#2d phase 2

woohoo. When i feel heavy metal

Amidst the sweltering heat of Eastbourne, a lighthearted stroll to the fairground turns awkward when a playful joke deeply wounds Stuart's sensitive nature.

Audience: General Audiences

Relationships: 2D x Gender neutral reader

Chapter Two - The Stuart Special

[Chapter one]

The pavement leading to the fairground was a furnace, radiating a dry, punishing heat that seeped through the thin rubber of your flip-flops; for a fleeting moment, you genuinely feared the soles might fuse to the scorching concrete. You fell into step with Stuart, who had demolished his ice cream with a desperate race against the sun and was now failing miserably to mask the sting of a brain freeze.

"Is strawberry your favorite, then?" You asked, watching as he unceremoniously wiped his sticky palms against the rough fabric of his denim shorts.

"Nah," Stuart managed, his voice strained and pinched by the lingering frost behind his eyes. He narrowed his gaze against the midday glare, the sun’s brilliance turning the horizon into a shimmering haze. "I mean, it’s decent enough, innit? But i's not the top o' the shops. Mint chocolate chip's where it's at. The Cornettos."

He punctuated the thought with a weary, contented sigh, seemingly immune to the heat waves shimmering off the bonnets of parked cars.

From the corner of your eye, you watched his gait, a peculiar bounce that suggested his long limb ran off an internal metronome entirely separate from the rest of humanity. Occasionally, he would scuff a pebble or murmur a fragmented part of a melody you couldn’t quite identify, his presence filling the air with a gentle, hypnotic hum.

As the road swept toward the promenade, the tranquil lap of the shoreline was taken over by the low-frequency thrum of the pier. The air, once sharp with the salt of the Eastbourne breeze, grew heavy with that saturated scent of vegetable oil and sugar.

Rounding the entrance to the fairground, the scorched silence of the road vanished. A feeling of doubt, cold and insidious, began to coil around your spine. Amidst the burgeoning crowd, a few individuals froze as Stuart loped past; they wore expressions of incredulity, as if they had just witnessed a ghost manifest in broad daylight. Stuart, however, remained blissfully insulated, navigating the chaos with a loose-shouldered, practiced ease.

As you trailed in his wake, the afternoon heat was countered by a creeping anxiety. You watched the shock of electric blue hair catch the light and felt the sudden, crushing weight of your own impulsivity. You were miles from the familiar, pursuing a man who you only met less than 15 minutes ago, lured away by the superficial charm of a summer afternoon. The vibrant hues of the game stalls now seemed predatory, and the spiraling silhouette of the Helter Skelter loomed over the grounds.

"Stuart?" you called out, your voice struggling against the fairground noise. "You aren't actually planning to kidnap me, are you?" You attemped a gentle tone, a desperate attempt to keep the atmosphere light.

The effect was instantaneous and devastating. Stuart stopped with a jarring finality, nearly causing a collision with a group of teenagers behind him. When he turned, the bright tone of your question shattered against the raw, wounded realisation on his face. His features didn't merely sag; they crumpled. The gapped grin vanished, and his shoulders hiked toward his ears as he tucked his chin into his chest, a man shrinking into himself.

"Oh," he whispered, "Oh, no. I’ve gone and made it weird, haven't I?"

His fingers dived into his pockets with a frantic, twitchy energy, emerging with a crumpled pack of Lambert & Butlers and a Clipper lighter. With a mechanical flick, he sparked a flame, the tip of his cigarette glowing a fierce, desperate orange. He exhaled a plume of slate-grey smoke that the salt wind immediately tore away.

"Sorry, I get...I get a bit excited." He murmured through the haze. "My dad always says I’m a bit ‘airy-fairy’ in the brain." He took another drag, his eyes fixed on his battered shoes. "You 'ave a bank holiday. Watch the seagulls. They’re vicious, they are."

He began to retreat, his gait now a dejected, stiff-legged shuffle. The apprehension that had gripped you moments ago evaporated, replaced by the stinging certainty that you had just wounded something inherently gentle.

"Stuart, wait," you sighed, the internal alarm still ringing but tempered by a profound sense of guilt. "I was just trying to joke around, really. But... look, I think the sun’s actually got to me a bit. I think I need to go find some shade and a proper bottle of water before I try any heights."

A rapid-fire succession of emotions flickered across his face, anxiety, dawning comprehension, and finally, a fragile, lopsided nod.

"Oh. Right. Yeah, 'course. Hydration. Very important. Don't want your brain turnin' into a raisin. That's how it starts, you know." He agreed, his voice softening. Though clearly disappointed, the sting had vanished. "I'll be 'round though, yea? Usually by the dodgems or the penny arcade if it rains."

You stood motionless, watching him recede toward the neon glare. His blue hair remained a beacon in the throngs of people until he was finally swallowed by the crowd. You felt the anticipated surge of relief, but beneath it lingered a strange, persistent hollow, a nagging sense that you had just let something extraordinary slip through your fingers.

You retreated back toward the beach with a heavy tread. You played through the encounter, attempting to rationalize the lingering feeling. Perhaps it was merely the British compulsion toward people pleasing, that ingrained, reflexive need to appease a stranger even at the cost of one's own comfort. With a long exhale, you cast the thought aside, deciding to surrender to the remaining warmth of the afternoon and savor the sun’s fleeting reign before the inevitable rise of the moon.