#catb van

“Love?” Van asked, slithering his body behind yours on the couch and resting his hand over your stomach. The other hand ran softly through the strands of your hair.

“Mmm,” you hummed in response, snuggling up closer to him and enjoying the safe feeling of him pressed up against you.

“You sleepy already? It’s just now five o’clock.”

You burrowed your head against the couch cushion and mumbled a soft response. “When you’re pregnant, you can do anything you want.”

“I can’t argue with that,” he softly laughed, and pressed a kiss right behind your ear. It sent a tingle down your spine. “I thought you might like to know I’ve thrown some cookie dough in the oven. They’ll be ready in ---” he checked his watch behind your head, “--- exactly two minutes.”

“Dear god, how did I get so lucky,” you said as you turned around on the couch to face him, and kissed his cheek. The corners of his mouth turned up slightly, and he helped you sit up, despite you only being three months pregnant. Van walked into the kitchen backwards, pulling you by your hand, orange glow from the fire cast on his face.

Sitting there at the kitchen table eating warm, gooey cookies with Van struck a warm chord in you; it reminded you of your first date with him. He had stood there at your doorstep, snow in his hair, rubbing his ice cold hands together so they wouldn’t shake when he looked you in the eye. He’d taken you to a nice dinner at an upscale restaurant in London, made you laugh so hard you teared up, and afterward, he’d held your hand and walked you down the watery streets lined in Christmas lights. Car lights and shop windows reflected neon at your feet, and the lights around you shined brightly in his eyes as he leaned down to peck your cold lips with his for the first time. When the snowy streets’ concrete coldness had crept into your bones, Van had whirled you both into a small corner shop, and bought you as many warm cookies as he could carry in his hands. He’d thrown them down onto a set of napkins he’d strewn across the diner-style table, and slid across from you in the booth, and helped you devour the delicious sugary pile with the widest, most playful grin.

He had that same playful grin on his face now as he watched you silently recount the memory.

“What?” he asked around a mouthful of cookie in that happy, flirtatious voice of his.

“Just… I love you,” you said, stepping off your chair to come wrap your arms around his waist, your rings almost getting snagged in his black sweater.

“I love you too,” he whispered into your hair.

****

“Can ya bring me a ladder, Van?”

“Fuck no, there’s no fucking way you’re getting on a ladder,” he said, lowly, as he attached a few sparkly red ornaments higher than you could reach on the silver tinsel tree.

“But I want to put the star on!” you whined, plopping down on the sofa, absentmindedly staring at the fire twirl and twist in the hearth. After a few moments between that and watching Van silently load red, blue, silver ornaments onto the tree, you sighed. He turned his head and looked at you pointedly, urging you to speak.

“It’s my tradition,” you said softly, sadly. You got off the sofa, and went to the kitchen. You ate a cookie left over from a few days ago while you dejectedly prepared some hot chocolate with salted caramel, yours and Van’s favorite. You knew it was just pregnant hormones making you upset; but then again, what you feel in a moment is what you feel. So in that moment, you felt sad.

While you were waiting for the almond milk to heat on the stove, Christmas music started playing through the speakers in the other room; Van’s doing. Hearing the little bells jingling and the upbeat music turned your mood to a lighter, happier one. You definitely married the right man.

Two mugs of piping hot chocolate in hand, you carefully walked back into the living room to deliver to Van. He had covered most of the tree in ornaments now, and was doing an adorable little wiggle to the music as he darted around the tree to hang them.  

Van took the hot mugs from you and set them on the end table to cool, and then held your hands, warmed by the mugs, in his.

“Ms. McCann, oh, and little McCann -- care to dance?” he asked (the both of you apparently), and you nodded, smiling coyly at his unnecessary chivalry.

You couldn’t help but snicker as he began to lightheartedly dance with you. He swayed his hips as he moved closer to you, and twirled you around. Those were his two dance moves. Hip sway to the left, hip sway to the right, a little wiggle, and a twirl. A coquettish grin plastered to his face, always.

The song changed to a slower one, and he broke away from holding your hands to wrap you to his chest. Your belly poked his, and he had to lean forward a little farther to hug you fully. You both swayed against each other, just enjoying the company, while Van rubbed circles into your back. Suddenly, he spoke up.

“How ‘bout I go get the ladder, but ya have to promise me that you’ll let me spot you and that ya won’t reach out too far and fall on the tree and die? Or fall backward into the fireplace and die? Or --”

Your eyes rose to meet his, and you cut him off. “Deal.”

***

“I was gonna wait til Christmas to give ya these, but I figured if I did, we wouldn’t get to enjoy ‘em,” Van said when he entered your bedroom a couple of weeks after that, just days before Christmas.

Your eyes brightened at the mention of a gift.

“Yeah, yeah, I know I said I wouldn’t let ya open anything, but this is a different kind of gift.”

He held a box out to you, wrapped pristinely in newspaper with a big red bow. You couldn’t wait to tear it open.

You put it on your lap, and reached around your small baby bump to unravel the ribbon. The paper crinkled and fell to the floor, and you reached inside the box.

One little concert ticket framed, and on the back, Van’s handwriting: “Your first Catfish concert. 20XX.”

One small disc of baked white clay, with the imprint of a key, and Van’s handwriting: “Our first house. 20XX.”

And one small frame with a tiny print of the ultrasound photo you’d received last week, and on the back, Van’s handwriting: “Our first baby. 20XX.”

Your mouth had fallen open by the time you got through each item in the box. Van, who had sat next to you, held you in a one-arm hug.

“Ornaments, for the tree, see,” he said, pointing to the holes he’d made in the tops of each.

“This is….”

“I know, I did amazin’,” and with his flirty comment, you rolled your eyes and half-scoffed, half-laughed, and led him out of the room to put the ornaments on your tree.

***

“My bump is really showing now,” you whispered, a little unsatisfied with your appearance as you stared at your stomach in the mirror. Even under a flowing black dress, you could tell. You ran your hands along its contours, feeling the hard skin beneath, wishing it could go away just for the holiday party.

“You okay in here?” Van questioned as he entered the closet, tucking his shirt into his pants with his belt half-on. He stopped mid-tuck and stood straight. “Y/N?”

“I feel so… gross. Disfigured.”

“W-- No, Y/N, you’re beautiful. Incredibly beautiful. Look at you!” He turned you around to face the mirror from the front, and he stood behind you. He pointed to your bump. “That’s our baby in there! We did that!”

“Yeah.”

He put both his hands around you and rested them on the bump. The warmth radiated from his hands, and you sighed. And then, a thump. Just under his right hand.

“Y/N? Was that --?” His eyes bulged, and he looked over your shoulder at his hands and your belly.

“Oh my god. A kick?” Your eyes started watering. Another thump, in a similar spot. You both gasped.

“Gonna be a good footy player, yeah?” he sniffed, and settled his chin into the crook between your neck and shoulder. You felt one of Van’s tears roll down your exposed shoulder, and let him hold you. You both waited for another kick, but it didn’t come.

“We’re probably going to be late to the Christmas party,” you whispered, breaking the anticipatory silence.

“We have the best excuse,” Van said reverently, wiping his eyes and standing straight again to finish up his outfit. “You let me know if he does it again,” he called.

“We don’t know if it’s a boy or girl yet!” you yelled back to him, now somewhere far in the house.

“Whoever they are, they’re gonna play football!”

When you settled into the car next to Van, the warm fuzzy feeling was still very much there.

***

As soon as you’d stepped through the door, oohs and aahs at how much your belly had grown since your friends and family had last seen you made you feel a little uncomfortable, but Van had gone on to say something like “ain’t she the most beautiful woman you’ve ever seen?” or “she’s got the mother glow!” after each and every comment. You couldn’t appreciate his support more.

“D’you know if it’s a boy or girl yet?” Larry asked the two of you after he handed Van’s parents drinks on the way to the table you were sitting at.

“Nope, but Van thinks it’s going to be a football player regardless,” you said back, and Van smiled.

“We felt the little thing kick today. Just before we left,” he recounted to Larry, and kissed your temple. He was so proud.

“That’s amazing! I’m happy for you,” Larry said with a genuine smile. “And Y/N, you look great.” You couldn’t believe you were afraid to leave the house earlier. At the party, you were fawned over by both of your parents, all of your friends, and the rest of your families. The joint celebration you’d decided to have was “the best idea in the entire universe,” according to Van’s cousin.

The party was a hoot, full of the people you loved being as merry as could be. You all told stories about each other in conversation, and eventually, you piped up when Bernie reminded the group of Van’s penchant for good music since he was a kid.

“You know, ever since we’ve been married, Van’s always sung everywhere we’ve gone. And at sometimes it has been completely annoying… Sorry love… but it’s a true joy. I didn’t know how much I could love music until I met Van. And I didn’t know how much I could love Van until he used that music to sing to the baby.”

Everyone “aww”-ed at that line. Van smirked.

“Recently, at night if Van’s bored, he sits at his desk and writes lullabies for the baby. And then he’ll come to me wherever I am -- probably the couch reading a book, or in the bath, also reading a book -- and he’ll set up camp next to me. He’ll play his guitar and sing ‘loud enough for the baby to hear,’ as he says, but as soon as I swat at him and tell him he’s bothering me, he’ll come up close and whisper to my stomach. Something like ‘mum’s a little irritated with us right now, so let’s be a tad quieter, shall we?’ and I chuckle and pretend to be upset still, but there’s nothing more special than watching him sing softly to my belly. And when he’s done he’ll just tell it about his day, or how much he loves me, and honestly, it melts my heart.”

“Bernie did the same to Van! He’d have music on constantly for him. But let me tell you, as soon as Van popped out, that music ability was transferred immediately. Talk about banging on pots and pans, chasing the boy around to keep him out of the cabinets, having to fight him for volume control on every sound device, and listening to him scream-sing at the top of his lungs constantly. Phew! What a handful for just two people,” Mary laughed, and rubbed her son’s shoulder. Everyone chuckled, and more stories were passed.

But you stayed uncharacteristically silent for the rest of the party until it was time to say goodbye.

***

“I don’t know if I can do it,” you whisper to break the silence on the car ride back home.

“Do what?” Van asked, though he’d already sensed what you were on about. You’d been quiet since Mary had spoken to you about baby Van.

“The parenting thing,” you said, rocking a little in your seat as Van pulled the car into the drive. You gathered your gloves and forewent the jacket considering you’d be in the house in a bit. “You had a reputation of being crazy as hell as a child, Van. And I have no doubt that this kid’s going to have at least part of that crazy. I don’t know if I can do all this by myself when you’re on tour.”

You knew you’d hit a tiny nerve in Van when you said that, but it was a valid fear. He took a deep breath and parked the car.

“We’re gonna be great, love,” he said, pulling the key from the ignition and running around the car to retrieve you from the passenger side. He helped you out of the car, and you sighed at how heavy your belly was starting to feel. You staggered into the house, careful of the ice on the sidewalk, under his wing.

You both took off your boots and left them at the front door; he closed it hurriedly behind you, trying not to let the cold air in. You stopped, looked up at him, and spoke again.

“Despite the holiday cheer and all that, which is a great distraction by the way… I’m scared.”

He gestured around to the fireplace, warm and bright; the Christmas tree, lights twinkling, and filled with ornaments of love; all the unwashed cookie sheets and chocolate mugs and plates in the sink; heavy blankets thrown over the couch in a nest; holiday cards sent by tons of friends and family; wet snowy shoes piled right at the door. And two people who were very, very concerned for their first child.

You leapt onto side stage just as Van flung his hands at soundboard and angrily yelled “Turn my fuckin’ guitar up!” into the mic. He hit the microphone hard and the stand fell to the ground. Veins were sharply poking out of his neck. Fucking shit. You briskly pushed your trainee out of the way and ran your fingers up the rhythm guitar slide until it matched their preferences and resumed its normal volume. Your heart hammered in your chest.

“How long was it sounding like that?!” you screeched over the fuller sound of Van’s guitar.

“I… I didn’t touch it the whole song.”

“The whole song! Are you fucking kidding me?” You palmed your forehead. The whole song. He was nearing the end of the second verse when you bolted onto stage.

“You know you’re supposed to have eyes on them the whole time? We’re in charge of all the guitars. Every single one,” you yelled over the music back to the trainee, George. “Did he motion to you at all before that?”

“I wasn’t paying attention.”

“For fuck’s sake.” You paced behind the soundboard. “I’m calling Jenny to handle the rest of this set. You’re out when this song ends.” You dialed her number, and she picked up immediately and made her way from the tour bus. She was the more reliable of the two trainees you’d been teaching to be sound engineers.

Jenny picked up the slack on sound board, and you sighed with relief. You paced just off stage, head in your hands.

Larry approached you then with a hand on your shoulder. “Y/N, where were you?” he asked, concerned.

“I was just in the bathroom for a few minutes. I was feeling ill and needed a short break. I haven’t slept right in several weeks.”

He huffed out some air and patted your back. “I’m sorry you’re not feeling well. I hope everything goes over okay when they get off stage.” He left you to switch Van’s guitars.

You leaned up against the cold cinder block wall of the venue a little ways down from the left stage exit and hung your head. You listened carefully to the sound for the rest of the songs of the set, silently praising Jenny for working the soundboard so well on her second week of training. You desperately needed a nap, but you knew if they walked off stage and you weren’t there to own up to your supervising mistake, they’d be even more pissed.

When the last note of Tyrants sounded, you let out a long exhale. You hadn’t realized how short of breath you’d been since the mistake.

All of a sudden, you heard Van yelling. “What the fuck was that? Where is she?” His booming voice resonated to the hallway.

He came down the stairs just a ways down from you, bitterly kicking an amp with the toe of his boot. He flung a crumpled setlist down on the floor and turned to look at you. He stomped down the hallway toward you, boots echoing loudly in the concrete hall. His eyes were bloodshot, and the veins in his neck and arms were still protruding angrily. He was furious.

He stopped inches from your face, putting a hand next to your head on the wall. “Where the hell were you?” he whispered lowly into your face. His eyes were glistening wetly, his pride obviously hurt. The level of his voice rose. “We own our fucking sound. We looked like fucking idiots out there tonight.”

Shocked, you put your hand on his sweaty chest to try to settle him down. He didn’t waver. “I fucking trusted you!” he screamed into your face. His eyes squinted shut. He beat his fist against the wall, and his hot breath washed over your face.

He swiftly turned on his heel and walked down the hall. He kicked an empty metal bin and the clang pierced the air.

“Fuckin’ follow me!” he yelled back at you, running irate fingers through his wet hair.

Silently, you tried to keep up with his impassioned footsteps. Quickly he stepped through dressing rooms and halls, earning timid looks from passersby, and finally you burst out the side door to the road behind the venue.

The tour bus was parked haphazardly outside, and the orange sunset beat against the side of it, reflecting Van’s fierce gaze when he wrenched open the fragile door.

Huddled around the table speaking hushedly were Mike, Larry, Doug, and the rest of the PR team. You caught whisperings of “George” and “it’s still her fault” and “embarrassment” before they noticed you two were standing there and Van’s loud voice pierced the air.

“I want to talk to Y/N alone. Everyone get the fuck out!” he shouted, pointing indignantly at the door. Stunned, everyone’s eyes went wide. Van stood still with a forceful gaze pinned on each of them. They shook off their frozen stupors, picked themselves up out of the booths, and slowly exited.

As soon as the door swung shut and locked behind the others, Van paced to the back of the bus and rubbed his trembling hands across his face before turning to speak to you again. His voice was deep and barely controlled. “I fuckin’ trusted you, Y/N,” he repeated. His forehead crinkled.

“I know,” you said, taking a few steps toward where he was standing at the bunks. “I’m sorry. I made a mistake, I was feeling ill and --”

“You were responsible for the trainees. They’re fucking new. And if they don’t know what they’re doing they shouldn’t be on my fucking stage.”

“I was under the impression that George was ---”

“You’re supposed to supervise their every move!” He raised his voice. “I felt like a fucking kid again with that shit sound. It was fucking infuriating!” The frustration bubbled up inside you.

“But there’s also no reason to fuck with my equipment because I made a mistake! That mic stand didn’t need to be thrown about like that!” Finally, you’d broken and were screaming back at him. He wasn’t having it.

He slammed open the door to the back room of the bus where the couch was pulled out into the bed. You followed him in there, ready to bite back to defend your career. Standing in the doorway, you crossed your arms over your chest. He couldn’t run very far with the bed taking up most of the space in the room; it hit the back of his legs and he was a mere two steps from you.

He reached over and behind you in one motion and closed the door with a loud snap, but his body lingered close to you. His forearm rested on the door above you and his face was inches from yours. You shivered.

“Why is it so hard for you to just do as I tell you?” he spoke softly, gazing straight into your eyes, but he was obviously still livid. You looked up at him, biting your lip. That was enough to push him to the edge.

He smashed his lips onto yours and pressed his body hard up against you. He hoisted your legs up to wrap around his waist and slammed you against the door. You groaned in pain as your head banged against the fake wood. He put his hand behind your head to cushion you as his other hand gripped your waist tightly. You reciprocated his kiss with as much ferocity as you could muster, but dropped your legs and pushed him off of you; the force made him stumble back onto the bed. You pounced on top of him, biting his swollen lips.

“If you think that’s how this is going to go, love, you’re sadly mistaken.”

He flipped you over so he was on top despite your resistance to his power struggle, and grinded hard against the seam of your jeans. “Be a good girl just this once and fucking listen to me,” he whispered into your ear before ravishing your neck with wet, open-mouthed kisses, leaving a trail of love bites in his wake. The grinding pressure on your lower half didn’t stop. He hissed your name between clenched teeth. You bit your lip hard to hold back a moan; if you made a noise, he knew he’d have won.

You pawed at the hem of his black tee and forced it over his head between his kisses on your collarbone. His angry plump lips reconnected with yours, and your hands went into his sweaty hair. You pulled at it hard and he grunted into your mouth, fingers digging into your hips.

Suddenly he sat up abruptly, straddling your waist with all his weight resting on you. With two hands he forcibly pulled at the collars of your white button down, popping all the buttons in succession and exposing your bra. It was black and lacy; laundry day wasn’t til tomorrow and you’d worn everything else you brought.

“Fucking hell,” he growled, unbuttoning your jeans to reveal the matching underwear. He pulled off your jeans and bit your inner thigh hard, making you yelp in pain. Thumb hooked in the waistband, he pulled off the underwear in one go, exposing your wetness to the cool air. He unclipped your bra with one hand from behind and bit the swell of your breast as you gripped his shoulders hard.

His pants were straining with desperation. He undid his belt and flung it across the room; the metal buckle hit the door and left a scar in the wood. He sighed in relief at the feeling of no constriction, before his hands swiftly grabbed yours and pinned them against the bed. He rubbed himself up against you, coating himself in your wetness and teasing you.

He smirked at your unwavering gaze. He looked intensely into your eyes, before swiftly thrusting into you without any warning. You cried out, writhing under him and grabbing onto the sheets.

“You… are… so…” he groaned, unable to finish the sentence. He thrust in and out, each thrust harder than the last with erratic pleasure. The air was filled with the sounds of both of your panting breaths and moans.

He growled and lifted your legs up over his shoulders to thrust you deeper into the mattress. You screamed when he hit a sensitive spot, and muttered, “Fuck you, Van.”

That set him off. He thrust harder and faster, and you clawed at his back. Your pelvic bones knocked together, and you exhaled heavily when he bit your earlobe. He whispered fervently in your ear, “You know you love what I do for you.”

You moaned into his mouth, the vibrations of the sounds running through both your bodies. A shiver ran down his body at the same moment one did yours; you felt yourself tighten around his groin as his speed increased and his hands clamped down upon your wrists even tighter. You gasped out as you felt yourself climax; turning you into a panting, wet mess underneath him. He groaned, leaning his forehead against yours, eyes boring into yours through the sweat covered tips of his hair.

“Oh, I’m gonna-” he moaned out, sentence incomplete. His eyes closed, mouth opened in a wide O, and he let out a shaky breath. He rode out his release, then collapsed on top of you. You both lay there panting for a few seconds, chest to chest, nose to nose, your hands still clenched tightly into the sheets. He finally pulled out, moving to sit up on the edge of the bed. He put his head in his hands for a few seconds before standing up to pull on his jeans.

“I have to go,” he said, avoiding eye contact as he tucked his shirt back in. He left you there, slamming the door shut behind him as he walked off the bus.

It wasn’t the first time something like this had happened.

Still alone, and now fully dressed (as well as you could be; your stash of safety pins had become handy in concealing that your button down had been ripped apart earlier), you made yourself a cup of tea and sat down in the empty booths. As soon as you smelled the milk, it made you want to heave. Sometimes the boys were carelessly disgusting; you set the carton in the fridge for someone else to find.

Sipping your hot milkless tea, you reflected on the last time you and Van did something like this.

It was about ten weeks ago, the start of tour, and he couldn’t stand you. You’d heard from the other crew members he was resistant to change, but until you experienced it first hand, you could have never expected how frustrated he could get. He fought with Larry one night over a jaffa cake, a negligible thing to bicker about, and it was obviously due to his frustration about your arrival. Later that same night, drunk in his hotel room, you found out his temper and his sexual frustration were almost inseparable.

Afterwards, he’d started acting normally around you; in your head, you joked that it was your initiation into the crew. Eventually, he’d come to trust you with everything sound related, and with anything else that was on his mind, too. You and he were closest on the team, and worked well together, most of the time. You understood now how hurt his pride had been earlier, that you’d ruined a night of his career, and that your friendship had been on the line up until what just happened. He’d pick back up in a few hours and be normal again.

Your introspection of prior events was ruined by Larry ducking his head into the tour bus. “Y/N, we all decided we’re going to rent a couple of rooms at a hotel, and since I know you’re not well, I was wondering if you’d want to share the room with me since I don’t snore.”

“Oh, god, yes. Larry, I love you. I’ll pack my bag right now.” Larry smiled, and left you to do what you had to do.

*****

With a good night’s sleep finally under your belt, you felt ready to take on the next day’s travelling to the next show. You were up early for breakfast, and went downstairs with Benji to raid the tour bus for any bagels, because the hotel didn’t have any.

Benji made you both some hot tea, and he was about to pour the milk into yours before you stopped him. “No milk for me, please and thanks,” you said, and he looked at you kind of funny. He poured some in his cup, took a sip of the hot brew, and sighed contentedly.

“Disgusting,” you muttered under your breath as you searched the cabinets.

“So moody,” Benji laughed, and walked back outside, giving up on the search for bagels. You followed after a few minutes more of digging through storage bins of Special K, tea bags, and rogue items of clothing.

A heaping breakfast of eggs, pancakes, and fruit in the hotel cafe, and you were one happy girl. Van laughed at you from across the table, talking about how he’d never seen a girl eat so much (but it was all in good fun). Larry tried to keep up with you, but failed after his fifth pancake.

“Dunno how you do it,” Bob said, with his meager breakfast of fruit and a slice of toast. You laughed and shoveled in another bite.

A hundred miles down the road, everyone else was hungry, but you were still fine, and living life smoothly. The good night’s sleep you had plus the real food made you the best person to be around on the bus that morning. Everyone else was chipper as well, and laughing heartily.

You and Bondy were in the booth playing cards when you felt the first twinge in your stomach. Your mouth twisted in a scowl, and your head started pounding. You looked out the window and your head felt all swimmy.

“You good?” Bondy looked up at you, starting to laugh at the look of blatant discontent on your face.

“Yeah,” you shakily breathed out, “Think I’ve been looking down at my cards too long, motion sickness and that.”

But then another twinge hit and you knew it was coming; you barrelled down the moving bus to the bathroom. You flung the door open and retched into the toilet bowl, tears threatening to fall. You were having such a good day before this.

“Love, everything okay?” Van asked at the door. You gave him the biggest side-eye from your place kneeled on the floor and hunched over the toilet bowl.

“We’re out of all the dimenhydrinate,” Mike called from the front of the bus after he checked the medical kit for nausea medication.

“I’ll go tell the driver to stop at the next pharmacy so we can get you some,” Van said, and helped you off the floor so you could rinse your mouth. His support was much needed, as you still felt faint.

You walked back out to the main space of the bus, Van holding onto your arm so you wouldn’t fall when the bus changed lanes on the highway, and settled back into your booth across from Bondy. He’d just poured himself a large mug of tea, and had the excess milk he’d poured for his tea sitting in a cup across from you. It stunk.

“Bondy, get that shit away from me, I don’t know how you all drink it,” you said, shoving the cup farther away from you.

“What are you on about?” he asked, intrigued.

“It’s fucking gross, how you can all just act like heathens around here!” your voice pitch started rising, and you felt your frustration tip you over the edge. “It smells so fucking bad, like it’s been sour for weeks!”  

“Y/N, the milk is fucking fine, we bought it four days ago! What’s gotten into you?” Larry asked, appalled, sliding into the booth next to Bondy.

“She was like that this morning, too,” Benji murmured, his attention drawn away from Fifa for a moment.

Pressured by the judging eyes, you got up and ran to the back of the bus where Van was peeking his head out of the couch room after hearing your disturbance.

Once you closed the door behind you for privacy, you let the frustrated tears fall, not caring Van was watching you fall apart. He placed a hand on your shoulder and scooted close to you.

“Y/N,” he began after a while, “Is this, like, a mental thing? I know you’ve struggled with that before.”

You wiped your nose on your sweater sleeve and rubbed the tears away. “I don’t know, maybe I’m just supposed to start my period soon.”

You looked up into his eyes, his face so close to yours. Your brain cogs started whirring, and your glance turned from confusion to panic in a matter of seconds. His eyes widened immediately and the unsaid was exchanged between you.

****

“How long’s it supposed to take?” he asked as you paid for the test at the counter and walked through the aisles to the bathroom in the pharmacy. You didn’t have much time; the bus driver had dropped the boys off for lunch at a fast food joint down the road, and then driven you and Van to the pharmacy. They’d get suspicious if you took too long; you were in the middle of nowhere, so there were no other places to pretend to go to if you took too much time.

“Dunno, I’ll have to read the box --- Hey, you can’t come in here,” you told him as he followed you into the women’s room.

“If my baby’s in you then I can damn well come in here,” he said, pacing against the bathroom stalls.

“Fine,” you told him, figuring arguing was not the best thing for either of you right now, and undid the flaps of the box with shaky hands. He tapped his foot nervously. “The instructions say to look after five minutes.”

You went into the stall, and shot him a look that said I won’t be upset either way before you closed the door.

Free from his watchful gaze, you let terrified tears slide down your cheeks as you took the test and capped it. You started the timer on your phone.

You walked out of the stall and stuck it in his jacket pocket so you wouldn’t look at it before time was up. Van held you tightly, slowly rocking you back and forth with his chin resting on your head. You couldn’t see his face.

You stood there with him, quiet and contemplating, holding back nervous tears, until the alarm went off on your phone, and you sucked in a breath sharply.

“I can’t look,” you told him, and separated yourself from his arms. His face was pallid, and scared. You stood in front of him as he carefully took the test out of his jacket pocket, and flipped it over.

He bit his lip and looked up at you; tears shone in his eyes. You searched his eyes for the answer, and he nodded slightly.

Your hands drew up to your stomach, and you felt the magnitude of the situation descend on you.

A tear and a guttural noise escaped Van as he kneeled on the dirty bathroom floor, and pressed his forehead to your belly.

And then his phone rang. He handed it to you to answer; he couldn’t speak.

“Hey, Lar… Yeah, we got it. My stomach was still a little upset, that’s all.” Van stood and your eyes were on his the whole time you spoke to Larry. “Yeah…. Mmm-hmm….. We’ll be out in a minute.” You hung up, and gave it back to him. He breathed in unsteadily, and leaned in to press a kiss against your forehead. He took your hand in his.

“Let’s go.”

****

You both entered the fast food joint, hands still glued together. His knuckles were white from holding on to you so tightly. He only let go to pay for the food.

When you joined everyone else, they could see how unsettled you and Van were. Of course, they immediately asked about the looks on your faces.

“Really didn’t wanna see this one throw up again,” he said, not lying, but not telling the truth either.

“I still feel icky,” you told them, which was not a lie at all.

Van tried his best to process while continuing the banter as normal. You ate in silence.

****

The next show date went well, and no sound mistakes were made by the trainees. They’d decided to keep George on despite his ignorance, and you were determined to turn him into a helpful sound engineer after the frustration you’d experienced.

“Thanks for keeping me on, Y/N,” he said, loading the equipment that night.

“Oh, no problem. I see something in you, George,” you said, elbowing him playfully as he handed Larry a guitar case. Usually, guitar takedown would be your job, but Van had put a stop to all of your heavy-lifting activities immediately. You were thankful; your back and your stomach frequently bothered you. It was only a matter of time before the rest of the boys noticed your “laziness” and confronted you about it.

“You’ve been so helpful to my career,” George kept on, smiling brightly. “You’ve got this motherly quality about you.” You blushed red, and a soft smile graced your lips.

You turned your head to where Van was, several feet away toweling off, and watched him smile at the floor.

****

You unloaded your suitcase into the hotel closet, happy to have a few days off before resuming the tour.

“Van?” you called out to him. He was brushing his teeth in the bathroom.

“Yeah?” he said around a mouthful of toothpaste.

“We’ve got to go see a doctor about our little one,” you said, patting your stomach.

“You want to go tomorrow?” he asked, coming round the corner with the toothbrush sticking out of his mouth. “Nobody’s got anythin’ planned.” You nodded, and let him spit in the sink.

This was the first time the both of you could be alone without risk of eavesdropping ears. You’d shared a hotel room before with Van, so nobody was suspicious when you paired up again. You were grateful for the time off you could spend with him to figure things out.

“Do you mind if I sleep with you?” you’d asked him after dinner. It was hard to admit the things that were about to become normal for the two of you. “I just need you.”

He held his arms open on the bed and let you crawl into them. You lied on your back and waited for his hand, inevitably slinking up to touch your stomach.

He was a natural father already, doing the hand thing and the staring at babies thing; you were still getting used to the idea that there was something growing inside you. It freaked you out and excited you at the same time.

“You want to get married?” Van’s voice spoke up and asked, drawing you out of your train of thought. You chuckled, and looked up at his face. His expression was not one of humor.

“Oh shit, you’re serious.” He nodded. Fuck. “Could I answer… later?”

“How later?”

“Just…. Later. I need some time to think.”

“Okay,” he nodded. You were surprised he left it at that. But you knew he was also just as stunned as you were. Parents.

“You know we’ve never kissed proper before,” he spoke up again. You snickered at these random offhand comments. He was so concerned about being his version of ideal parents, and it was only day three of knowing about the baby.

“Is that your way of saying you want to try?” you looked up at him again, and smiled.

“Yeah.”

“Okay, let’s do it then.”

He laughed at your frankness. He leaned in slowly, and your lips brushed his gently. He brought his hand up to cradle your cheek. It was sweet, and slow. Your heart fluttered.

He drew back, and rubbed your nose with his.

“Thoughts?” he whispered.

“Good.”

****

“When do we know if it’s a boy or a girl?” he asked the obstetrician.

“Usually about 14 weeks along.”

“How far is she along now?”

“Judging from the time she listed on the form that she had her last period, she looks to be about 10 weeks. I’m about to perform a vaginal ultrasound, so we’ll confirm that in a bit.”

“Y/N, how did you go 10 weeks without your period and not notice?” he asked you. Your eyes narrowed.

“Hey, sometimes when girls are stressed out they miss their periods altogether. And I’m irregular. And stressed. So, yeah.”

The obstetrician left the room so you could prep for the ultrasound. You stepped into the paper gown and put your feet in the stirrups; you took a deep breath. Van looked as if he were going to faint. He was staring at the black monitor screen turned toward the obstetrician’s seat.

“We’re about to see our baby.”

“I know,” you said. You held his hand tightly.

The obstetrician reentered the room and prepped the equipment. She told you the process, and made small talk until the equipment was ready.

“Okay, I’m going to insert this into your vagina. It’s probably going to be cold. You’ll want to relax your muscles.” The obstetrician pushed what felt like a wand inside you. You felt strange pressure as she moved the instrument around.

“That’s fucking freezing,” you said, shivering. The obstetrician watched the screen carefully, and when she’d found what she was looking for, she stopped wiggling the wand inside you. She turned up the volume on her machine so you and Van could hear, and you burst into tears.

A heartbeat, small and strong, resonated in the room. The tears rolled down your cheeks, and you lied back on the bed, the reality of it all happily soaring through you. You opened your eyes, and turned to Van. He had wet tears too, and was recording the heartbeat on his phone.

“I’m gonna be a dad.”

You pulled his face to yours, and kissed him hard. Your tears and his mingled wetly between your lips. You pulled away and smiled brightly, your cheeks searing with pain from smiling so hard. It was well worth it.

“When do we get to see it?” he asked, clearing his throat.

“Not the next appointment, but the one after that, at about week 17 or 18, you should be able to see it. The sex can also be determined if you wish. Y/N, you’re about 10 weeks, as you suspected.”

“When should we tell them?” you ask Van.

The obstetrician cut in. “Most parents wait until after the first trimester to tell family and friends. The risk of miscarriage isn’t over until about week 13, and that makes some parents weary to tell anyone else.” Van’s eyes widened in horror. You nodded; you already knew this.

****

“You’re not doing anything for the next three weeks,” Van declared as he opened the rental car door for you to hop into.

“Van, it’s normal for people to wait just in case,” you groaned. Super dad, here we come.

“There’s not gonna be a just in case, Y/N,” he said. He put the car in drive and GPSed the nearest park and shops. “You cool with shopping around?” You nodded.

Walking around the town center, pregnancy brochures in the pockets of your coat, you were happy. Your arm was wrapped around his, and every so often you’d look up at him and see the sparkle in his eye.

“Where are we going to live?” you asked him. “After 36 weeks of pregnancy I won’t be able to fly anywhere. So we’ve got to pick before then. And then I’ve got to leave.”

Van stopped walking and held your shoulders. “You’re not going to be alone for this. Not one minute. Don’t you even think that. We’ll figure it out.” You smile, a little more reassured, and leaned up to kiss his jaw. Then, after your short peck, he leaned down to kiss you on the lips, in the middle of the sidewalk. You wrapped your arms around his neck, savoring the moment. He grasped your waist and pulled you closer. You felt at home.

When the kiss broke, you were out of breath. Van smiled happily, and led you to the park in the middle of town.

“I need to sit down for a minute,” you told him, and he let you rest on a park bench. Then, he took off running toward a tree. “Van!” you yelled after him, mad that he was abandoning you for some goofy reason. When he was about a hundred feet away, he pulled his cigarette packet out of his back pocket and lit one up. You laughed from where you were sitting on the bench. He leaned up against the tree, trying to seem debonair and thoughtful.

While he smoked over there, far away from the baby, you pulled out your phone. How you wished you could tell your parents. And your friends. And the guys. Ugh.

Van returned from his smoke break, and sat down next to you. You watched the people go by, and Van petted a few dogs before you decided you were spent.

“Ready for a mommy nap, then?” Van said, smiling, and taking your hand. On the way back to the car, you both saw a mother and father wheeling their baby around in a stroller around the park. You looked at them, yearning for all of it, and you could tell Van felt the same.

****

“Larry! Mate, open up!” Van exclaimed, beating on his door later that night. Larry answered, and let you and Van inside.

“Champagne?” Bondy asked, holding up a few glasses. Van took one, but you declined with a “My stomach is still feeling a little funny.”  

“So, why didn’t you tell us?” Larry asked when you and Van sat down on his bed. The color drained from your face. Van froze next to you. You started sweating immediately.

“What do you mean?” Van asked, careful.

“That you’re secretly dating each other!” Larry said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. You laughed nervously.

“How’d you know?” you played along. Better to ease them into the pregnancy you’d be announcing in several weeks, you thought.

Bob was the one to speak. “I was out with my friends, taking a few photos, and we stopped mid-afternoon for a coffee at a cafe in the town center. We sat up at the bar that faces the shop entrance, and all of a sudden, you lot come down the path and start snogging in front of our window.”

Your face burned red, and Van started laughing. He put his arm around you playfully and smiled. “You’ve got us!” Van kissed your cheek. It felt real.

“To the newlyweds!” Bondy popped the champagne, and poured glasses for everyone except you.

Back in your own hotel room, you were ready for a bath to ease your sore muscles. You had already noticed the back pain, the leg cramps, and the neck aches. Sighing, you thought to yourself that you just had to get through to the second trimester, and most of the pains would go away. You ran the hot water, pouring in some bubble bath, watching the water sud up.

“So that makes it official,” Van said, dancing into the bathroom with his glass of champagne.

“Mmm?” you question, eyes still staring at the bubbles in the water.

“We’re dating,” he said, wiggling his eyebrows. You smiled.

“Guess so.”

“You ‘guess so’?” he replied in that high pitched voice of his. “You’re carrying my baby!”

You stood up, and wrapped your arms around his waist. “Yes, Van, we are dating. Hello, boyfriend. Boyfriend who is the father of my child. Care to take a bath with me, your girlfriend, the mother of your child?”

“Yeah,” he said, already stripping down before you could get the rest of the sentence out of your mouth. You giggled, and pulled your shirt off. When you tugged your jeans off, you audibly groaned in happiness at the release of pressure on your legs. Van kissed you softly before sliding into the water. He helped you with your bra -- your “My arms are so sore and I’m just too tired to do it,” followed by Van’s “I’m never going to turn down taking your bra off, love” --- and you slid under the water too, your back against his chest. His arms came to wrap around your belly.

“I think you’re startin’ to poke out a little,” he said, rubbing small circles in your thigh. “It’s cute.”

*****

The next three weeks with him passed blissfully. He took you out on a date for the first time, and you found yourself falling in love with the things you never knew about him; it was easy to believe you’d always had feelings for him. He wooed you with roses when you were out, bought you the best chocolate bar he could find in the hotel gift shop, and made you feel like you were eighteen again, with butterflies cascading up your throat. But when you came back to the hotel room, and after you let your frustration melt into each other, it felt domestic already: he’d rub your stomach, or your shoulders, or kiss your belly and hum little lullabies to your baby as you’d drift off to sleep.

When he’d sing Hourglass, a tune that previously had no meaning to you, you cried hormonally every night he performed it and had to have Larry soothe you in a back room for the next ten minutes afterward. The trainees had mastered Hourglass enough to let you cry in peace by now.

“I just…. I love him so much,” you’d cry, and Larry would scoff and say, “You still haven’t told him?” but rub your back anyways because he felt bad for your relentless sobbing.

They still didn’t know you were pregnant; the end of this week was the conclusion of your thirteenth week. You knew Van was planning to announce it soon.

You and Van already planned your OB-GYN appointment for the next week in the city you’d be staying in. It wasn’t ideal for you to travel between doctors, but it had to be done, since Van wasn’t going to leave your side, and you weren’t going to leave his. Plus, both your careers involved touring. He was so excited after you made the call that he was quaking in his boots.

“We’re gonna get to find out what sex it is?” he asked, excitedly.

“Maybe. Ah! Don’t get excited. I said maybe. Usually they can tell at 17 weeks, according to this doctor. We’re at fourteen. So if not now, then the next one.”

“Can I tell the lids?”

“Not yet. How about we plan a little dinner? We can stand up at the end and announce it to everyone. I know you love being the center of attention, anyways.” You punched his arm casually and he narrowed his eyes playfully.

“I love it.”

*****

Your OB-GYN appointment went smoothly; you got to hear the baby’s heartbeat again, and it was stronger and louder. Van recorded it again, and you both had tears in your eyes again. It was hard not to. The way both of you looked at each other and then your stomach was enough to make the obstetrician grab a tissue.

“Do you want to see it?” the obstetrician asked. It caught you both off guard. You weren’t expecting to see the baby until the next appointment. The doctor turned the screen towards you, and you almost fainted.

On the screen, pulsing, was a little nugget of a baby, curled tightly in the fetal position.

“Oh my god,” you said, sitting up as far as you could, curious. “Van, baby, take a picture,” you told him, tapping his arm in succession when he wouldn’t move out of his stupor.

“No need, we can print a few for you in-house today,” the obstetrician said. “Oh! Look! I think I know the sex!”

“Wait!” you said, before your mind could even register. “I don’t think I want to know…”

“Course we wanna know,” Van said, taking your hand in his.

“But like… can we wait a little longer? I’ve only known about this baby for four weeks. I kind of need some more time.” Van sighed.

“Can we get it in an envelope for the missus?” Van asked the doctor.

“Sure! Many couples opt for a more private gender reveal.”

“Perfect.”

On the drive back from the doctor, you and Van planned the perfect dinner reveal. You’d wear your favorite dress, Van, his white button down, and you’d eat a delicious meal. It would be the fanciest restaurant in town, he said, and you’d walk in like kings and queens. Reservation and all. He said you could clink the glass like in Princess Diaries but you wouldn’t break it and you’d stand, and happily announce you were having a baby ---

Van failed to notice the car in front of him had slammed on its brakes in front of him until it was too late. He barely had time to react, his reflexes kicking in as his he slammed his foot down, tires screeching as he tried to stop. With a loud crash, the front end of the rental car collided with the other car’s bumper, airbags deploying as your bodies were jolted forward. It all happened so fast.

You blinked furiously, coughing as you realized there was something thick and hazy in the air, and then a few moments passed before you saw Van struggling with the passenger side door for a few seconds trying to get it open. His forehead was bleeding, and you wanted to reach out to stop it through the window. You couldn’t lift your arms.

You felt stinging pain as you were moved somewhere else, someone else’s face in yours, staring into your eyes, but you couldn’t conceptualize time. Your lungs hurt. Your arms and neck stung from raw cuts across your body.

“She’s going to the hospital, mate! Fuck!” you heard Van yelling in the distance. You wanted to tell him not to be upset. And that you loved him. When you tried to speak, your throat seized up.

The next thing you knew you were staring up at a white ceiling, spluttering awake.

Fuck, everything hurts, you whimpered to yourself. Something beside you stirred, but you couldn’t turn your head to look.

A nurse had been on call to watch you, and when she noticed you were awake, hit the button to the side of your bed. A doctor came in almost immediately, ready to check your vitals. She shined a bright light in your eyes, in your ears, in your mouth (as far as you could open it) and pressed on your abdomen.

“She’s in stable condition; I guess she can have visitors now. I’ll tell them what’s happened. There’s been a boy and his friends worried sick outside for her all night,” the doctor told your nurse. She nodded and exited the room.

After a few minutes, Van ran into the room, forehead bandaged. You could hear him whispering outside that he’d come in first, and then the rest of whoever could follow in a few minutes.

“Van,” you tried to speak, but your voice was hoarse and raw. It felt like knives were scraping up it when you spoke.

“Shhh, shhh,” he kissed your forehead; even that hurt. “You’re gonna be okay.”

“What happened?” you croaked out. You tried to sit up, but you couldn’t move your body.

“An idiot hit the brakes in front of us because he’d spilled searing coffee in his crotch. We hit him, and the windshield blew out. Airbags deployed, and I was okay because I’m taller; you got the brunt end of it, and I’m so sorry love. You haven’t broken anythin’, but you’ve got cuts from the glass all over.”

Something crossed your mind that made you want to cry out. “Baby?” you asked, squinting your eyes shut. You hoped to God nothing happened to your baby. You started to cry just thinking about the possibility of losing it.

“You’re a little banged up, but she’s fine,” Van smiled.

“‘She’?” you whimpered, tears slowly salting their way down your cheeks. He held your hand loosely.

“Yeah, baby, she.”

****

So you didn’t get to have the dinner you’d wanted: the boys had found out about your pregnancy as soon as Van had called them and frantically shouted “I can’t lose the both of them!” over the phone as you were being loaded into the ambulance. But many weeks had passed and you were well again; the baby was doing fine in its third trimester, and you and Van had started shipping baby items back home. Bernie and Mary said they’d set the baby’s room up when they had time; they were eager grandparents. And life was free of problems for the moment, thank goodness. And though you didn’t get your fancy feast, you did get a busload of boys ready to tend to your every move if you begged hard enough.

“Can someone help me to the bathroom? Lmao xxx” you texted the group chat one evening. You were sitting in a low fold out chair and were having trouble getting out of it by yourself. Bondy and Benji answered your beckoning call and helped lift you out of your chair and walked you down the hall until you finished, and then walked you all the way back. Ten minutes later, you had to pee again.

“God damn, this is hard,” you muttered. Someone else came into the bathroom, but you were past caring about your public appearances. You had a baby growing inside you. And you liked to speak to it. “You better know all the hell you’re putting me through.”

“Y/N, don’t talk to our baby like that!” Van half-laughed, half-whined from the other side of the door. “The boys said you needed some help so here I am. And I come bearing gifts.”

“Oooh! Gifts!” you flushed the toilet and waddled over to Van. Your belly was getting huge, and Van was surprised every time he saw you.

“Mmmmwah,” he kissed your cheek dramatically.

“Could we not do this in the bathroom, though?” you asked him, leading him outside.

“Well if you’re just gonna be back in here…”

“Van, I swear.”

“Fine, fine,” he laughed, following you back to the dressing room. “Want your gifts?”

“Yes, please. Spice up my life.”

“Can we actually do this on the stage? It’s closer and I’m afraid you’re walking too much,” he said, placing a steady hand on your back and leading you up the stairs to the stage.

“I’m definitely okay with that.”

The stage was empty, and your heavy footsteps echoed across the floor. He motioned you to sit at the edge of the stage --- “I promise I’ll help you up afterwards, love,” --- and sat down next you. He smiled.

The whole arena was empty; every sound was hollow and grand. You dangled your feet off the edge and imagined the crowd that would fill it later tonight. Perks of the job.

“I’ve loved sharing this part of my life with you,” he started off. Oh boy. Prepare for hormonal waterworks. “And I can’t believe I get to share a little baby with you. I love you. And I know you love me too.”

You nodded, glassy eyes already threatening to spill at his words.

“So the gifts.” He pulled a small bag out of his jacket. “The first one: a key to my house in

Chester.”

He handed it to you, and the cold metal felt final in the palm of your hand. You fumbled around with the ribbon attached to it. He smiled as your swollen fingers passed over it. You kissed him softly on the lips.

“And the second one: a key to the flat I just rented us in LA, near Sardy’s house. We’ll be back and forth, taking our little girl everywhere we go. Cause I ain’t leavin’ yous behind.” Emotion bubbled up in your stomach as he put the second key on top of the other in your hand, and the jingle made you feel nostalgic for the home you were just starting on.

“And the third gift, well…. this is it.” He held out a tiny box. You stared at him hard.

“Take it,” he said, eyebrows raised, willing it into your hands. He took the keys from you.

Slowly, you took the little navy box, rested it on your palm, and opened the lid.

On a pad of white silk, was the necklace. His necklace. Freshly polished and shining under the stage lights, wrapped around the silk decoratively, sparkling gold. You stared at it, unmoving for a few seconds, mouth parted. You looked back at him, and he took it from you.

He pulled it carefully out of the silk he’d wrapped it around, and unclasped it. He slowly leaned in and fastened it around your neck with delicate fingers. When it hung there, cold against your neck, he took your face in his hands and kissed you hard, tasting your tears, and you kissed him back.

Cheering could be heard from the back of the stage, where the whole crew had gathered behind the alligator curtain to watch him give you his necklace. He’d carried it around his entire adult life, and now here you were, with all his memories tacked onto you, carrying his child inside you, kissing him right there in an empty arena with both your dream jobs.

You broke apart from him and gazed coolly into his eyes. “Yes.”

“What?” he asked, confused. You kept staring at him, willing him to remember the first night you’d spent in the hotel together, when he’d asked you to marry him offhandedly.

“My answer to the question you asked me the first night we spent together is yes.”

“Wh--Oh! OH!” He jumped up, and hoisted your heavily pregnant self up as well. “If we’re gonna do this, then we’re gonna do it proper.” He laughed, and got down on one knee.

“You did not,” you said, smacking him on the arm before bringing your hand up to your face.

“Oh, but I did,” he said, pulling another box out of his jacket pocket.

“And when were you going to do this one?”

“Seconds after you said ‘yes.’ You jumped the gun, love.” He opened it to reveal a stunning engagement ring with an uncut diamond in the middle. Gold, to match the necklace.

“Y/N, will you marry me?” Everyone peeking out from behind the curtain waited with baited breath. They hadn’t heard your previous discussion.

“Van, of course, y-- oh,” you cringed, bringing your hand to your stomach. “Fuck.”

“What was that?” He stood up, and put a hand on your belly. “Y/N, you okay?” People behind the curtains gasped.

Mary passed behind him, grumbling loudly, and Van just stared, furrowing his brow in apparent concentration. He even let his mouth hang open a little. In his peripheral vision, he saw Mary stop at his side, hands on her hips. Mary gestured to Van and then to the counter, where a guest was waiting. Van tilted his head at the iPod he wasn’t listening to and rested his chin on his fist.

"Van."

"Huh."

"Are you going to help?" Mary indicated the guest with a few quick jabs of her finger.

Van pivoted his head to look at Mary and then at the customer. He scrunched his face up and turned his attention back to the iPod. "I wouldn't bet on it."

"Van."

The corner of his mouth quirked up and he brought the iPod closer to his face. "Hang on," he drawled. "I just want to finish this son-" The bell rang and he looked up to see you come through the door.

"I'm leaving," he announced, suddenly at attention, tucking his iPod into his back pocket and rounding the counter to meet you.

"Oh no," Mary deadpanned. "How will I get anything done without you here?"

"Hey, you're the one who gave me the day off," Van said, hands raised defensively. You gave him a peck on the cheek. He tugged at your ponytail and kissed your forehead.

Mary sighed, tossing the order pad on the counter. "I hoped that maybe you'd use the time to study."

"You should have stipulated. Can't take it back now – Y/N's here. You'd make her sad."

Mary looked vaguely disgusted. "You'd be sad not to spend time with him?" You swiveled your attention from Van to Mary, sticking out your bottom lip and making the most pathetic baby rabbit eyes you could muster. Mary winced. "Fine, go."

"Thank you, Mother Mary," Van singsonged, putting his arm around you and guiding you out of the bed & breakfast. He leaned close to your ear as they walked down the steps into the sidewalk. "I'm glad you finally learned how to use that pout for the forces of good."

"Well, you hardly ever have an entire afternoon off."

"So you do miss me?" he asked, pressing his lips to your temple.

"Yes, actually. You work a lot, whether it be at the B&B or doing shows cross-country." You took hold of the hand he had draped over your shoulder, lacing your fingers together. Your other arm looped around his back, your hand resting on his hip.

"I'm industrious and motivated."

"When it comes to your passions."

He shrugged, defensive irritation prickling at the skin between his shoulder blades. He didn't want to argue. You really didn't get to see each other for significant blocks of time anymore, with your school work and his two jobs and intermittent school attendance. "So, what do you want to do now that you've got access to me? Movie?"

You tugged on his fingers. "It's Thursday."

"Yes it is."

"I have school tomorrow."

"So do I."

You snorted. "Well, I actually plan on being prepared for it. By doing my homework." His brow furrowed. It sounded like you were trying to get out of doing anything with him, but you’d been excited about today since he told you he had it completely free of Catfish prep. You saw the look on his face and continued quickly, "I just don't have time for a movie is all. We could do something else."

"OK. What did you have in mind?"

You shrugged. "Nothing, really. I just want to get changed first, and then we can figure it out."

He turned to peer at you, which he thought was an impressive accomplishment when his face was about two inches from yours. You had to crane your neck back to look him in the eye.

"What?" you asked. He raised an eyebrow.

"You're being vague. It's not like you to be vague, unless you're hidin’ something. You're hidin’ something!" You opened your mouth to protest, but he continued, "What is it, a surprise get together with your entire extended family? Did your mom install a trap door inside your room that leads to the gates of hell, that will be triggered only by my DNA?"

"Van," you groaned, butting your head against his chin. "Stop."

"Fine," he muttered, kissing the edge of your mouth, which curved upward. He moved across your cheek to your jaw, and your fingers wiggled between his. Pretty soon he wasn't thinking about the plans for the rest of the day, distracted by the soft curve of your neck. He trusted you to guide your bodies in a straight line, fixing his attention on the feel and scent of your skin, not caring when you didn't warn him about an upcoming curb and he stumbled. He could feel your soft laughter traveling up your throat and vibrating against his lips. You squealed when he kissed behind your ear at your hairline, scrunching up your shoulder and pulling away.

"Oh God, that tickles!" You tried to lean out of his reach, but you kept your hold tight around his waist.

"Not supposed to tickle," he mumbled into your throat. "Supposed to turn you on."

You made a soft pfft noise and bumped him lightly with your hip. He continued kissing under your jawline until you pushed lightly at his chest. "Van, seriously!" He straightened with a sigh, arching an eyebrow at you.

"Don't give me that look," you said. "It's very distracting when you do that. Why is it that I always have to be the one to navigate, anyway? One of these days, I should get to be the one who latches onto your neck like a lamprey and you'll have to keep focused and get us safely from one destination to another."

"That'd never work," he said seriously, shaking his head, and you gave a little indignant scoff. "Trust me, you, I don't care that much about gettin’ anywhere. If you did that to me, we'd just have to give up on going wherever we were headed. So, it naturally falls to you, the responsible one, to be in charge of walkin’."

"Because if I left it to you, we'd just stand in the spot where we started and make out all day."

"Yep. Or, you know. Other things."

You laughed loudly. "Really, Van? In the middle of town?"

"Wherever you'd let me."

You were blushing but still smiling.

"Well," you said, ducking your head, "I'm not quite ready for exhibitionism just yet. If you can wait until we get to my house, I promise I'll make it worth your while."

Van snorted. "Great, so we can make out in front of your mom? I know you two are close, but that's where I draw a line."

You smiled at him, a small inscrutable smile that spoke of things you knew and he didn't. He lifted his eyebrows at you questioningly, but you ignored the gesture, turning your head forward. His interest piqued. Van thought that maybe you both could duck out somewhere after you got most of your homework done. Your mum would know, because she always knew, but she'd probably let you get away with no more than the disapproving I'm onto you look she always fixed on Van these days. He wanted to be irritated by it, but, if he was honest with himself, your mum was right. Van had very naughty things on his mind, pretty much all of the time.

"Why are you looking so smug?" you asked, digging your fingers into his side.

He couldn't help smirking. "Do I look smug?"

You gave him an appraising look. "Frequently."

"Well," he snorted, spreading his hand out helplessly, "I don't know what to tell you, because I feel so humble."

You scoffed. "Right. That's the vibe I usually get." You affected a deep, laid-back voice. "Van McCann. Humble. Cool. Writes three songs a night and plays guitar and loves tea and bananas. Because he's just that cool."

"Alright, that's it," Van said, leaning down to kiss your neck. You blocked his face with your hand and giggled and he tried to pull you around to get better access to your face,  neck, and the little dip of exposed skin at the collarbone. You staggered haphazardly down the road like that, finally becoming aware of surroundings when you stumbled and Van almost fell over you. You held on to each other for support, your fingers curled into his shirt at his waist, one of your thumbs hooked into his belt loop.

You glanced around, breathless. "Oh, home!" you cried, letting go of Van to head down the path. He sighed and turned after you, scratching the back of his head and feeling acutely aware of all the places on his body that had been pressing up against you but weren't anymore.

You sort of jog-skipped through your yard and up the steps of the porch, arms flapping oddly by your sides. He'd never seen anyone so abysmal at doing anything remotely related to physical exertion. As he walked after you, he noticed that the yard was empty. No car. No mother. He looked up at you, where you were waiting for him at the door with a look of triumph.

"I win!" you said, sounding a little giddy.

Van studied you, smirking. He indicated the empty yard with a wave of his hand and raised his eyebrows. "No mum?"

You scanned the yard as though noticing it yourself for the first time. "Huh," you said lightly, and pushed through the door.

He watched you go in the house, mind racing. A lot of thoughts were running through his head, but the most important were: you, house, and alone. He practically sprinted up the steps after you, surprised that you were already in the kitchen by the time he got inside. You dropped your backpack and took off your school sweater, tossing it into your bedroom. Van lingered in the archway, watching you expectantly. You said nothing and wouldn't meet his eye. Very suspicious.

"How long is your mum going to be gone?" he asked, shuffling cautiously into the room, checking around corners as though expecting her to pop out and surprise him.

You circled around to the opposite side of the room so the table separated you from him. "For being alone in a house with your girlfriend, you seem awfully interested in my mother." You tugged the elastic band out of your hair, shaking your fingers through it casually.

Van grabbed the back of a chair, leaning over it toward you. "Well, your mother's whereabouts and the duration of her absence have a direct bearing on what I do with my girlfriend in an empty house."

"Oh, you think so?"

He gave you a serious look. "Y/N."

"You want a soda? I'm thirsty." You turned around and opened the refrigerator, sticking your head behind the door. Van got the feeling you were laughing at him.

He couldn't quite figure out what was going on. You were being a lot more playful than usual, and he had it at about a fifty/fifty chance that either something terrible was going to befall him, or he was actually alone in a house with you for an afternoon. Banking on the latter, he decided to play along and pulled out the chair he was leaning on. He took the iPod out of his pocket and tossed it on the table, plopping down in the seat.

"Sure, I'll take something to drink."

You emerged with two soda cans and walked around the table to stand in front of him, placing both of the drinks on the table and crossing your hands behind your back. "And, since you were wondering," you said, "Mum has to stay at the inn tonight because of a big conference thing. She'll be there until at least seven. Happy birthday."

A slow smile spread across his face. "My birthday's not for months."

You swiveled your hips back and forth and shrugged, still not quite meeting his eyes. "Whoops."

You leaned down to kiss him, bringing your arms forward to hook your fingers in the holes in his sweater. You tugged him, pulling his shoulders away from the back of the chair, and he responded gladly, gripping your waist with both hands. There was nothing playful here, just a heady lust that drove all thoughts from his mind except for you – your smell, your lips, the crisp crinkle of your school shirt between his fingers.

You pulled back, exerting just enough pressure against his chest to let him know that he was supposed to let you break the kiss, and you lingered there, close enough that he could easily tilt in and drag his tongue over your bottom lip. You studied his face closely, searching for something, he guessed, but he didn't know what and his mind was buzzing too pleasantly to care. After a moment of just watching each other, he was ready to dip his head and kiss you again, but you straightened, keeping your hands fisted in his shirt.

You put your knee on the chair, just next to his leg, and he cocked his head at you. You mirrored his tilt of the head, mouth crooking upward in a self-conscious smirk, and brought your other leg up to rest on the chair so you were kneeling over him. Van grinned at you, dragging his hands down to the small of your back and pulling you closer. You scooted forward until you were fully straddling him, knees bumping the back of the chair and just your feet dangling over the edge of the seat.

Van laughed, feeling almost elated with surprise at your boldness. He had no idea what the hell was going on, but he wasn't about to question it, so he kissed you. You brought your hands up to cup his face, curling your fingers over his ears and then spreading them into his long hair. He worked down your chin to your jaw and neck, lingering at the base of your throat.

"Miss Y/N," Van murmured against your collarbone, "sitting in the lap of a delinquent? This town has come to expect better from you, and, as such, the board is issuing you a citation. For unsanctioned use of Van McCann as a chair."

You laughed, quiet and hot in the hollow of his ear, twining your fingers in his flippy hair at the base of his skull. "Van," you said, lips pulling at his earlobe, "the only times you ever talk too much are exactly the times I'd rather you shut up entirely."

"Another citation," he said, because he couldn't help himself, because he was an ass, "for being saucy."

You sat back, looking him directly in the eye, and for a second Van worried that he might have actually pissed you off. "Shh," you commanded, and set to work keeping him quiet by covering his mouth with your own.

He found the top button of your shirt and undid it, sliding his fingers inside to tickle the warm skin just below your collar. He plucked open three more buttons, not doing more than brushing his hands lightly over the exposed skin. You sucked his bottom lip between your teeth, biting him lightly. His fingers slid down your body to rest on the tops of your thighs, and he ran the heels of his hands up your leg, bunching your skirt to your hips. This was where you would stop him, he thought, you would pull away and say his name softly and he would return to safe territory, although, he thought with a private smirk, he was good at making anything dangerous.

You didn't react the way he expected, though. You shifted, breathing in sharply, and pushed up, pressing your hipbones into his palms. He felt a little lightheaded, the result of surprise and most of the blood draining from his brain to his crotch. He groaned into your mouth and dipped his hands under the hem of your skirt, rubbing against the soft cotton of your underwear.

Your mouth slid left of his, lips and tongue leaving a wet trail on his cheek as you whispered his name shakily. He took that as an invitation to go further, and he dug his fingers into the curve of your ass, running his thumbs over the sharp jut of your hipbones. You kissed his jaw sloppily with trembling lips, working your way down to his neck. Van cracked his eyes open, tilting his head back to grant you better access, and watched the ceiling blearily.

"Well played," he slurred. "Now you are the lamprey."

He could feel you smile against his neck and the warm brush of air that was your laughter. "And now I see," you said, voice muffled and quivery, "just how useless you would be if I did this to you while we were walking down the street."

He wanted to say something witty, but all he could think about was that if you ever kissed him like this in public, even if it were in the middle of the bed & breakfast and his mother was feet away, they wouldn't go any farther than the floor. So he just said, "Huh," lightly, and let his eyes drift shut.

This was maybe the first time he could remember you taking any kind of initiative, apart from the impulsive first kiss, which was something of a bittersweet memory. You weren't generally shy about physical contact, not since you'd gotten over the initial awkwardness long ago, and you were very receptive to his exploration, but you didn't explore in turn. You didn't bring him over to your empty house and straddle him. And you certainly didn't sway your hips back and forth while sitting in his lap, rubbing a tentative rhythm against the fly of his dark jeans.

You couldn't be aware that you were doing it, because, as far as he knew, you really did like him, and would rather not see him die from a fit of boner-induced apoplexy. But then your knees pressed in, clamping tight around his hips, and he wondered if maybe his girlfriend was evil or just sending him signals that you were ready to do more than you had. His mind was flooded with images he didn't let himself entertain except in his quietest, most private moments that came all too rarely – fuck Mary for renovating his room for the bed and breakfast but not giving him any walls so he could jerk off in peace – and a weak moan escaped his dry throat. He flicked at the elastic on your underwear with his thumbs. It would be so easy, he thought. It was vivid in his imagination – all he had to do was unbutton, unzip, and move aside two inches of cotton.

But they hadn't talked about it and he knew, in one small rational part of his brain that was still functioning, that it would be too much too fast. Even if you wanted to, even if you suggested it, it was too big of a leap from your relatively innocent fumblings to sex. He refused to be something you regretted. Apart from which, he didn't have any condoms on him, fuckity fuck.

With enormous regret, he let go of that fantasy, and turned his attention instead to something that was workable. You were obviously feeling adventurous, and, at some point, had decided you wanted to do the sort of things that might happen between teenagers who had a house to themselves without giving him an indication that you had come to that decision. At least, he thought, brow furrowed, not as far as he was aware. He straightened, poking gently at your ass to get your attention away from his neck. You sat back and gave him an annoyed look that almost made him laugh. He tucked just the tips of his thumbs under the elastic at the top of your thighs and stroked the flesh there, running down the joints where your legs met your pelvis. He lifted his eyebrows. "I have an idea," he said playfully, quietly.

Your eyebrows drew together instantly, breathing shallow and quick. "I," you paused, "I was planning actually on maybe doing something else?" Your voice increased in pitch with every word, so by the time you reached the end of the sentence you sounded comically childlike. Van laughed, almost dizzy with distraction. Trust you to make plans about this sort of thing.

"All right, what were you thinking?"

You looked away, fingers clutching his shirt. You glanced back at him and then down at his lap, embarrassed. "Um. Just…" you trailed off and dragged your hand around his waist, trailing fingertips lightly over the bulge in his pants. He thought he might have gone crosseyed. You looked at him from under your eyelashes. "Not, you know, everything, but we've been dating for a while and I've never… I've never…." You huffed and frowned. "You have done some very nice things," you said, "that I've never …had done before. And I was thinking, I've never… done anything like that for you." You tilted your face up to look him straight on, expression terrified. Your thumb was pressing against the button of his fly and he was going to explode. Metaphorically and possibly also in his pants, which would be a pretty inauspicious end to something that started with such promise.

He wondered dimly what you meant when you said he'd done very nice things – in his opinion, he'd hardly done anything, and he knew you'd never reached orgasm with him. He snorted mentally. And if not with him, then not at all. It seemed to him a very good idea to fix that problem. Not just a good idea, possibly genius. And your mum was going to be gone for a while, and they had the whole house and plenty of time for you to try out your plan. He swallowed hard, trying to figure out what you might have in mind. Everything he pictured further deadened his higher mental faculties, and he muzzily wondered what the hell he'd ever done in his life to deserve this, this girl in his lap whose body fit up against his like it was meant to be there, like connecting puzzle pieces.

"Babe, you don't owe me anything." You opened your mouth and he cut in, "Which is not to say that I don't want you to do … whatever it is you're planning on doing. But we can do both." He slid his hands completely inside your panties, running his palms from your hips to your ass, giving a little squeeze. "It's all about taking turns."

You stared at him with wide eyes and he saw your throat work spasmodically. He could imagine the pro/con list you were writing in your head. Pros: it'll be fucking fantastic. Cons: none. Well, maybe that was his pro/con list. He didn't have enough blood getting to his brain to do better.

"Okay," you breathed. He couldn't help the wide grin that spread across his face.

"Okay," he agreed. "Here." He guided you up so you were kneeling over his lap and extracted his hands from your underwear. You grabbed his shoulders, nails digging little furrows high on his back. With his right hand, he gripped your hip firmly, supporting you. His left hand traced across your belly, over your bunched skirt, down between your thighs, and he cupped you over your panties. You were staring down at him with wide eyes, mouth slightly open and breath coming out in hot little puffs.

He stroked you softly with two fingers. "It's okay," he murmured. You nodded and shifted, leaning forward to rest your head against his neck.

"Hey, wait," he said, and you pulled back to look at him.

"What?" she asked, voice barely there.

Van' eyes tracked over your face, from your parted lips to your dilated pupils and the sweat forming at your hairline. He cleared his throat. "I want to see you."

You made a high, squeaky noise at the back of your throat, so he placed a soft, chaste kiss high on your neck. He settled back in the chair, half-reclining, half-slouching, so he was looking up at you. You licked your lips and closed your eyes, breathing deeply. As he added a little pressure to the strokes between your thighs, he could feel your legs trembling around him. He used his right hand to guide your hips, rocking them back and forth in a gentle sway in counterpoint to the rhythm of his left. You rolled your wrists against his shoulders, pulling up fistfuls of his black sweater, and whispered, "Van."

Van used his pinkie to push aside your underwear, and slid his fingers inside. You tensed around him and bit your lip, brow furrowing. He stroked slowly, intent on your face. You looked deep in concentration, but not necessarily enjoying yourself.

He rubbed your hip to get your attention but you didn't seem to notice. "Y/N. Are you alright?"

You frowned and squirmed against his hand. "Just – wait – there." You took a deep breath. Then, your face scrunched up and he paused. "What are you doing?" you muttered. "Move."

He snorted and complied, starting off gently until, with little shifts and different angles, he found a rhythm that worked for you. Your face relaxed and you made a low, long sound of approval. Van leaned forward a little and kissed your chest, right at the soft swell of your breast, and you moaned loudly. He dragged his tongue across your skin, following the edge of your bra cup down between your breasts. Breathing you in, Van thought this might be a nice place to spend the rest of his life. He kissed you again and sighed, feeling his breath reflected back on him off of your chest. You were moving your hips on your own, now, and he settled back in his chair to watch you.

Like this, you were glorious. Your face was flushed, eyes closed tight, and long strands of your hair were sticking to your sweaty cheeks. Your open shirt left your chest exposed, and he watched the rise and fall of your breastbone as you took in sharp panting breaths. Nobody else got to see you like this. No one ever had before, and this was all his, his doing, his memory forever, your first forever.

And suddenly you looked at him blindly, jaw hanging low as you struggled to breathe, and then you cried out, eyes squeezing shut tight. Your body was completely taught, knees clamping around his legs and fists pressing into his shoulders, and your only movement was the sharp, rapid rolling of your hips and your muscles contracting around him. Van thought it was possible he'd never been so aroused in his life.

You came back to yourself little by little, muscles relaxing, though you were still gasping for air. You leaned down and kissed him hard, uttering little helpless noises into his mouth. Some of your hair was caught between your lips but Van didn't care, just kissed around it. He supported you with both hands as the spasms of your muscles died down, still stroking you gently, slowly, until your hips stopped jerking. Van slid his hand out from your panties and rubbed his knuckles against your quaking thigh.

You broke contact, moving just far enough away to look into his eyes, panting. Van smiled and brushed his thumb over your lip, feeling like just about the greatest motherfucking son of a bitch in the world. You couldn't find your voice; you got out the first part of his name, a guttural little "Vuh-" before trailing off and leaning in to kiss him again. Your fingers started on his belt and you had it unbuckled when he grasped your wrists gently. You pulled back and looked at him, eyes dilated and confused.

"Van?"

He took a deep breath. "Just give me a minute," he said. You nodded and he let go of you to run his hands up your arms and shoulders to your neck. You leaned in again and kissed him.

You pressed your hands against his chest, fingers spread out over his pectorals. You trailed your palms down his body to his stomach, resting on the top of his jeans, and his muscles spasmed in response to your touch. He groaned and moved his hands to cup the base of your skull. You snaked your fingers under the hem of his shirt, tracing cold fingertips low across his abdomen, curling over the waistband of his pants. You rubbed little circles in the coarse hair below his belly button and he knew this wasn't going to calm his arousal into something more manageable, but he didn't care, couldn't care.

Before he realized what you were doing, you unbuttoned and unzipped his fly and were reaching your hand into his boxers. All his muscles locked up as your fingers curled around him, lungs seizing as he tried to gasp for air.

"Y/N," he gasped, hands clenching into involuntary fists in your hair. You were already moving, though, stroking him firmly, and he felt the sudden pressure of oncoming release within seconds.

“Slow,” he gasped, “slower, please,” but slowing down wasn’t enough to quell the passion deep in him. Your touch alone was driving him over the edge. One soft kitten lick to the tip and he was undone, coming hot and fast and wet all over your hands. Quicker than you had expected from him.

“I didn’t know you would…” you gazed at him open mouthed as you realized he truly needed that moment he asked for earlier.

You grabbed tissues from the convenient box resting on the table behind you and cleaned him up, and wiped your hands, trying not to blush magenta at your first failed attempt to please him well because of your impatience.

As Van' blood flow redirected itself to important places like his brain, he started to feel curious about how you had decided you'd wanted to jerk him off. He wondered if you'd done research for it, if you'd read magazines or asked those frightening girls at your school for pointers. Books, if they were available, were the most likely, followed by internet searches. He wanted to sneak onto your computer and check your Google activity. You noticed the look on his face and frowned, suspicious.

"What?" you asked warily.

He shook his head and pulled a piece of hair away from your face. "Nothing."

You tilted your head, brow furrowing. "I don't believe you."

He smirked at you, raising an eyebrow. "How long have you been thinking about doing this?"

You ducked your head. "I – I don't know," she stammered. "I haven't."

"Did you do research?" You looked up at that, eyes wide, and he laughed again. "You did! What did you do? Did you go to the library? Get anatomy textbooks? A Cosmo? Download dirty movies?"

"Shut up! I didn't!" He tilted his head back and laughed at the ceiling. "Van!" You punched his chest and your sharp little knuckles actually hurt.

"Ow, hey. Come here," he said, hand on your jaw and drawing your face to his. He kissed you softly, stroking his thumb across your cheek. "You didn't do it wrong, love." He shrugged."You're inexperienced. Trust me, we have plenty of time to get you to a pro level."

Your eyebrows quirked, expression hovering between amusement and annoyance. "Oh, yes?"

He affected a grave demeanor. "I promise."

"You're very optimistic."

Van nodded. "I am generally known for my optimism and my sunny disposition."

You chuckled and rested your forehead against his, rolling it back and forth slightly in a sort of nuzzle. "That was very nice," you whispered.

"Very nice," he repeated, amused.

You snorted, glancing at him from under your eyelashes shyly. "Yes. Thank you."

Van felt his sad, shattered pride stirring. He ran his thumb over your chin, then touched it to your lips. "Darlin’, you're welcome."