve looked for the past few years of watching a group of out-of-tune teenagers finding their pitch. Explaining that it helped you write music wasn’t much easier, either. 

However it may be, you and Robin had developed an unusual friendship, where she’d sit down with you after every practice to read some of the lyrics you decided to share with her. That random girl you’d met out of luck had been the first to read the words to what would go on to become smash-hits in the future, even before Eddie did, and there was a reason for that. You couldn’t have your metal-loving muse read through mushy lyrics which were surrounded with hand-drawn hearts on the borders of their pages. It was just too embarrassing, even if he was your best friend and your favorite person in the whole world. 

It also meant that she had been the first person ever to realize just how deeply your boy problems rooted. If there was anyone you’d have to ask about Eddie, it would definitely be Robin.

“I wanted to attend the wake, but I worked until late last night. I’ll definitely be at the funeral. Don’t know if that was the reason why you wanted to see me,” She rubs her neck guiltily, and you just shake your head, easing away her doubts. 

“Don’t worry about that. I wanted to ask you about something else… Which I’m sure will bring back some memories.”

“Uugh- High school memories. My least favorite,” She fakes a chill, and you just have to laugh. Robin Buckley’s sarcasm would never disappear, that was for certain. “I definitely need a coffee and a debrief before getting into that. Too much has gone down in the past few years for you to just gloss over it like it’s nothing.”

The thread of your conversation flows so naturally, it feels surreal that you have not talked to that girl in over seven years. With the way you unwrap yourself so naturally with her, anyone could’ve sworn you’d kept close contact for that whole time, but alas, you order and chug down two whole mugs of coffee before you can even start to get close to the conversation’s end. Everything, from how you’d dropped out of college to start singing in dive bars to your recent nationwide and European tour, is spilled on the table. Robin also catches you up with her own life: she’d stayed in the band and graduated in ‘86, to which she’d immediately moved into a small place with Steve Harrington and spent one or two years working with him at the Family Video. Steve had then started dating a middle-aged woman named Mariah who already had three kids, and almost immediately left her pregnant with her fourth, which meant he decided to move into her place with her. Since then, Robin was renting a small apartment and acting as a private tutor in Spanish and French while she figured out her next move - a backpacking trip around the world, she’d concluded, which would help her find herself. She also played the occasional gig at Enzo’s to get some extra cash and avoid having her trumpet skills go rusty. 

“I mean, I just can’t believe King Steve is now a step father,” You’d never met Steve outside of school gossip, but apparently, Robin had worked with him during the summer of ‘85 and it had made them impossibly close. An unlikely pair, but one which seemed to be bound by the strongest of platonic spells.

“Honestly, if you knew him, you wouldn’t be so surprised. He loves kids. I remember when we were working together at Scoops Ahoy, how a bunch of 13 and 14 year olds just spent the whole summer asking him for free samples and using the back entrance to sneak into the Starcourt cinema. It was something worth seeing. He looked like their babysitter.”

Sharing a laugh, you drink a sip of coffee while Robin keeps going on without stopping. “Also, I’m sure you already know, but the fact that Steve has children now isn’t that much of an off case. They’re not even his own… Can’t say the same about others, right?”

Your utter confusion and slight head tilt tells Robin enough: you did not know anything. 

“Oh. Shit. I think I’ve spoken too much.”

“Wait- What?” You let out a girlish giggle, even though Robin looks far too mortified to imitate you. “Who else who we went to high school with had kids already? I mean, I get the small town appeal of starting an early family, but it hasn’t even been that long since…”

You can’t even continue, because suddenly, Robin’s circumstantial expression makes something click in your mind. 

“Life has changed so quickly without you.”

A family-appropriate truck? 

“I didn’t need that much useless space anymore.”

It was impossible. 

“Robin,” Your tone has lowered down to a dangerous thing, treading carefully. “Who had kids?”

“I don’t know if you really wanna know…”

“Robin.”

“Okay!” She lets a hand push through her hair, nervously looking around. 

“It’s Eddie. Eddie Munson had a kid.”

It’s like a bucket of ice-cold water has just been dropped on you, snapping you into a state of shock you were unsure you’d ever leave.

Eddie. Your Eddie. Eddie Munson, the rebel rockstar wannabe and drug dealer, also lead singer and guitarist of Corroded Coffin, was now a father at age twenty-four. The guy who you would’ve given your life for to have him notice you as something more than just a friend had had a kid with another woman… And you thought you knew who the mother was. 

You wanted to vomit. 

“I’m sorry, Robin, I think I’m gonna…”

“Listen,” Her hand reaches for you across the table, temporarily grounding you. It felt like the diner was spinning around you, bringing to life the stark realization that you were far from over Eddie Munson. You should’ve never returned to Hawkins. Never have called Robin up or wondered any more about him, should’ve kept him locked in your memory as the one who got away and buried your mother without digging out any more unnecessary teenage drama. 

“Listen to me, I… I know you didn’t end on good terms with him, and I think I know the reason why,” She bites her lip guiltily. “Whatever you’re thinking right now is not true. That did not end well for them.”

Robin’s words calm you down for a second. “What?”

“Yeah. But I can’t be the one telling you that!” She shakes her head profusely. “I saw it third hand, not first. And even though I have no idea what he did to you for you to step so far away from him, I do know one thing, and it’s the fact that the love you held for that guy was more than just platonic. That stuff is unbreakable. You need to talk with him, now that destiny has brought you back together again.”

If what Robin had said was true, you were even more intrigued to know what Eddie’s story had been after the summer of ‘84, but it was clear that she was not going to be the teller of that tale. You still were unsure about if you wanted to know the end to it, either.

Maybe, she was right. If destiny wanted it like that, you’d let stuff flow without putting a stop to it like you had in the past.

“I’ll try to. He’s coming to the funeral tomorrow.”

“Good. Now, let me wash my palate. I can’t believe you have me saying cheesy stuff in favor of a guy so early in the morning.”

October 31st, 1980

“We look ridiculous.”

“That’s the fun of it, my dear Eddie.”

Your toothy grin stares back at the both of you from your sticker-lined bedroom mirror, reflecting the goofy pose you hit. Eddie cracks a smile at your antics. 

“Do I look like I could be in the comics?”

“Front cover.”

A cackle tumbles from the depths of your stomach, making you lose your feigned composure. Your impromptu costumes did look kind of wild - they would be no envy to those of the kids who lived in wealthier neighbourhoods, that was for sure - but the fun you and your friend had found in putting each piece together was better than any store-bought crap. 

Ever since that summer day, you and Eddie had become good friends. Your mom already classified you as inseparable, and there was no doubt that the both of you had found your favorite person in each other, but Eddie’s shell was a tough one to crack through. 

He’d gone through a lot. Wayne was glad that he’d found a friend in you, someone who’d kept him company for the whole summer despite Eddie’s reticence to let his true personality shine through. You had fun with Eddie, even if he was terribly shy and quiet at times. The first month you’d passed together had been almost fully spent exchanging silent gestures, hanging out and being there for one another even when there were no words being spoken. Anyone else would’ve found Eddie boring or difficult to deal with, but you saw a part of yourself in the troubled boy, and knew he only needed a helping hand to get through it. It was nice to just float in his orbit, sharing the knowledge that there was no judgement of your weird quirks between you. 

One afternoon, your mom had sat you down after you’d spent the day at Lover’s Lake with Eddie, trying to come up with the wildest jumps into the water without breaking a leg or an arm. Apparently, while you kids were busy, she’d had some coffee with Mr Munson, who had explained Eddie’s situation to her. She did not tell you everything at the time, as that was a story for Eddie to explain, but she did reveal that he had been living with his dad before moving to Hawkins. He had not been a good man to his son, and that was the reason why Eddie was so quiet and struggled to let himself just enjoy things. His childlike joy had been punished in the past. 

You’d only known him for a few months, but you could tell how Eddie’s true self wasn’t that timid character he usually fronted. There were moments of pure, unfiltered happiness he’d spent with you where the light would slip through the cracks, letting you see glimpses of a joyous, carefree personality you absolutely loved to bring forwards with your words or actions. Ever since the day you’d met him burning his father’s shirt, you’d taken that decision: You’d help Eddie become his true self again, and never dare to leave his side. 

The rest of the summer had been the best one you’d ever had, and judging by Eddie’s tired smiles every night when you’d both split ways and walk to each of your trailers, you were sure he reciprocated the feeling. Eddie expressed his appreciation with actions, not with words, like the late August day his uncle had rolled into Forest Hills with a bike for him to ride to school with. 

“Some guy at the plant said his kid was gonna throw his bike out to get a new one for his birthday. I told him to run it by me before taking it to the dump.”

Such a simple action had made Wayne happy for the rest of the week, seeing how excited Eddie got at the littlest of things. You’d woken up that morning to ringing bells outside your bedroom window, peeking out to see Eddie cycling in circles with his new acquisition. It had been double as exciting for you, because apart from seeing your friend so giddy, it meant he could now take you everywhere with his new means of transportation. 

“We could go to so many new places that aren’t Lover’s Lake for what’s left of the summer!”

Eddie had excitedly agreed, but then inquired why you didn’t just use the one you kept locked next to one of the fence posts surrounding your trailer. 

“Oh. That one…” Suddenly embarrassed, you’d rubbed your neck while feeling a blush creep onto your cheeks. “That’s my bike, but it broke long ago and my dad just refused to fix it. It’s been laying there ever since.”

“How do you go to school, then?”

“I take the bus.”

There was no bus stop near, and both of you knew that. Your task every school morning was to wake up extra early and accompany your mother to work, just so you’d get closer to civilization and could trek until you found the nearest stop. 

Eddie, however, did not like this idea. He had no problem in letting you piggy-back his bike, but after a quick look at the one you’d left forgotten, he raised his brows incredulously and shook his head. 

“I can fix that.”

“You can?”

“Yeah. It just looks like the chain got unhooked and mangled. Needs some grease, filing off the rust…” He reached forwards and pulled on the brakes, moving the bike to see if they worked. “...Even these are okay. My uncle has some tools and leftover car paint under the sink, I saw it the other day. We can get this done in an afternoon.”

And so, unlike your father, he’d kept true to his promise. That lanky boy fixed your bicycle up like a mechanic and then helped you touch it up so it’d look decent to ride around town. You made sure to thank him a million times since that day, and every time you did, Eddie’s face would turn a darker shade of red. 

The bike, the end of the summer, the harsh start to freshman year you’d put though together: it all brought you down to that very moment, the picture of one preteen who’d convinced her unsure friend about dressing up to go out on Halloween. It had been a no-brainer when Eddie revealed to you that he’d never done something like that as a kid, during the shy confessions he usually let out while you ate your lunch in the secluded spot you’d chosen around the school grounds. It was the only place to hide from jocks who’d laugh at Eddie’s troubled look and cheerleaders who’d make fun of your old clothes. 

“We have got to dress up now, then. And I know just the costumes for us.”

You remembered well how Eddie had almost died of embarrassment when you pulled out a G.I. Joe comic the day after, and started pointing at the characters you’d each be transformed into: Duke and Scarlett. 

It did not fly over your head that the reason for his awkwardness was the fact that kids liked to make fun of his buzz-cut hair, which he was dying to finally grow out of. To you, that made it even more important that he learned to love it in a lighthearted way. 

“It’s a bit on the nose,” Dismayed, he’d rubbed his hands up and down the layer of new growths, a way darker shade than the zero fade he’d sported for half of last summer. “Begging for people to notice it.”

“Eddie,” The seriousness in your tone had called for his attention. “Mean people like to make fun of what makes you different from the others. They can sense your insecurities, so they know it’s a weak point to attack, and they’ll always get a good hit on you. However, if you embrace what makes you yourself, that problem vanishes. Loving what makes you weird makes life much more fun.”

And then, you’d taken a bite so massive out of your PBnJ that a blob of jam fell on your shirt, which you just laughed off and cleaned up like it was nothing. Eddie looked at you completely entranced, processing how such words came from someone who always seemed so careless and free-spirited, and it finally clicked: You lived life following your own advice. You received your fair share of tormenting in school, but you never let it affect you or how you interacted with Eddie, even if a lot of it came from your association with him. It was an admirable thing, and it made a part of Eddie finally break one of the many locks he’d put up in the past to protect himself from the outside world. 

He’d agreed to the costume, just because it was you who’d do it besides him. 

The following two weeks had been an enthralling hunt for the pieces you needed to find to make your look believable: You’d written it all down on a list, and every afternoon after school, you’d hit the thrift store bins and local Five & Dime to cross items off of it. Eddie had gotten a ridiculously small toy AK for just under two dollars, and you’d managed to get both your belts and some green cargo pants for him that looked exactly like what you were looking for. Still, most of your outfits came to be from the oldest of tricks in the book of costumes: things you had laying around at home. Wayne’s old work boots were perfect for Eddie, and you had a yellow swimsuit that, if worn over a black shirt and your mom’s black winter tights, already made up half of your costume. However, what had by far been the funnest thing to figure out was Eddie’s shirt.

You’d been digging through your closets one day when you found part of your father’s old uniforms. His time in the army had been stashed away long ago, and even if he was there to see it, he’d never notice it missing for just one night. 

The shirt had looked like a dress on poor Eddie, who’d been the subject of you and your mom’s good-hearted laughs. Just to make up for it, she’d offered to add some preventive stitches which made the thing fit him much better, and could be seamlessly removed once the night was over and the khaki shirt was returned to the back of the closet. 

“I think we’re ready to hit the town, Duke,” You’d glanced over at him with a conspiratorial grin, arms akimbo. “What do you think?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Eddie’s doubts disappeared the moment you were cycling down the streets next to the forest, always deserted before arriving in the more populated neighbourhoods. You loved to take the downwards incline with a big push of your bike, rolling down the hill at neck-breaking speeds while he worried over the fact that you put your hands up like you were on a roller coaster. That day was no less, matching your increase in pedalling to catch the slope at a similar pace. 

Eddie cackles in awe of your equilibrium as you remove both feet and hands from the bike in pure excitement, yelling the ‘Yo Joe!’ catchphrase Duke used to lead the team into battle out to the sunset. It’s contagious. He can only follow as you do, feeling the freedom which fills up his senses as he lets go of the handle bars for the first time in his life. 

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Hours later, you find yourself sitting on the curb of a random suburban neighbourhood, both munching on your favorite chocolate bars as you argued over which of the two was better. 

“It’s basically the same thing, but Snickers are just superior!” You take a hearty bite of your candy, letting the flavors melt into your tongue before speaking with your mouth full. “You get the salty peanuts in there too, it makes it taste soo good.”

“Why would you want salty peanuts in your sweet candy?” Eddie also munches on his Milky Way while talking, looking at you with a goofy grin. “Makes no sense.”

“The contrast! It makes it good!” You point at the filling with a crazed look, amused at how Eddie giggles at your occurrence. “You can’t eat two Milky Ways, they fill you up too much because they’re too sweet. You can, however, eat two Snickers bars without a problem…”

“Who says I can't?" Eddie’s already pulling another one of the little rectangles out of his cargo pant pockets. “Watch me.”

“You’ll stuff your face before dinner.”

“Shut up, mom.”

Just like every other pre-teen who was starting to get too old to trick-or-treat, you’d taken to the roads later that night, after the first round of children were done collecting their candy. Then, you’d headed down to the wealthier neighbourhoods, where the biggest candy bars were let out in bowls after a later time had struck the clock and people were too lazy to keep opening the door if it wasn’t for cute little kids in costumes. You were not greedy like those who took half of the candy for themselves, but you were sharp enough to dig into the mixes to find the good prizes left at the bottom. Once you’d made yourselves with an acceptable bounty, you’d sat down to eat and people-watch as preteens, kids, and tired parents paraded around in costumes, yelling and looking at the decorations set up throughout. 

The afternoon had left you satisfied, not only for the amount of sugar you’d consumed, but because of the fact that Eddie seemed to have finally let himself out of his shell for the longest time in weeks. It was nice to be able to goof around with him without watching his shyness overtake him, following you in acting out the part of your costumes when some little kids also dressed as the cartoon characters had approached you with toothless grins. It felt like hanging out with the real Eddie for the first time ever, and for that, you were incredibly grateful. 

“Wonder what they’re selling over there.”

Too immersed in your own thoughts about him, Eddie had polished through his second chocolate before you could even realize, crumbling the sticky wrappers between his clenched fists. Taking the last bite off your Snickers bar, you imitate him, looking in the direction where he’d been staring. A middle-aged woman had been setting up a Halloween themed yard sale on her driveway for as long as you’d sat there, and people were just starting to approach her with interested expressions. 

You shrug like it’s a no-brainer, standing up with an energetic hop. “Why don’t we figure it out?”

It takes Eddie a second to process your initiative, but he immediately agrees, trailing behind as you walk towards the driveway. 

An impressive array of attic-forgotten treasures lay on display for you to see, immediately marvelling at the towering comic collections and dusty books on topics you had never heard of in your life. You and Eddie trail slowly through the yard sale, pointing out interesting stuff to each other before your own absorption guides you both down different paths. When you realize, you’ve been separated from your Duke, who you start to look for while poking your head out between the people. 

Eddie stands by a forgotten corner of the sale, staring down at something with an intensely focused expression. Curious to see whatever he has discovered, you make your way towards him, but not before stopping dead on your tracks by some of the tables close to where he stands. There is an arrangement of spooky masks laid out for the public to see. You had no clue if they were supposed to be decorative pieces, but the idea of scaring your friend with one sparks in your mind that very second. 

Giggling devilishly, you grab the scariest one and walk towards Eddie, making sure he doesn’t see you as you tip-toe behind his back. Before laying a hand on his shoulder, you place the mask over your face. 

“Boo!”

Eddie’s scream is almost girlish, drawing looks from everyone at the yard sale. It doesn't help that you’re cackling like a hyena, laughing so hard that you have to bend over before you need to be excused to the nearest bathroom. Eddie swats your shoulder forcefully when you finally stand up to wipe the tears off your eyes, and to your delight, there is a faint smile on his lips.

“You motherf-”

“Language, Eds. There are kids nearby,” Shaking your head, you let the mask back on the table, smirking happily. “It’s what you get for running away from me.”

“I didn’t run!”

“I was lost in the crowd! Scared!”

“Shut up!”

Sharing a good laugh, you finally peek over his shoulder. “What did you find?”

“Look. I think it’s a board game, it sounds familiar but I can’t place it,” Gently, he places his hands on either side of the well-loved box, raising it for you to see. It’s thin, not too big - it cannot contain much on the inside, but the cover looks promising, a drawing of a wizard and a knight facing off against a red dragon. The beast shows off its teeth menacingly as it guards over its treasure, wings spread over the gold. 

“Dungeons and Dragons?”

It also sounded familiar to you, but you were sure it was just something you must’ve heard some kids talk about once or twice in passing. You’d never actually gotten your hands on the game, yet Eddie holds it like he is determined to take it home.

“We should figure it out. Have something to play in the winter when it’s too cold to go out.”

Despite mentioning the coming dips in temperature, your heart melts at the idea Eddie had: he’d picked it up because he wanted to play it with you. Figure it out together, as a pair of friends. 

“Looks cool, right?”

“It does. We should ask the lady for a price.”

“I…” He trails before you can walk any further, patting his pant pockets. “I don’t think I can spare much on this.”

You didn’t have a lot of money with you either, but you tap his shoulder to reassure him. “We’ll give her all we have and make her feel bad. It’s a yard sale, haggling is a must with these things.”

Encouraged by you, you lead him to find the lady conducting the sale, who had just sold off a chandelier to a passing family. She counts the bills in her hands thoroughly, alerted when you approach her.

“Excuse me, Ma’am. How much for this board game?”

She frowns slightly at the sight of the box, still held tightly in Eddie’s hands. “Oh, that thing… I’m surprised you found it, I had it put aside because I didn’t even know what price to give the damn game. I just want it out of my house.”

You and Eddie exchange a knowing look before he presses the seller onwards. “So it has no price?”

“Again, I just wanna get rid of it. I’ve heard all about that game in church, my little Bobby insisted on getting it back in ‘77, but if I’d known it’s all about devil worshipping, I never would’ve spent a cent on it,” She drones on and on. For a game she despised, she did have a lot to say about it. “Him and his friends were obsessed with it, they’d lock themselves in to play for hours on end while I could just pray for their protection… But he didn’t let me throw it out. He called me crazy. I’m trying to get rid of it before he comes back home from college this Christmas break and realizes he never took it with him in the first place.”

“We don’t have a lot of money on us, but…”

“None of that. If you want it, take it, you don’t have to pay me anything,” She just waves the both of you off with her hand. “You’re doing me more of a favor by taking it than by paying me for it.”

Excited, you both nod enthusiastically, getting out of there before she can continue with the God-fearing speech. 

Later that night, you and Eddie read through the whole rulebook and began to understand just what Dungeons and Dragons was all about while Halloween played as a background noise, having long forgotten that you’d rented the film just for the occasion. You’d stayed up until the static buzzed lowly on the TV and your mom got home from work to the two of you laid on the floor, surrounded by scattered pens, papers, game booklets, and dice.

You couldn’t take it anymore. 

Sure, you’d been on autopilot when you’d first arrived at the funeral home, so much so that you hadn’t even noticed the stunned looks some of the younger staff gave you as the director had gently given you your first condolences for the evening. The older woman had led you to your mom first, allowing for a few lone minutes with the open casket before close associates would follow. 

The room had felt below zero as you stared down at your mother. It was strange. Not like in the movies - you’d expected to break down against the casket, knees weak and body supported just by shaky hands, but it was none of that. Shock had overtaken you at the sight of her. 

It was like a doll version of your mother. Her eyelids lay peacefully shut, but her lashes didn’t flutter. Her chest was still, fingers cold and perfectly manicured by a mortician. Almost like you were having a vision. The realisation was struggling to set in.

You’d even planned a few words, and were left alone in the wide room for as long as you pleased, but you’d just been unable to get them out. They’d come as a shaky mumble whenever you tried to open your mouth, eyes itching when you dared alter your expression by an inch. You were unable to do it - not while looking at her face, which more so seemed like a mask of her own self, a reminder of her permanent sleep. 

The director had found you sitting on one of the nearby benches, almost 10 minutes later, eyes lost as you stared at the side of the casket from below. You couldn’t bring yourself to look at her again as the afternoon rolled by. 

It had been a show of what you’d been avoiding for the past seven years, in the cruelest possible outcome of them all: adults who’d seen you grow up poor, now lamenting your mother’s death while avoiding the obvious, gigantic elephant in the room that all of Hawkins was dying to tear into. They’d probably listened to your voice on the radio while they drove over to the establishment, yet you’d immediately turned down every attempt anyone had made at making small talk. 

Did it make you seem like a bitch? Probably. But you didn’t care. You weren’t in the right headspace to be constantly reminded of the fact that you were an A-list celebrity. That was your other life. 

Somehow, that method of coping seemed to work for the following hours, but it all reached a tipping point when you’d gotten approached by Karen Wheeler. 

She hadn’t known your mom for as long as Joyce did, but you knew she did consider her a good friend - especially after she moved to her same street. Your mom and Karen knew of each other’s existence before (as everyone did in Hawkins - it was too small of a town for the concept of unknown faces to prolifer). The only thing you knew was that her daughter was a few years younger than you - Nancy, you thought you remembered - yet your high school careers had just shortly overlapped. The hot gossip of your senior year had been how King Steve Harrington was dating a cute sophomore nerd no-one had ever heard about before. 

At least, that memory had been the one brought back to you when your mom had told you Karen’s full name over the phone, the night after taking the first spinning class you’d been encouraging her to join. She’d told you how she’d instantly chatted with Karen there, and found out how they were neighbors. Since then, both women enjoyed hopping from one of their houses to the other, going on grocery runs together and day-drinking white wine whenever Karen wanted to complain about her husband. 

Karen Wheeler had approached you that afternoon with a white handkerchief quaintly covering her nose, mascara runny after having her own moment with her cherished friend. 

“I know we’ve never been introduced, darling, and this isn’t the best setting. But I need to give you a hug.”

She’d cried into your shoulder as you held her, quiet enough that she wasn’t causing a scene. And yet, that simple gesture got to you, as had happened with Joyce’s affection earlier in the morning. Your eyes had been half-shut and pointed downwards when Karen pulled back, cradling your cheeks to whisper a few private words to do with your wellbeing. The invitation to swing by theirs if you need anything floats around you as she’s pulled away by her husband, still sobbing while she leaves the building. 

Too much. 

You felt like you’d hyperventilate if you stayed indoors, so you sneakily slipped out of the room and found a back-door exit to the funeral home’s squat garden. It didn’t have the best upkeep, but it was private enough, being that its perimeter was surrounded by hedges. Perfect for a scrutinised star to have a breakdown. 

Crying into your knees while you sat against a wall definitely brought you back to highschool. You hadn’t even checked to see if there were eyes on you, makeup running as you sobbed your grief away. Thank God the news of your arrival wasn't out yet. You couldn't have imagined having to deal with paparazzi, on top of all.

The sky was beginning to turn a pinkish hue when your breath finally steadied, eyes puffy as you rested your head against the wall. The wake must've been finalized already. You’d just been nursing on a cigarette when the sound of company came from that same back door. 

What had you been expecting? Well, probably some of the funeral home staff, to tell you they were closing up. That you needed to leave. None of that. 

A ghost from the past floats back into your life, but he looks far too real for your liking. And, what’s even worse: far too good in what he’d always considered ‘very formal wear’. 

Some things never changed in Hawkins: for once, the fact that Eddie Munson would never stop rocking that beloved metalhead look. His curly black hair was still styled into a long mullet that some other stars you’d met in that department would seriously kill for. A crumpled black shirt, which he’d only haphazardly buttoned and stuffed into his black jeans, spread all the way down to the hands you’d always liked to toy with when you spent lazy afternoons in his trailer: bodies laid one over the other, you could spend hours listening to his favorite tapes and rolling around the rings on his fingers, while he smoked pot with his other free hand. The thought of it rushes back at the sight of the silver pieces, causing a shudder to roll down your body. How had it all ever been considered platonic?

He doesn’t comment on your creepy staring, like he’d once done many times before, because he is also entranced at the sight of you. Eddie had just found you at your lowest - hiding from those mourning your mother in the back of the funeral home, sat on the floor against the wall, smoking a cigarette while looking up at him with eyes rimmed in red and smudged mascara. And yet, despite this being the first sight of you in almost seven years besides from record and magazine covers, Eddie can only see you as the teenage girl who changed his life… In the same state he’d left her in, the one sight which haunted every single one of his night terrors. 

“Your hair is longer.”

What a stupid thing to say to the long-lost friend he’d spent over half a decade missing - especially knowing that you were now a world-famous superstar. Of course your hair was longer, voluminous, and it perfectly draped over your shoulders like a privacy curtain when you sunk your chin into your knees. 

“...Your hair is still long.”

It had taken a few agonizing seconds, but at least you’d responded. 

An olive branch. 

Small, but it was something after a seven-year silence. 

You’d never expected this would happen. That you’d be back in Hawkins so early, under such conditions, and with such company. It had been the complete opposite of everything you’d ever wanted given that fateful summer, the one after graduation. 

Heaven knew you’d tried blurring those months out of your memory, but the reminder of how you lost your best friend would forever haunt your sleep for the rest of your days. The news that Eddie was to repeat senior year while you were off to college had been horrible: for years, you’d planned how you’d apply to study in the big city and how he’d follow you and find some work there, then live together as roommates to scrap as much money as possible in your joint pursuit for musical stardom. You’d warned him many times about how he never took school seriously, hiding the letters they sent home as he continued with his nightly drug-dealing sidegig instead of studying for his exams. The reality of it all had only clicked once he’d been pulled into that meeting. 

You’d only seen true regret in his eyes when he met your disappointment, the moment he scrapped to try and make everything better when you both knew there was no saving. He tried offering the possibility of him dropping out, but your negative sparked even more anger into the discussion, chastising him for wanting to take the easy route out instead of having listened to you for months before that was the outcome. You’d never forgive yourself if Eddie dropped out for you, endangering his future and throwing away the efforts his uncle had made in raising him just to chase a stupid dream with you. However, the way you had communicated that to him back then could have been much more lighthearted.

It had been your first real fight. The first crack of many to come during those following weeks, in the foundation of a seemingly indestructible friendship. 

But now, seven years of no contact later, Eddie Munson calls you by your name almost desperately, as if he is a thirsty man and the word tastes like a mouthful of water on his tongue. A name he had probably uttered for the first time in over half a decade again, just as you had done with his, while keeping it ever-present in the back of your mind. 

The sight of a tear slips as he slides down to sit against the wall with you. And then, the words you’d been waiting for since that hot august night finally poured out of the broken dam. 

Sometime around July, 1980 

Summer didn’t have to be awful. 

All the kids in your class always droned on and on about how amazing summer was. How they’d gone to the community pool with their friends countless times, laid on the grass and rolled down Weathertop hill, ate ice cream as they watched the fireworks - you’d always wondered why your feelings towards the season were so convoluted. 

And then, as you got older, it hit you. 

You always spent it stuck in a trailer park. 

Back when your father still had the guts to stick around, he’d been the only one with a car, and always refused to drop you off in the town center on especially hot days. Then, when you and your mom ended up alone, she spent her days so busy with work that she wasn’t able to take you anywhere. 

You were too poor to afford a new bike, and were way too closed off in school to make any friends with them. Therefore, when summer came, you saw yourself spending your days on a lawn chair, burning in the sun and swatting off mosquitoes from your legs. Playing the waiting game until September came along. 

There weren’t any other kids your age in the trailer park. Fourteen was problematic - too old to hang with the children, but too young to even attempt approaching a scary teen. Graduated middle school, but still hadn’t set foot in high school. A transition summer. It hadn’t felt like it, not until he came around. 

A preteen like you, whose head of dark curls you’d seen pop out of the back of a black Sedan. It had driven into the trailer park one unassuming afternoon, as you relished in the cool come with the setting sun while sucking on a Rocket Pop. The sight had intrigued you. You never got many visitors, aside from the cars you already recognised. 

He’d met your eyes when he followed the lady driver, who was fit in attire much too formal to be a Hawkins summer dweller. He had a lanky build, arms and legs a bit too long for his torso. His bangs were too long, having to push them back the second he started walking towards Mr Munson’s trailer. 

But what really got your attention was what laid beneath his locks. His right eye was rimmed in dark purple, something he quickly averts from your gaze. 

The unknown lady stayed until the sky had turned dark, but she did not take the boy back with her. 

Of course, you told your mom what you saw when she came back from her shift. Unlike every other time you had a query, she did not provide you with a straight answer. She only made a sullen face over her reheated dinner, looking at you through misty eyes. 

“If you get the chance to talk to this boy, be gentle.”

And you did. 

You saw him a couple days later. He’d spent them all cooped up in Mr Munson’s trailer, who you assumed was now the man tasked with taking care of him. The cicadas around Forest Hills were particularly loud that day, so you’d put on your denim shorts over your swimsuit and decided it was the day to go to Lover’s Lake. 

It was the only summer-esque attraction close enough for you to walk to, but it got boring to go to the lake everyday without any friends to hang out with. Today, however, was one of those days. More than five minutes on the lawn chair would surely fry you alive. 

You’d been walking down the dirt road and towards the unmarked path when you saw a hunched figure on the grass, quite a few feet away from you. You hadn’t recognised him at first. He was missing his curls, buzz-cut head now lumpy and sweaty under the beaming Sun.  

“What’s your name?”

You had startled him. He whipped his head around and instantly stood up to retreat like a wounded animal. You were almost tempted to raise your hands in peace. 

“Why do you care?”

His lashing made you falter. You’d met mean kids in school, but none had ever gone to the extent of being so rude at such a simple question. You’d been tempted to just spin on your heel and walk away from the trouble, until your mother’s words bubbled to the surface of your mind. 

Be gentle.

“Just asking, in case you want some company. I’m not trying to annoy you, or anything,” You’d offered your own name as an olive branch, clutching the rolled-up Ronald McDonald towel under your arm. “But you’re alone, and I’m alone, too. Thought we could be friends.”

The boy still seems unsure. He looks to be analyzing every single bit of you, weighing if you were a threat to him. 

“I like being alone.”

“I like it, too. But try spending a whole summer alone in this trailer park,” You scoff, glancing around at the metal structures. “You’ll go crazy.”

He just blinks, head tilting at the object you carry. “That a towel?”

“Yup,” You nod back to the direction you’d previously been headed towards. “Lover’s Lake is that way, it’s too hot to stay here today. I could show you around.”

It’s a silent invitation for him to follow, and you take the small victory in the fact that he hadn’t immediately refused. 

“I don’t have a swimsuit.”

You purse your lips in thought, looking down at his shorts. They looked like chopped-off sweatpants, ends jagged and torn. 

“Those work,” You shrug. “If you’re worried, we’ll totally be back earlier, and you can hang them to dry before Mr Munson comes back.”

“He’s my uncle,” he interjects, even if you hadn’t asked about his relationship to the man. It was a good sign. He was opening up slightly. 

“Oh. That’s cool. I don’t have any,” Or rather, you’d never met them. Your dad had a brother that lived in the other end of the country, and your mother didn’t talk to her family. Thanksgiving dinner had always been a quiet celebration - until your father grabbed hold of a bottle. “How’s having an uncle?”

“The best thing ever,” He quickly assured, and for some reason, you sensed a twinge of seriousness in his tone. Like his relationship to his uncle wasn’t just good because he’d taken him out to the arcade once, or bought him a tape he wanted. 

You nod at his response, and offer him a small grin. “So? Wanna come with me?”

His jaw shifts, and he looks down at where he’d been hunched over. There’s a small pile of something black and textile, already torn in big pieces. 

“I’m kinda busy with something.”

“I can wait,” You offer, not missing a beat. He’s clutching something tightly in his right hand. “What’s that?”

Defeated, the boy comprehends that you’re not backing down that easily. And yet, at the same time, he’s not so interested in pushing you away anymore. When he kneels down, he beckons you to come closer, uncut grass enveloping your knees. 

The buzz-cut boy reveals what he’d been holding, brown eyes wide in pleading that you won’t snitch to any adult. The right one was still a recovering greenish hue, skin slowly returning to its natural shade. He’d brought his knuckles close to his face, clutching a cheap Bic lighter with a neon-green body. He lights the flame with a flick of his finger. 

“It’s my dad’s shirt. I came with it on.”

You did not ask why he was burning something which belonged to his dad. You, too, would do so if your mother ever allowed it. Unfortunately, you never knew when he might roll into Forest Hills, and Hell would break loose if he noticed one of his belongings vanished. 

“Go on.”

His eyes grow wide at your enthusiasm. Not every other kid would’ve comprehended his actions, but that girl from the trailer park was quite peculiar. She wouldn’t leave him alone, but at the same time, she wasn’t prodding into his private life. Unlike how every therapist, policeman, and person in a suit had been doing for the past week. 

It had taken a long while of holding the flickering flame over the cotton until it finally seemed to burn, to which the both of you watched the pile of clothing contort under the growing flames. You’d scrunched your nose at the rather woodsy smell, and when the fire had died down to leave just a pile of crinkly ash, you stood to your height and looked at the boy. 

“Ready?”

Your face was framed by the high afternoon sun, the baby hairs that poked out of your braids exposed by the backlight. He just looked at you that way for a few seconds, before standing up and following your lead. 

“You’ll like the lake. It’s better than roasting out here in the Sun,” You were focused on filling any awkward silences with conversation, even if it wasn’t reciprocated. “Someone tied a tire to a tree, God knows how many years ago. We could go there, if you want. I like to swing myself into the water from it, but once, my foot got stuck before I jumped and I fell face-first onto the ground. I’m still spitting out the mud I ate.”

It had been the first of many times you’d earn a chuckle out of him. He nods in approval to your plans for the evening, hand scratching the back of his shoulder. 

“Uh, by the way. My name is Eddie.”

She had a stroke two days ago. 

You always made sure to call her every night, despite the differences in time zones. Catch her before she goes to bed, and no matter what you were busy with, there was always a spot in your schedule for your poor mother. 

It had been strange that she didn't pick up. And, the next morning, you got the dreaded call.

When you’d dropped out of college after just a few months of classes, because you just knew that it wasn’t your calling, she’d supported your decision. Even if she’d been the one striving for you to get a degree, she did not shun your dreams of trying to build a music career. Your mom had been your first fan, and also the first person you’d called when the opportunity to sign into the record deal arose. When you started seeing your first payments flow in from your debut, more money than you’d ever seen together in your sorry life, your priority purchase had been the biggest suburban dreamhouse in all of Hawkins, all for your mother to enjoy. Then, you’d hired the best lawyers money could afford, and they had once and for all finalized her divorce. 

Because she deserved it all and more. For up to twenty years, she’d endured every punch life threw at her: the family kicking her out and cutting her off when they discovered her pregnancy. An abusive husband, who broke hell loose whenever he was home, whom she was financially dependent on. Raising a daughter on her own in a rundown trailer park. 

She’d barely been living life the way she should’ve for a few years. And now, it had been ripped from her in a second. It wasn’t fair. 

Your mother’s new house hadn’t been your childhood home, but a wave of nostalgia still hit you the second you crossed the entrance hall. The lights and heating were off. A thin layer of dust had started to settle on the furniture she always cleaned spotless. It kept everything static, made the house look like it’d been abandoned for years - even if the last picture of it had been taken hours ago. 

You had strolled into the living room to see your mother’s armchair, the only possession she'd insisted on keeping when you got her moved out of that trailer. It had always been her spot: you remembered coming back from school during winters, wrapped in your coat and handmade scarf, to find your mother knitting new ones for you and your friends while sitting on her seat. Now, the shape of her is imprinted on the leather, her blanket still draped over the armrest. Like she'd been using it on her very last day. 

And you wept.

Shamelessly, you broke down, sitting on the lazy boy that still smelled of her perfume. The blanket was also old, the same she'd draped over your shoulders the countless times you had late nights on the sofa, never daring to wake you up. Cried it all away, even if you knew the peering neighbors had seen you arrive, uttering those dreaded four words as they watched from behind their curtains. Is it really her?, they'd ask their loved ones, before getting ready to come knocking on the door.

The thought of it made your head spin, unsure if to seethe with rage or accept everyone's condolences with the candour they themselves lacked. Because, even if you knew that town was full of good people, your mother had previously mentioned between laughs how ‘everyone had started talking to her when her daughter became a superstar’. You'd spent enough years in the industry to realise how many people had hidden intentions, and it made your blood boil to think anyone would try to gain something off of your mother's death.

After all, that had been the first time in seven years you'd decided to step foot in your hometown. The reason wasn't your newfound celebrity status. It was much deeper, and even if your mother wasn't aware of every detail, she'd abided by your wishes, and always packed her bags and boarded the private jets you sent her way to meet you at whatever city you found yourself in. She'd been happy to do it that way, even if she knew you could have her moved into the most lavish house in the LA Hills she could choose. But she liked the familiarity of Hawkins, and its people. You always respected her choice. 

As you'd expected, people had come knocking, but you didn't dedicate much time to those whose names your mother had never uttered. If they truly respected her, they would show up at the funeral. It gets to a point where you stop answering the door, until the incessant knocking and ringing of someone woke you on your first morning.

Joyce Byers stood on your doorstep with her usual alert demeanor, face dropping at the sight of your state. 

“Aw, honey. You need a pick-me-up.”

And so you let her in without question, watching her get a carafe going after insisting that a coffee would do you good. 

You knew Joyce well, and appreciated her for her casual way of taking care of you. She’d known your mom for years now. When you became a preteen, your father had decided to stop terrorising you on the daily, instead taking the long road and disappearing for months on end. Partially rid of her husband, your mother was allowed to get a job over at Melvald’s General store, where she’d met Joyce. Their similar situations made them click instantly. 

“Thank you, Mrs Byers,” Despite the familiarity and your age, it was hard to ignore the formality of addressing adults your mother had once taught you. “Or, I guess it’s Mrs Hopper now, no?”

Joyce hands you over the mug, smile as warm as the dark coffee swirling inside it. “Oh, yeah. But you can just call me Joyce, there’s no need for all that,” She sits beside you at the kitchen aisle, palm slipping around her own cup. 

After ages of playing cat and mouse, Joyce and Chief Hopper had finally tied the knot, a bit over a year ago. Of course, ever since you’d left the town, your mom had been a dutiful informant of the relationship both had - a painful slowburn, indeed - which culminated in the both of you being invited to their wedding. Your mom had attended the quaint ceremony as a bridesmaid, which had made her absolutely giddy. You, however, had terrible scheduling problems to make it to Hawkins, and sent the pair a tasteful gift to apologise for your absence. 

Rather guiltily, you hadn’t made much of an effort to try and clear a spot in your calendar. But you did not want to return to your hometown, much less with the notion that unwanted faces might’ve listened to your recently released music.  

“She told me it was a beautiful day,” You muse, giving her a tired smile. “I felt terrible that I couldn’t make it, Joyce, but I…”

“We understood,” Her free hand falls over your forearm, and you immediately cease your rambling. “Hell, you live a busier life now than any of us here. And both Hop and Jonathan love that goddamn stereo more than anything: you should listen to how the thing makes the house shake when Jonathan blasts any of his music. Like we’re at the movies.”

Laughter helps lighten the mood slightly, although Joyce doesn’t remove her hand from you. Here came the hard part. You’d been dreading it, avoiding her gaze by staring at the ray of light that poured in from the kitchen window. It framed a golden rectangle on the floor tiles, dust particles backlit as they danced through the atmosphere. 

Joyce breathes in. “I’m so sorry that I had to make that call.”

“You know how we'd always go for coffee early in the mornings, even if she was not working at Melvald’s anymore. It was weird how she wouldn’t answer the door, so obviously, I got worried,” She swallows. “Especially knowing she lived on her own.”

Her use of past tense tears a piece of your heart away, chin dipping more into your neck. “I-I called Hop to come as quickly as possible. He forced the door open in a second and, when we came in…”

Joyce stops at your sharp inhale, a tear streaming down your cheek. 

Somehow, this was your fault. Not raising alarms when she hadn’t answered the phone the night prior, being so far away, leaving her alone. You knew how it was impossible to live the life you lead while keeping such close tabs on your mother: you had your own never-ending list of problems to deal with, and as another adult woman, she didn’t need to be babied. But you still felt guilty. 

“Sweetheart,” It’s as if she can hear your thoughts, quickly offering a paper towel from the counter before you. “It’s hard, I know it is. She was such a good, brave woman. But I just want to lay it out there that you shouldn’t torture yourself over what happened, alright?”

You’d spent the morning crying in Joyce’s arms, soul slightly warmer at the comforting embrace of another mother. You’d both shared tears and stories until you physically couldn’t drop any more, sticky streaks staining your cheeks as you silently stared at the ceiling. 

Joyce watched as your body lay atop the armrests of your mother’s lazy boy, blanket clutched in your hold. She’d experienced it with both her sons. No matter how old they got, in what missing a mother concerned, they all turned into little kids. 

“The wake is this afternoon,” You suddenly speak up, to no one at all, since Joyce and half the town already knew of your plans. “The funeral home took care of almost everything. Just the funeral to plan out.”

Joyce swallows before shifting in her seat, clearly conflicted on how to approach the next topic. “Your mother and I shared almost everything. You already know that.”

No response. She wasn’t expecting any. “...So, she did tell me how you never wanted to return back to Hawkins.”

Your brows pull together in worry, eyelids shutting softly. 

“I understand how you may have your reasons,” Joyce continues, “But if you want my advice, you should try to take a walk down memory lane. Visit some old friends, you know?”

“Do I know you?”

The cashier’s voice pulls you from your daydream, all too focused on the distant hum of the local radio station. The latest pop hit barely buzzes from the low-set speakers.

“Maybe,” You clear your throat, avoiding her gaze despite the dark tortoiseshell sunnies already masking you. “I used to live ‘round here.”

“Huh,” She's an older woman, sporting glossy red gel nails and a puffy perm, both impeccable - despite the poor state of her uniform. “That's funny. Coulda’ sworn I'd seen ya’ on a magazine cover, darlin’.”

“Thank you,” You chuckle at the compliment, readjusting the silk scarf hiding your hairdo. “Got quite a few celebrity doppelgangers.”

She scrutinises your face for a few seconds more before turning to the register. “It's $1.25, baby.”

“$10 on pump 2 as well, please.”

“$11.25, then.”

Slapping a 20 on the counter, you grab the coke and donut that lay there and walk out of the dingy gas station. Thank God she hadn't seen your car. She would've probably asked many more questions.

Glittery under the afternoon sun, the Convertible Cadillac DeVille stands proudly next to your chosen pump. Once, you’d been a kid living in the dodgiest trailer park in Hawkins, watching much wealthier folk occasionally drive by from your torn lawnchair. There was a kid in town with that same Caddy, painted a fiery-red color. He was on the basketball team, and your lab partner Paige spent every Chemistry lesson drooling over him. You, however, had always been more interested in his car. 

It had been a no-brainer when you’d started to amass what began as a little fortune, and decided for your first splurge to be your very own 1965 Cadillac, painted your favorite color. Many other cars came after that, every single one you’d once seen and wished to have their wheels under your grasp. But the Cadillac has always been your favorite. She had to be the one you took on such a trip down memory lane. 

Gas sloshes into the tank as you hold the pump, discreetly looking around. The fact that you’d chosen that specific gas station for your pit stop didn’t just correlate with the fact that you hadn’t had any breakfast - in fact, the reason was that it was the one isolated just at the outskirts of town, surrounded by a mass of forest. 

For the time being, you wanted to avoid being spotted in public as much as possible. You didn’t know for how long your stay in Hawkins was to be prolonged, but the last thing you needed during those days was for a flurry of paparazzi to post behind your mother’s well-kept flower beds. Life in the city got crazy, and you knew for a fact that some people did not respect the bounds of privacy at all. Even in the most grim of circumstances. 

Shayla, your manager, had advised that you take some sort of protection with you - assign some bodyguards to post by the door, a private taxi service in the driveway - but you’d been insistent on making the trip on your own. Your car had been waiting after the jet had landed in Indianapolis, and you announced that you could take it from there. After all, under the blanket of stardom, you were still a normal person, and you had to deal with normal troubles like most normal people did: by yourself. 

You don’t even have the energy to hop into the driver’s seat, a movie-esque maneuver you always liked to pull when the Cadillac was out of the garage. Instead, you just slide into the car and drive away quietly, fishing the donut from its paper-bag confines and taking a hearty bite. Both your dietitian and trainer would simultaneously faint if they saw you right now, you were sure of that. But it was your cheat day - or week. Maybe month. 

Coke fizzles out when your manicured nails pull on the tab, which you make sure to slurp up before anything spills on the leather seats. Rows of trees pass you by, breeze flowing into your impromptu headscarf, its end waving up and down like a proud flag. As your index finger finds the radio button, a familiar voice blares out of the speakers. It’s you. 

The record label had no telling how Vega had been such a hit - it was not as pop infused, and quite a slower, more romantic take in your third album. Its meaning was also quite convoluted and talked about - countless interviewers had tried prying it out of you, but Vega was your most personal song to date. You wanted to keep it as such, given that most of your life was now so shrouded in scrutiny. 

The public adored it, and radio stations kept it popular enough that the album remained a top-seller for ages, even two years after its release. You’d thought Valentine’s Day 1989 would’ve made it reach its peak on Billboard’s Hot 100, but the trend repeated even more widely in 1990, and recently so in the current year. Your love song, the one you'd kept tightly hidden in the lyric notebook you used during your teenage years, had become every lover’s classic. 

You never knew how to feel about it. Some would be relieved at the fact that they weren't alone in experiencing such complex feelings. But certain emotions would never cease to feel personal - especially, as you ride into your childhood town with the purpose of burying your mother. 

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Eddie had never been a religious man, and he didn’t believe he’d ever get a bout of sudden faith. But he did thank whoever was looking down at him for their granted small miracles, such as the fact that Ronnie had just fallen asleep against the car window. 

He loved his son to death, sure, but nobody was trained to handle the sugar rush a four-year-old’s birthday party could induce. Eddie's face had been drained of any color when he arrived at the park to find a crowd of screeching children being fed sodas, candies, and frosted cake; enough sugar to provide for a whole street full of bakeries. 

But Eddie hadn’t complained, even if his inner voice might’ve been cursing a string of colorful choice words when he’d seen Ronnie attempt a double backflip while hopping on the bouncy castle. He’d been wildly excited when Tommy had slipped him a hand-drawn invitation during recess, so much so, he’d come back home insisting for it to be hung on the fridge door alongside his own drawings. 

The reason why? Well, Eddie had heard it said somewhere that the Devil made the small town, and his whole existence had been chock-full of proving that statement right again and again. Whispers about his father’s behaviour, after his mother passed away, and when Wayne gained custody of him. Arriving in highschool like he’d been plucked out of juvie, head razored and wearing a permanent scowl that, associated to his last name, made him the one person to avoid in the halls… which then twisted into the discovery of his real self: a nerdy headbanger who spent rainy afternoons playing fantasy games with the friends he’d made in high school, and people found other ways to tease. The talk was relentless and unstoppable. 

He’d thought things would fizzle out with him. That he’d be the one to finally put an end to the Munson curse by raising his own child the right way. But he’d failed to recognise the fact that people held biases. Stupid, selfish, rotten biases. 

Full brown eyes find his son’s shut ones through the rearview mirror, eyelashes fluttering with exhaustion. Who could ever deny a thing to such a face? And yet, Ronnie had kicked and screamed as Eddie had tried to tie that same little seatbelt months ago, which turned out to be because some kid had not invited him to her birthday party. Eddie had to white-knuckle the wheel at Ronnie’s quiet sniffles, avoiding showing any anger before him. 

So, yes, he’d driven Ronnie to the park with a smile earlier in the day, despite fearing the turnout of a kid who would be too hyper to even consider sleeping that night. He felt bad, knowing it would be Wayne’s turn to deal with the fallout, given that he had to work until dawn. But if Ronnie was happy, he was happy, too. Even happier at the fact that he seemed to have burnt all the extra energy by running around in the grass, and immediately skipped to the deep-sleep phase of his high the second he was done rambling about all the fun things he’d done all day. God bless Harrington’s idea to hire a whole inflatable jungle-gym. That guy knew a thing or two about babysitting. 

The trailer park was as quiet as ever during sundown. Sometimes, Eddie came to miss the calm which you could breathe in when being surrounded by nature, now relegated to living adult life in a dingy set of apartments. Forest Hills wasn’t the beacon of luxury, but it had become his first real home. Away from eviction notices and midnight cop visits, always forced to stay very still in the cot his father called a bed whenever a pair of officers would come knocking due to some neighbor’s complaint. To him, Wayne’s trailer would always mean security. 

In his usual fashion, Uncle Wayne had heard Eddie's car pulling up and was already outside to greet his boys - he also fully expected to have to aid his nephew in taming Hurricane Ronnie, but he's greeted with the pleasant sight of the boy snoozing in the backseat. 

“How?” Is the only thing he manages to stammer out, even before a greeting, when Eddie walks around the car to get Ronnie out. “Didn't you say he had a birthday party?”

Eddie shrugs, untying Ronnie's seatbelt with a delicacy similar to someone defusing a bomb. “He ran until he dropped,” He concluded, resting the boy's head on his shoulder and walking towards the trailer. “You should've seen him when I got there. Looked like a feral Gremlin.”

At that, Wayne can’t help but let out a soft chuckle, following both father and son inside. He doesn’t need to motion for Eddie to make his way towards the bedroom - back when he’d started living with his Uncle, he’d been insistent on turning it over to him, but it was now back to being Wayne’s property. Still, the man was hell-bent on letting Ronnie take the bed whenever he had to sleep over, while he relegated to the couch or his ‘good ol’ cot’. 

Eddie exits the room with quiet feet, letting out a silent breath of relief. “Crisis averted. You’re lucky, old man.”

“Dunno how that’s even possible, but I’m thankful for it. Picked an extra mornin’ shift at the plant tomorrow,” He huffs. “For the kid’s birthday. Need to be out by dawn.”

“6 works for me,” Eddie mutters in response, mindlessly strolling over to the fridge to fish out a can of beer. “Just make sure he sleeps through the night. I can handle it from there.”

Wayne Munson scans his nephew from head to feet. His style had changed minimally when he transformed into an adult, still sporting his long curls, band t-shirts and ringed fingers. But actual, physical work, as well as having a kid of his own, had toned his build out of the lankiness of his teenage years - as well as given him some early expression lines. 

He grumbles something out of Eddie’s earshot: Saturday nights tended to be like this. Only he and some of his nephew’s close friends were wise to Eddie’s precarious financial situation - juggling two jobs during school months, if that one could even be considered as such. 

“You gotta stop with this nonsense,” He finally declares, and Eddie doesn’t need to listen to a second more of it to know what this was about. “You can’t raise a kid while one of your streams of income is sellin’ drugs. You know what they could do to Ron if you ever got caught?”

But he dismisses it in return, placing the can on the counter. “Rick knows I can’t sell hard stuff. That way, if I do get caught, Hopper won’t do more than give me a slap on the wrist,” He mimics the action, shaking his head. “I only sell pot. And I need these night shifts to actually make a profit on that.”

“It’s too dangerous, Eddie.”

“It’s what has to be done,” He cuts in immediately, eyes suddenly hard and avoidant. “I can’t feed, clothe, house and spoil a kid off the Rollin’ Records minimum wage. It’s just a pick-me-up.”

Wayne knew that the answer for his query was to cut some expenses, but Eddie was far too tough-headed to give in. He liked having the ability to give Ronnie everything he wanted, whenever it was within the bounds of possibility, and that was what the drug dealing was all about. A bump on the piggy bank. 

But as Ronnie got bigger, so did his needs and wants, yet Eddie couldn’t just keep accepting riskier jobs for heftier cuts. Wayne had offered for him to pick some shifts at the plant, given that he was able to work two jobs on the days where he took care of Ronnie, but he’d declined. Of course, drug dealing gave him a much larger margin than he’d ever get working any other side gig. 

It wasn’t as if Eddie enjoyed having to deal pot to make a decent living, which seemed to be the way Wayne sometimes phrased it, and it annoyed him. Ronnie and him should’ve been living in some mansion in LA by now, his kid being coddled and spoiled rotten, while Eddie slept with the relaxing notion that millions of dollars sat safely in his bank account from his success as a music star. But life was a bitch, and it always kept aces up its dirty sleeves. He’d learnt that lesson quite early on. 

Stirring the conversation around, Eddie glances through the familiar interior of the trailer. Nothing had changed since he left, except for the apparition of some objects relating to Ronnie’s frequent visits: scattered toys in a corner, the straw cup he’d forgotten last week, and a little scarf hanging next to Wayne’s jacket. Then something catches Eddie’s attention. 

“What’s all this?” Big leaps take him out of the kitchen and towards that same coat rack, where an ironed suit with its shirt and tie had been laid. “Is this…”

“The same one I let you back in ‘84,” Eddie remembered it clearly. He’d spent the day rummaging through a thrift store bin just to come home with his cheeks as pink as two ripe cherries, having to explain to his uncle that he wanted a suit to go to prom. Thankfully, he hadn’t asked many questions, and just pulled the piece out of the confines of his closet with a knowing smile. “Still holds up after some good ironing.”

“Who’s getting married? Haven’t gotten an invite.”

But despite Eddie’s mocking tone, Wayne’s response never comes, causing him to turn around and look at his silent uncle. Wayne stared back with a somber, almost spooked expression, one hand laid on the kitchen counter. 

“You haven’t heard?”

Heard what? 

“You’re scaring me.”

Second strike. Wayne doesn’t chuckle nor dismiss his worry, but rather breathes in, an indication that he should be scared. 

“I think you remember our neighbor,” Wayne’s uttering of the familiar last name sends a chill through Eddie’s spine. He hadn’t heard it in years - but recently, he thought of it more often than he should. “Well, at least before she got moved out to that big house on Maple Street.”

Wayne takes Eddie’s shift in expression as affirmative. “She passed away last night. Stroke. I…”

A haze of white covers Eddie’s vision, stumbling as he barely manages to sink into the couch. Wayne drones on about how he’d been thinking of attending the funeral, but he seems distant as Eddie’s mind travels far and wide, away from the current moment happening in the trailer. 

Her mother had always been good to him. She had so much love to give to just one person in that whole world - she was never able to divorce her husband, who just stayed out of the picture for most of the time. That woman only had her daughter… until her daughter met him, and she had no doubts to take Eddie under her wing. It didn’t matter how damaged he looked, how horrible of an influence he always seemed to be to every other parent he met - she liked him. Was it weird to have come to think of her as the only motherly figure he’d ever had, after his own late mom?

Yet again, life kept playing tricks. She was still young, and had recently started living life the way she deserved. It was all kept pretty under wraps, but news travelled fast in Hawkins. Good lawyers and detectives forced her husband to sign those papers, and she was free. How fast things could turn for the worse. 

“...Son?”

The Ghost of Firenze Series

This goes out to all my AC girls, I have not forgotten about you! Part 5 is in the works and it is the longest one to date by a LOT. Just to compare it to Heed His Call, which currently is the longest out of the series with 2,2k words, what I have already written for part 5 adds up to 5k words, and it is only around 50% of what I have planned for it.

I've decided to take my time and make it longer because part 5 might be the last installment in the series, unless I write some sort of epilogue after it to fully wrap the story up. It is pretty content heavy and it finally gets to the part we are all waiting for.

A little sneak peak, straight from the doc:

What comes after this? Well, I have another unfinished Ezio oneshot which I plan on finalizing and touching up as soon as part 5 is complete, and as I said, I'll think about the idea of an epilogue for the series. That's all I've got to say about Ezio (for now).

Semper et in Aeternum

One full week is too long of a wait already! I'd say chapter 10 is even bigger than 9 in what lore concerns. There will be a lot of talking, a new character introduced who I am personally obsessed with, and a lot of newlywed business.

Chapter 10 is more than halfway done, amounting to a whopping 5,2k words of mostly dialogue after the constant descriptions of chapter 9. I have done as much progress as I possibly could on the fic this week, but I have been absolutely flooded with responsibilites. The chapter will come out as soon as possible, I can promise you that!

Another sneak peak:

New Additions

This part is exciting, especially for those who follow me because they enjoy Joseph Quinn's characters: I am finally cracking open the file of Eddie fics and posting them to the public! There are two main ones which I'd like to focus on, each with stories differing more or less from the original canon, but I can say that both will be slow-burn multichapters.

For now, I'll only release and write one of them. There are 5 chapters already finished (~15k words), and after writing down an overall plan of where I expect to take the story, I think it'll take around 27-30 chapters to complete.

Watch out for the first chapter, released right after I finish writing this post! The concept for that fic is just incredibly fun to write, and I feel like it'll make for a really cute story. I'm excited to continue it!

Once again, I have to thank you all for the support and for reading this fully. <3

It had only been a matter of time. 

While you had looked up and down the room for the ring all morning, a voice in the back of your head reminded you that it was something that was bound to happen, especially after Geta had found out the day before. The few tears you’d dropped had quickly dried up, no longer able to feel sorry for yourself. 

The wedding was tomorrow. 

With Acacius’ ring gone, his promise before departing to Numidia seemed distant. There was no news of him, at least none which was transmitted to you, and time was running out. You’d be Geta’s for the rest of your days, and there was no doubt in your mind that a general in shining armour wouldn’t appear to stop the wedding to come. 

Even if that happened, what would Acacius do? A coup over a woman who’d lost all recognition of her name? With your father and brother damned and your estates pawned off, you were exactly what Geta wanted: a no-one. Someone who’d have to either choose him, or beg on the streets for charity. The choice was clear as day. 

You’d been allowed half a day of peace, using the rest of your morning to soak yourself in the Palace’s balneum before being taken to Gratinia’s villa, an army of ornatrices and bridesmaids behind you. Tradition called for the bride to sleep in her family’s house the night before her betrothal, but obviously, your family’s house did not belong to them any longer, so they’d had to redirect you to the closest thing possible. 

Gratinia had come outside to greet the parade with a grim expression, the wrinkles on her face starkly more prominent since the last time you’d seen her. 

“My dear,” she’d offered her hands out in a maternal hug, and that was the first time that week when you finally allowed yourself to come completely undone. You cry into her shoulder as servants around you bustle with carrying boxes of food, garments and accessories into the villa. 

“You’re just stressed out,” She patted your hairdo carefully, avoiding tangling her rings with your braids. “Just that. You’re nervous. Let it all out.”

She couldn’t say much else. It wasn’t as if Geta would’ve given you even a single night of freedom, not after the Games’ fiasco: you’d been assigned your own personal Praetorian bodyguards, who did not stray further than just a few metres from you. Not only were they commanded to watch you while you slept to make sure you did not do anything stupid, they had clear instructions to listen in on every conversation you had. You’d been told there would be trouble if a word in relation to ‘the General in Numidia’ was mentioned, much less daring to speak ill of the Emperor for just one second.

Still, there was a sadness you could feel in Gratinia’s eyes when she looked at you, and it told you everything you needed to know. She knew. But she could not do anything about it. 

That night, a feast was organized in Gratinia’s villa, sister to the one being hosted in the Palace at the same time. Your celebration counted with some of the members of the bridal party, those who would accompany you in procession to the palace the morning after: Gratinia, some members of the Senate which were closest to her, magistrates, bridesmaids; the list of unknown faces seemed endless, as you are given the honour of presiding the table for that one night only. It doesn’t really matter being surrounded by strangers, as looking around you and not recognising anyone just makes you feel that much lonelier. 

It wasn’t as if you’d ever counted with a large family or plenty of friends, but life before Geta had been much more colorful in that sense. You had some female companions, daughters of patricians whose villas were close to yours in the outskirts of Rome, whom you’d always imagined would be part of your bridal party on the day of your betrothal. Instead, their families now probably despised yours, and they’d talk about your royal wedding with nothing good to say about it.

You’d pictured you and your older brother getting over your sibling banter as he carried you past the threshold, now both as mature adults, so he’d recognise you as an equal to him. Had always imagined how your father would watch you part, on the day of your wedding, and finally see you as something else other than a disappointment: his daughter, who’d finally made him as proud as the second son he had always wished for. 

It was all impossible now. You finally assumed that as you excused yourself to bed early, between drunken cheers and a million wishes for a good night’s sleep. You had to count your losses if you wanted the rest of your life to be tolerable. The idea seemed unreal as you slipped into your new, decorated tunica recta and collapsed onto the mattress, lacking the decorum of a real empress even with the knowledge that two Praetorians were watching through the cracked door. 

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The morning after, you were woken out of a terrible sleep by two big-eyed ornatrices. 

“It is time, My Lady.”

From then onwards, you only left the room for a quick and quiet bath at Gratinia’s balneum. You didn’t even share breakfast with the growing crowd downstairs, trays full to the brim with fruits, honey, and pastries all being put at your disposal in your chambers as dexterous women worked their magic around you. Two arranged the rest of your clothing to remove any wrinkles while another two prepared your accessories. Drusilla, the main ornatrix in charge of you while you were living in the Palace, dedicated herself to applying ointments and pigments on your face, asking you what scented oil you’d want rubbed into your skin before getting back into your tunica recta. And if that all wasn’t enough stimulation, three other girls crowd around your hair, dividing locks with a spearhead and braiding in the traditional seni crines. 

You focus on the cool feeling of the hasta caelibaris being dragged along your skull, over and over again, as you relax into the hairstyle normally used by Vestal Virgins. Those young girls gave their lives to keeping the goddess’ flame alive, renouncing the usual duty of marriage to live a life of prayer and celibacy. It was the reason why the seni crines were commonly used by brides on their wedding days, hair woven into six braids and woolen vittae bands representing the purity of a woman before being wedded. 

It almost makes you laugh, thoughts running back to the rainy afternoon where everything went south. Your time with Acacius, then sneaking back into the Palace to see that passion returned tenfold by Geta himself. You felt guilty. There were so many traditions being poured into that wedding, when your union was nothing but unorthodox and ill-fated. Even the auspices had failed to come up with a favorable date for the celebration which presaged good omens, but coercion seemed to miraculously steer even the will of the Gods themselves. 

Only they knew how long you remained sitting on that lounge chair, hearing as more and more members of the bridal party gathered downstairs while chatting animatedly about the ceremony to come. It sounded like a plentitude of people, more than you could even count with four or five sets of hands, all waiting to get a first look of the Emperor’s mysterious bride to be. Your father had been well known, but you were a stranger to all until the news of the wedding had spread across the Empire. The expectation, especially from those who had travelled from different provinces only to be in Rome for the week of celebrations, was almost palpable from the comfort of your chambers. 

Without stop, makeup and hair turned to clothing and decking you in jewelry. The tunica recta you slept in was the same one you’d wear as a base layer, made of the finest white silk and embroidered in gold by the hems of its skirt. Usually, it was a garment made out of one piece of fabric, woven by the bride herself to demonstrate her prowess at domestic chores. As the future Empress, however, the simplicity of a plain tunica recta was discarded immediately by the Palace, instead offering you the opportunity to craft a small, ‘symbolic’ piece which would be tied under your belt. You had refused. 

More layers of embroidered silk had been added over the simple garment, to create an illusion of flowing symbols across the draped fabrics. It was all tied by a nodus Herculeus: the first and actual one, also laced with golden threads, was smaller and tied by Gratinia herself. Then, an adorned belt made of gold and incrusted jewels was clasped over it, with its buckle being an image of the same type of knot. 

Cascading necklaces made out of pure gold and jewels, bangles, earrings: they were placed on you like decorations, their heavy weight reminding you of their quality. It was clear that no expense had been spared in luxuries, despite the fact that you had never asked for any of it. 

Finally, the moment of placing the flammeum comes, and you stand still while the fire red veil is draped over your carefully styled hair. It is held in place with a golden crown, molded and jewel-studded into the shapes of traditionally worn flowers and leaves. You can hear the girls whispering as you come together, soft hands adjusting fabrics and accessories with millimetric precision. Their smiles are soft and proud when they finally stand back to look at you, right as one of them reaches for a bigger mirror, around the size of a human torso. 

You cannot hold the small gasp you let out. You were unrecognizable. 

The closet Geta had provided upon your arrival at the Palace had been laughable, almost a taunt at your insistence to oppose his attempts to make you another one of his skimpily clothed courtesans. This, however, was the first time you had actually felt like what your soon to be title indicated: the Empress of Rome. It was hard to admit, but you’d never looked better. 

Beckoned by the ornatrices, your bridesmaids had the same reaction to your stunning transformation, immediately rushing to gush and compliment you on your beauty. You’d always known you were a good looking woman, but you’d never received this type of attention from anyone. It would only be cemented as they helped you out of the room and down the stairs, multiple of them tasked with properly arranging the embroidered ends of the long, draping sunset veil. 

Shocked faces and nods of approval reign the silence as you step down and out to the indoor patio of the villa, surrounded by too many faces to count. Women sighed dreamily and men looked at you a bit too intently as you walked past, head held high despite the conflicted feelings in your heart. 

Seeing Gratinia’s reaction to your bridal attire reminds you of your first night in Rome, how she’d called you a princess when you’d come down the stairs that night. It felt like a whole life has passed since that moment, and despite the fact that you barely have a deep relationship with her, she is the only trace of familiarity left in your life. She knows this too, and the shared thought makes that stern woman drop a single tear at the sight of you.

Between murmurs and smiles, you let your great aunt hug you tightly, hearing her words whispered through the thin veil. 

“I’m sorry.”

You just shook your head when you pulled back, offering a half-hearted smile. 

“We have got to get going.”

That same Praetorian commander who had led the raid into your house that night was the same one who’d stand in front of the procession, guarding the Emperor’s future bride. You’d learned his name was Tegula. 

“You don’t have to be so impatient.”

Your feelings about him were complicated. He’d been ruthless that day, but every time the commander looked at you, there was a visible trace of sadness in his eyes. The kind which could only stem from guilt. Still, that didn’t mean you planned on being any kinder to him: men like him who were too scared to stand up to what was wrong were nothing but cowards in your eyes. 

He’d immediately straightened up at your words, like he’d suddenly remembered you’d soon have more power to hold over him. He mumbles a meek ‘whenever you’re ready’ and just commands his men to the door, calling for the first part of the procession to organize outside. 

The idea of having to perform the domum deductio had been ridiculous from the second you’d been presented with it. After all, you’d never met your mother, your father had been exiled, and you’d already been kidnapped out of your childhood home. The whole thing was a travesty, but yet again, you didn’t get a say over tradition: you just waited until you were told to leave the house through the main door, letting go of Gratinia’s hand as she waited to trail behind you with the rest. 

Setting a slow pace, you hear the immediate cheers and gasps of the crowd outside when you start walking out of the villa. A Vestal Virgin waits by the entrance, holding out an unlit torch with a peaceful smile. You take it mindlessly and hover the end over a closeby fire pit, which makes the flame come to life before you hand her the object back. Nodding her head with respect, she takes her place in front of you, holding the torch solemnly.

The procession had commenced. 

Gratinia’s house was located in one of Rome’s wealthiest areas, where the neighbouring houses were as beautifully extravagant as hers. It makes for a scenic walk, especially when you notice that all of their fronts have been decorated by their owners with crowns of laurel, olive, and myrtle; a show of respect and admiration towards the Imperial house. You wonder if a notice had been issued to the public to make the decoration of everyone’s homes mandatory, as you walk down the street and every single one is done-up to varying degrees: surely, with the way Geta and Caracalla ran Rome, most of her inhabitants outside of that neighbourhood wanted nothing less than to show good grace towards the Emperors without coercion. 

Still, it was a usually tranquil residential area, which means the street is not too wide. Members of the upper class line in thin rows by the edges of the cobblestone path, cheering and swaying along to the procession march carried by a leading band of flutes and horns. 

A quick glance back reveals the sheer length of your veil, which is finally extended fully on the ground behind you as a troupe of bridesmaids undo any crease which may form in an instant. It might’ve been crazy, but you swore they followed you at least the length of two whole beds behind, where the decorated ends of the veil rested. Surely, the piece dragged and pulled on your head enough to believe this was its real magnitude, as well as the evidently stunned faces observers made when they caught a glimpse of the never-ending fabric.

A knot formed inside your stomach, added to the growing collection of mixed feelings hatching inside you. That whole circus of a wedding, which was just grandiose to overcompensate and distract from the fact of how it had come to be, probably cost the Empire an amount of denarii your mind would never comprehend. You were sure that, if you counted just the price of all the gold jewelry and luxury fabrics on you, you’d be able to feed every child begging at the entrance of the city for a whole year - or even longer. 

Guilt consumes you as you take step after step, in a trance so deep that the obnoxious sounds of music and celebration have all been substituted by your slippers hitting the ground. Your slippers, even those were expensive, made out of the most premium saffron-dyed leather and studded with rocks. Emeralds and rubies, both on your feet and dragging across the ground while studded into your flammeum. 

Far from partaking in the problem which haunted Rome by attending those fated Games, you were now a direct part of the issue, something you could’ve never imagined on the day you rode into the city. 

However, it is not until you get out of the quiet neighbourhoods and into the main road leading to the Palace that you realize just how deep that problem roots.  

“Oh my…”

Your whisper to yourself is uncontainable as you snap out of your temporary haze, immediately engaging your hearing to the thousands of voices breaking into raucous cheering at the sight of you. It almost makes you want to stop on your tracks and admire it - the same force of tens of thousands of chants you’d only heard in the Colosseum before, now directed at you and you only. 

Augusta, they call, along with other laudatory hymns calling for Hymen to bless the prosperity of the union. The crowds are absolute masses now, contained to the sides of the street by marching Praetorians. It’s a scene you knew you’d never see again in your life, especially not from your perspective: White and gold banners sporting imperial motifs had been hung along with garlands, forming inverse arches from column to column and window to window. Hung high above your heads, billowing white draperies cast a pale shadow upon your procession and the people of Rome, some of which rush to the front lines to toss handfuls of rose petals and nuts at you. The sweet smell of flowers mixes with the overpowering incense being burned in every corner. Yet again, you’re starkly reminded that not an expense had been spared, wondering how some higher-standing Romans just decided to throw food to the ground with no hesitation. 

It was all too much, too loud, too fake: the sight of the Palace’s bright-white marble staircase feels like a slap in the face, feeling the push to turn and run far from there. It was those same steps, the ones you’d tripped on the night you ran from the city and also the ones your feet had been dragged through the night you returned as a prisoner, where a seat with an exotic design carved in dark wood awaits you. 

The weird stool has thick wooden handles growing from each of its corners, and the irony of your situation suddenly dawns on you: usually, brides were carried over the threshold of their husband’s home to avoid having them trip as they entered, which was considered a sign of bad luck before delving into their married life. And even if you’d never been too superstitious, you were sure that those stairs had already foretold enough of your unlucky future without the need to care for customs now. 

Still, you are told to sit on the stool, gracefully letting your veil fall behind you as four Praetorians arrange to either side of you. With a small jump, you see yourself lifted as the bridesmaids busy themselves with arranging the flammeum so that it drapes beautifully while you are taken up the stairs. If it weren’t for the painful pull you felt on your head, you’d at least be able to imagine the magnificent scene the rest were witnessing and distract yourself from the fact that the moment had finally come. 

Time seemed to slow down to a tortuous pace as you left the music and chanting behind, carrying yourself into the depths of the Palace. That short moment of tranquility, however, was only temporary: the sounds of yelling had been substituted by the nervous rumbling of a hundred hushed conversations, all housed in the Palace’s ceremonial hall. 

It felt like retracing your past, remembering the night of the feast where you got formally introduced to Geta. That same hall, the one the brothers preferred to house their thrones, had been decked for a proper celebration: the decor resembled the one Rome had been plastered with, if even more exaggerated. The clarity of the flowy banners contrasts the dark marble columns lining the massive hall, a poor attempt at disguising the true evil of that room with images of purity, love, and innocence. You knew the reality of it all; no matter the rows of smiling faces, the perfumed garlands of myrtle and verbena, or the layer of white rose petals laying a path which led directly to him. 

There he stands, directly in front of you, framed by the glow of candlelight which made him look otherworldly. Geta was known for always wearing the finest of garments, but his clothing that day truly made him stand out as more than just the Emperor. 

Strikingly familiar, his tunic seems a sister piece to your own tunica recta, also done in white silk and excessive golden embroidering. However, there was much more of this detail on his toga picta, the most imperial-looking clothing the Emperor could ever wear. You’d thought the one your father had on when receiving his triumphus was made of the richest fabric you’d ever see, but clearly, you did not yet know what the Emperor hid in his closet: the toga looked heavy, even more so than your fiery veil, from the sheer amount of precious metal and incrusted gemstones making up the repeating patterns on the purple fabric. If that wasn’t enough, Geta’s usual affinity to jewelry was truly demonstrated with the choices for bangles and rings he had made, as well as the shiny laurel adorning his head. 

Yet again, the urge to stop on your tracks is ever-present, but you don't even register it before you find yourself directly in front of him. The Emperor seems overtaken by a frightening peace, offering a practiced placid expression to the crowd who watches his reaction to his bride. But you know more, you have learned how to decipher him down to the detail of his dilated pupils, like a predator hunting for its prey: unassuming danger hides behind those pits of black, evidenced by the slight tilt of his lips when you look up at him. So, so helpless. He would have so much fun with you.

A massive altar had been set up as a backdrop, climbing layers of lit candles and offerings to different Gods and Goddesses such as Juno, Venus, Vesta, or the Lares and Penates. Incense and myrrh mix with the sweet scents of flowers, fruits, honey cakes and wine, overwhelming your senses as the Emperor offers a helping hand to climb the steps up to his level. There is just a second of hesitation, a private look exchanged between you and him that mutually transmits anything but love and appreciation to the person standing in front of the other. But you feel a hundred pairs of eyes piercing your back like arrows, and just know that you couldn’t refuse him like that in public. 

Is it the first time he holds your hand? Much different to Acacius’, the Emperor’s fingers have never had to do much of any physical labour, softened by luxury. They’re long and slender, yet his hold is clearly manly when your palm fits into his like broken pieces glued together. It’s those digits, always covered in rings, the ones he had used to tortuously punish you for disobeying him. The thought makes you audibly gulp, and you have a feeling that he can read your mind as you finally step in front of him. 

Face to face, but now, in front of hundreds of witnesses. The last time you’d been left alone with him in that hall, he’d kissed you like a starved man, only for you to spit at his feet for what he had done. The urge to repeat yourself hadn’t disappeared. 

“You look exquisite.”

He doesn’t get the privilege of a response, instead directing your eyes towards the way your bridesmaids arrange for your veil to fall down the altar’s stairs like a sunset upon the sky. 

Once everything is in place, one of the priests from your procession and Gratinia both step up to the altar, positioning themselves before the offerings. If you were not mistaken, that priest was a part of the Temple of Jupiter, who raises his hands with an affable smile. 

“Before starting, I’m sure His Sacred Majesty would like to make a special offering to his bride.”

Geta’s expression remains annoyingly smug, as a servant approaches him before he can even snap his fingers. He carries a small, velvety pillow with a careful hold, from which Geta picks up a familiar object. It shines bright and yellowish, but what looked similar to Acacius’ ring lacked the simple engraving of a handshake, instead replaced by a grotesquely sized emerald.

Silently, he waits for you to offer your left hand to him, which he takes with a surprising delicacy knowing your past together. The piece of jewelry slides snugly into the Vena Amoris finger, which you look at for a second too long. 

“Let us commence.”

A couple of general prayers later, the Jupiter priest turns to Gratinia, who steps up with the decision of an experienced pronuba. “Your right hands.”

She grabs each of them and locks your fingers with a tight squeeze of her own, offering you a pitiful look before stepping aside. It feels constricting, like his digits will turn to snakes who’ll slither their way into every corner of your mind, forever poisoned by their venom. You zero in on the handshake, then trail back to your left hand. The ring stands out brightly, like it is calling your name. It was familiar, it was too familiar…

“My lady?”

The priest’s call snaps you out of your trance, and you notice the furtive look on Geta’s face when you glance back up.

“We cannot continue without your vows of consent,” the priest smiles awkwardly, and a hushed giggle directed at your absorption clearly rings through the crowd. 

“I…”

Consent?

Didn’t he know how Geta had falsified and placed evidence to break your family apart and take you like a war trophy? How he’d sent his other best general on a suicide mission after he dared to pursuit what only he thought he could have? How you’d never given any form of consent before being placed on that altar, in front of hundreds of witnesses of the highest standing? 

How were you supposed to utter those vows, to dirty their sacred meaning? To lie in front of the Gods? To force yourself to feel something you did not feel?

“Say it.”

Low and dangerous, that's how his voice comes out. Geta whispers a final warning only for you to hear, knuckles whitening as he flexes and tightens his hold on your hand. A soft sound of discomfort falls from your parted lips, looking back up at him with tired eyes. 

You had lost those games a long time ago. 

“Ubi tu Gaius, ego Gaia.”

Satisfied, Geta’s smirk returns to his lips. 

“Ubi tu Gaia, ego Gaius.”

Clasping his hands together, it seems as if the priest and the whole crowd lets out the sigh they have been holding. “You can sit down now.”

Both you and Geta sit on some stools as the ceremony continues, but your mind has long strayed far from that moment in time. Completely disassociated, you barely register as the priest makes an offering of cake to Jupiter and cuts both of you a piece, which you eat half-heartedly. 

Once again, you see yourself breaking from a mental haze at the loud cheering offered when the priest announces the union as official, motioning for you to finally stand up. Disoriented, you turn around and face the multitude, unsure of what to do before Geta offers you his hand. 

You take it. 

Congratulations come from every corner of the room when you newlyweds step off the altar together, movements stiff as you take fervent handshakes and congratulatory hugs. You can barely make it though the people and out of the ceremonial hall, knees growing weak the second sunlight hits your face. 

Once again, you’re proven wrong. You’d through the street before was full to the brim, but before you extends a sea of people whose jumps and celebrations are like ripples of water on the shore. The yelling is so loud, you fear you might lose your hearing, eyes widening as the crowds chant for their Caesar and Augusta. 

You feel a tug on your arm. 

“Smile and wave.”

Geta, your husband, raises his free hand in acknowledgement of the masses, but does not spare you a look when he talks to you. 

You’d agreed to his rules while in public, but hearing the chants of Rome made you realize that Geta had given you something he never should’ve: real power. More tangible than the one you held before that whole debacle, after it had been stripped from you. You were the Empress of Rome now. 

A wicked smile slowly spreads on your lips, seeing the pieces fall into place to form the whole mosaic, the bigger picture your mind had clouded before: who else was the most powerful woman in Rome, if not her Empress? Who else had as many liberties? Access to as many mediums as she wanted?

Your whole life was left in the past, that was for certain. It was impossible to undo the knots, to retrace your steps, to prevent what had happened. But being the daughter of a decorated general has taught you about strategy, how lamenting yourself and eating dust time and time again without changing your ways will never amount to anything. Winners aren’t made like that. 

“She is not in her chambers either, Imperator.”

Caracalla snorts out a high-pitched laugh, popping a grape into his mouth. His brother does not appreciate the gesture. 

“I want everyone searching for her until you find and bring her here,” Geta glares across the table while giving orders, before returning to the guards. “It is the last time she’s missing an ientaculum.”

“My Lord, you want us to take her by force?”

The Praetorians almost shrink under Geta’s gaze. “What kind of question is that?”

“Of course, Imperator.”

Geta really did think he’d had to face struggles in his life, despite what some may argue. Especially growing up with an older brother who’d been granted the world with the first breath he took, yet he’d always been jealous of him. Of the fact that they grew to become the rulers they now were, and his father had deemed him unfit to govern alone. Neither Caracalla nor him had ever liked to share, yet they’d been forced to do so for their whole lives, and were bound to keep the charade up until the end of them.

It was no wonder that they’d both morphed into such possessive creatures. The brothers preferred not to step over each others’ toes, as that could seriously deviate into them losing all they had - they were greedy, but not irrational. Besides; why would they ever have to share anything else again, when they had all they could ask for? Everything that roamed the Roman lands was theirs. And if they asked for it, they had it. 

Until she came into the picture, and completely trashed his illusion of ultimate control. 

Geta was growing impatient. Even after the Games week, and the ones following arranging the Pascellius scheme, she was still so far away from him. He had her in his Palace, for the Gods’ sake, and she still wasn't willing to fold.

It wasn’t as if he could do much about it. Despite the liking she’d taken to traversing spots where he could easily find her during the days they met, she’d now somehow become well versed in avoiding him like the plague. She’d skip full days of eating and drinking anything just to spite him with her absence, which not even the servants could seem to resolve. She was always nowhere to be found, unless she wanted to be. 

It was a struggle. And it reminded him of the ones he’d gone through while growing up, while his father was still alive; the one during those last years when he and Caracalla had been ruling jointly, while Geta had been left to watch and seethe from the sidelines. The pain of not getting exactly what he wanted, and being unable to do anything about it. 

“I don’t understand why you wish to marry her.”

Geta’s eyes find his brother from across the table, who’s still eating fruit nonchalantly. “What do we gain from it? You damned her family, there is no political power in the union. She also despises your guts, so I doubt you’re even getting any…”

“You wouldn’t understand it,” He cuts sharply, leaning back into his chair and placing a pensive hand over his mouth. He’d lost his appetite. “You’re not meant to.”

But the tense silence Geta had created was not a permanent one, as his older brother insists on speaking once more. 

“You don’t love her, either.”

Geta’s jaw shifts. “Neither of us are foolish enough to marry for something as trivial as love.”

It wasn’t as if any of the two brothers remembered what that feeling was. They lock eyes across the table, expressions emotionless even despite Caracalla’s teasing hint of a grin. Both really did resemble the other, even if adulthood had brought about some distinguishing features, such as Geta’s taller stature and angled face. 

Yet years ago, when they’d been nothing but kids, they could only have been identified by their eyes - one dark brown, the other clear blue - stark in contrast. Like their personalities. Seemingly similar, but polar opposites. 

Because, despite saying otherwise, Caracalla did understand his brother’s reasons. And even if he’d go around it a different way, he would’ve also been as enraged and restless as Geta. 

“Even though that is true, it’s quite puzzling to see how little you know of the woman you’ve gone through such a struggle to forcefully make your own.”

It only makes the younger one scoff. “What? You think you know more about her? My dear brother, you haven’t even spoken to her.”

Caracalla’s lips curl upwards. “Doesn’t take a great observer to know where she prefers to spend her time away from you.”

The sentence seems to wake Geta from his pensive trance, back straightening to look at his brother. 

“And you do?”

Dramatic, Caracalla sighs. “I thought you knew of what happened that day in our own gardens.”

“I needn’t be reminded of it,” Geta grits out. “Acacius is dealt with. She shouldn’t be dwelling on something that is never going to happen.”

“Can you blame her?”

The youngest emperor just waves his brother off with a flick of his wrist. “This is going nowhere.”

“I was trying to say,” Caracalla lifts his voice, “The spot General Acacius chose to propose was… Endearing. And it has a massive oak tree facing the city from over the Palace walls which she enjoys hiding behind.”

Geta just blinks, suddenly stunned. Right. The place where she’d gotten her ring. 

Acacius considered himself to be a great strategist. And maybe he was, but not outside of an actual battlefield. 

Pulling her aside in the grounds of his palace, disobeying the one rule Geta had settled? Doing so before the noses of two allowing guards (both of which had been dealt with) who’d spilled the secret faster than he could say ‘will you marry me’? Whatever game Acacius had played was doomed to fail from the start. It was so ridiculous, so unintelligent, that the Emperor had never even considered the fact that she might have developed… Well. A rather unbecoming attachment to the memory. 

“Guards!”

His chair screeches as it slides back against the marble, echoing through the room. Two dutiful Praetorians immediately step into the scene, but it isn’t before Caracalla also stands to his full height. 

“Wait!”

Before Geta can say anything, his brother interrupts him once more. “Sending the Praetorians to bring her here won’t help your case.”

The younger Emperor’s head tilts slightly, like that of a curious feline. “Why follow your advice?”

“Because you’re my brother, at the end of the day,” Caracalla retorts. “And everyone else but you seems to notice that your harsh approach won’t win her over!”

Jaw hardening again, Geta takes a few seconds of silent consideration to himself, eyeing the guards who stood still waiting for direct orders. From them, back to his older brother. Most thought it was the opposite way round. Spare the physical differences, Caracalla acted reckless and quite childish sometimes. That was no lie. But there was a deeper side to him; a thinker whose head never stopped machinating, even if some of the thoughts it produced had started to turn irrational in the past few months. His brother was not dumb at all. 

Geta knew it. He was right. 

A gulp of saliva travels down his throat, as hard as trying to swallow a walnut. He turns to the Praetorians. “Go fetch the others. Tell them they are dismissed. I’ll talk to the lady myself.”

“Right away, My Lord.”

The Emperor just stays put for the few seconds it takes the guards to move out of the room, before barging through the doors himself. He wanted to settle things before the sun fully peaked out of the horizon. 

Caracalla watches his brother march on while settling back into his chair, knee flung over the armrest. Another grape pops between his teeth as he giggles to himself. 

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

If there was a perk to living in the Palace, it was the fact that you could make use of its gardens. The only possible good to come of your situation. 

That week had stretched past the rational bounds of time, or so you thought: it felt like a whole month of avoiding Geta had passed, stomach rumbling as you lay in bed at night. It wasn’t just because of your vow to fast in protest - your nerves pooled and swirled in dangerous currents, as your evenings were spent wondering what would be of you once the wedding was finalized. The privilege of a private room would be revoked, that was for sure. You’d have to be seen together in public, too. Would the news get to Acacius before he returned from Numidia? What about your father and brother - had they left the Empire? Were they alive? Would they know of your position?

Constant worries made your head spin, and even if there were plenty of obscure corners to hide inside the Palace walls, you spent your days seeking the comfort of fresh air. Feeling the breeze on your skin and watching the trajectory of the Sun over Rome was how you burned past the hours, wishing you had the strength to climb over the walls limiting the bounds of your new prison. 

Besides, you couldn’t handle being around to watch the preparations for the ceremony. It wasn’t as if you were integral in making decisions, either - the duty of arranging a royal marriage had been granted to everyone else except the bride and groom, and you could be sure it’d be the most grandiose wedding the Empire had ever seen. Still, you couldn’t find a shred of excitement in the thought. 

That morning, you’d returned to your usual spot as soon as you’d opened your eyes, stumbling out of your room in just a sheer robe. All of your new clothes had been provided by the Palace; ‘gifts from the Emperor’, they’d said, which were translucent and flowy garments that left just enough up to imagination. Not even the nightgown with which you’d arrived that night remained. You assumed all of your clothes back home had been burnt in the pile, or pawned off in some foreign land. 

You preferred not to dwell much on that thought, wise to the fact that Geta was trying to rebuild you to his liking from the ground up. He’d stripped you of everything; whether that be physical possessions, loved ones, or even the ability to make a decision. An almost blank slate. And yet, he’d forgotten to take the most obvious thing from you. 

Mindlessly, you’d chosen your preferred hiding spot in the gardens to be right under the tree where Acacius had asked to marry you. While the decision had been made by him and your father, he’d still been gentlemanly enough to ask and measure your reaction, even if it was just an illusion of thought for you. It was more than what you had now. 

Like every day, you’d felt the bark press against your bare shoulders while you lay against the base of the tree. You watched the sky morph from complete darkness to the lilac hues of an early morning, enveloped by the fragrant smell of nearby citrus trees, all the while toying with your engagement ring - yes, the one Acacius had granted you, still a bright-yellow gold and polished thoroughly thanks to all your tinkering. You made sure to sleep with it every night, hidden right under your pillow. After all, it was the last object remaining from your previous life, or rather the one you could’ve had. 

You never bothered measuring how much time you spent outside, but it must’ve been about an hour before you got interrupted, Sun still not fully peeking through.

“Found you.”

His familiar timbre sends a rattling shiver down the length of your spine, immediately scrambling to your feet to face him and put some distance between you. Last time you’d seen Emperor Geta had been two days ago, during dinner. Your denial to speak a single word had angered him heavily.

Geta’s gaze roams your figure, expression perfectly blank as he takes in the sight of you in your robe, silk slipping down past your shoulder. 

“Aren’t you feeling a bit too exposed to the elements?”

“Do you need anything from me?” You spit, cutting him off. Was he really trying to act like he cared about your wellbeing?

His features harden at your defiance, but he makes no hints to move from his position and attempt something stupid. 

“What I need is for my future wife to eat something,” He almost grits out the words, a sentence other good men would’ve uttered in a velvet tone while their protective hand laid on your back. Men like Acacius. “And to stop starving herself to spite me.”

There’s not an attempt to deny his claim, not even to mask it with an excuse. “I do not wish to stand in your vicinity, my Lord.”

“You’re out of luck, then,” He chides. “We’re getting married in two days.”

Taking a breath, the hand which holds Acacius’ ring is tightly shut, knuckles whitening. Rome is barely waking up, red tiled roofs lazily coming back to their original palette as light shines over the city once more. 

He has not moved an inch. You can almost hear Geta’s mind machinating, still as he watches you observe his lands and not provide him with an answer. 

“You picture your future with me to be so dark,” He finally speaks up, gaining your attention. “This opportunity is something no other woman in Rome would ever complain against.”

“You’re so self-absorbed, Imperator,” Your reply is bleak and bored. For a ruler of nations, he surely knew how to act stupidly. “That you once again fail to realise the reason for my anger.”

“Was the life Acacius promised you really so grand?” Geta tries to hit another weak point, a serpent who desperately tried slithering its way into your mind. “I will give you so much more. If only you’d have cooperated earlier, your family would’ve come out unscathed.”

“Earlier?” The word makes you chuckle, a laugh that comes out almost maniacal. “You never showed a trace of real interest in me, Imperator. You just wish to control everything.”

“Is that really so bad?” He retorts. “Besides, you were the first to have your sights on me.”

The voice inside you that roared many weeks ago is awakened again, now whispering the same thoughts that had gone through your head when stumbling upon the Emperor getting some release in that party. Forcing down the knot in your throat, you just shake your head. The cycle continued. Geta’s aggressive behaviour could change, but his wrong thoughts remained.

“I don’t wish to spend more time with you than necessary, Geta.”

His reply never comes. There is no anger when you fail to address him formally, which weirds you out to the point where you must turn around again to see if he’s left you alone. 

He hasn’t. Instead, the Emperor’s sights are set on your hands. The same ones that fiddle and thumb the metal of Acacius’ ring. 

Geta’s eyes glint like a magpie’s at the sight of gold. Not a word is said when he lunges forwards, forcefully grabbing your wrist and raising it to his eye level. 

Caught by surprise, you let out a pained whimper, arm twisted in an awkward position. The Emperor looked far from as sculpted as men like Acacius or your father, who had their fair share of training in the battlefield, but the strength his grip possessed was still impressive: it weakened your hold, the ring now trapped weakly between your thumb and index fingers. 

“And what is this I see?”

Geta didn’t need to ask. The stern flare of his nostrils gave enough away. There was no reason to play dumb.

“What brides are usually given before marriage,” Catching him by surprise, you snap your arm back and hide the ring in your palm when his digits weaken. “Taking them hostage is not tradition.”

Yet again, you’re surprised to see Geta’s seeming calmness. His features snap into a smug grin instead of trying to brawl with a lady over jewelry. “If what you wish for is a ring,” He comments slyly, voice lowering. You could almost hear the current of thoughts thundering in his head. “All you had to do was ask, my Imperatrix.”

A known feeling of unease settles in your stomach, failing when you try to gauge his reaction. Why wasn’t he mad? Why didn’t he demand for you to give him the ring, screamed at you, called the guards on you?

“I won’t disturb you any longer,” He concludes, tunic swaying when he turns around. “But I’d like to see you at the prandium.”

Blinking, you consider your options once you’re left alone. That wasn’t horrible. And you did need to eat lunch… But still, you knew Geta had some tricks up his sleeve.