#gnc!reader

It had made him soft, the whole being part of a team thing. MacTavish and his sly ways. Had wiggled patiently past Simon's defenses with a charming grin and the promise of being an exceptional operator if one could just hammer a bit more caution, a tad more focus into that buzzing, mohawked skull.

The near loss of him at Makarow's gun had done the last bit, cracked something wide open in Simon that hadn't seen the light of day in many-a years. That he thought he had buried alongside four coffins; one of them so small.

Once Johnny had opened the way up, the bastard invited the whole lot to take a gander inside his chest cavity to look for the best spots to take root. Turned out Kyle hadn't been scared of Ghost at all, at least after working with him on their first shared operation; he was just much more respectful than bloody Johnny... at least until he had been invited. Once inside, Garrick was a shoes-on-the-table kinda bloke. 

And Price? Simon had the sneaking suspicion that the old cunt had planned on using Johnny like a battering ram on him right from the start. 

And now he had a bleeding dating profile. 

Fucking teenagers, those boys. And Price knew better than to let them cook up this mischief; after all, he had helped him die once. Old man spent a big chunk of his offshore money and sleepless nights to scrap every trace of him off the world's archives, be it analog or virtual. And yet, he didn't do anything to stop the damned fools from commencing with Mission Gothic Romance. Which wasn't nearly as witty a code name as they thought it was. 

Captain just shrugged, looked back at his paperwork, unbothered by the fact that his doorhandle had disappeared inside the drywall and was stuck there after Simon's entry. 

"T's not like they can force you to actually use it," he'd said, not without a hint of amusement making the fur on his mug twitch. 

"That's not the point!"

"I know," he looked up at last, eyes flicking to the door, so infuriatingly calm, but the tilt of his chin convinced Simon to extract the door from the wall and close it if he cared at all about his business drifting out into the hallway. They were full of ears and eyes, especially when it came to Ghost. 

"But what's done is done," he continued as Simon shoved the door back into frame way less smooth than it had been possible before he appeared like a stormfront. "They mean well. We all do."

Simon didn’t reply, just stared down at his Captain. Who really should know better. But when did that ever stop the man.

"What are you afraid of?"

Suddenly, the office smelled of copper. Wet and sticky. 

Forgoing blinking now, he pulled in a deep breath. Held it, unsure if he needed it for yelling or a big, tired sigh. 

"Nobody can be all alone without losing their bloody mind, Simon. Not even you."

"Not your decision." It puffed out of him like the first words spoken after climbing a steep fucking peak. The next inhale was sharp and so was his tone. "Not any of you."

"Son," Price said, smooth and sad and eyes full of heavy, meaningful things. He felt it all seep through that damned crack in his chest. 

Bastard. 

All of them. 

Kyle and Johhny had waited revealing their deeds to him until, as they put it, he received a message with substance. They refused to elaborate on their metrics for such an assessment, just pushed over a slip of paper with the name of the app and his log in data. 

"Make sure to change it as soon as--"

"Do I look stupid, Sergeant?" he'd barked at Kyle before he could finish that silly advice.

The small dimple appearing for a split second before his reply negated the solemn tone and alert posture. "No, Sir!"

Christ, he missed the time when people shat themselves around him.

"Ach, Lt,” Johnny, ever the death wish, patted his shoulder. “What's the worst thing that could happen?" 

Suddenly, he could taste thick, black smoke on his tongue. 

       2

His bed is wedged in front of a window in his shoebox of a flat. From foot to head, fitted so snugly between the walls that not even a playing card could slip away behind the frame. 

Sitting on the edge, it's not wide enough for two, he analyses. His whole existence is furnished for one. No empty spaces, no wiggle room. So very bespoke that imagining someone else finding comfort here was an impossible endeavour. 

And it was by design. Was that way because it was the only way it could be. 

The phone rests on the covers next to his thigh. He's been staring down at the device as if in reasonable expectation for it to grow teeth; the hypodermic, venom dripping type. Touching such a thing, even just reaching out, would be unwise. Damn right stupid. So he's starting at it instead. 

He'd done a lot of staring those past twenty-four hours; more than usual. His eyes felt dry with it. 

There he was, the legendary, lethal Ghost. Cornered. By a phone. One not even hooked up to explosives. 

"Bloody fuckin' hell..." he groans, grabs the damned thing and scoots up the bed, back to the wall, legs long and crossed by the ankles. Casual. He was going to delete that sodding profile, then send his Sergeants a screenshot of the goodbye screen as his final word on this matter. 

Not as easy, as it turns out. Of course they'd have to hide the only useful function of this rotten piece of software deep in the plentiful and meandering menus. He didn't mean to actually look at the profile Kyle and Johnny had put together but by the time he clicked out of the fifth menu without success, he'd seen pretty much all of it. It wasn't much to begin with.

The sole picture was a photo of his hands. Cropped close to the wrists, resting high on his thigh, just a sliver of ink peeking out of a compression sleeve. He remembered Johnny taking the picture this was cut from; Simon and Gaz after a particularly nasty round of sparing, Kyle smiling wide and proudly through bloody teeth. He himself had just wiped his sweaty palms on his trousers. Hm. Seductive. 

And then below:

S, 39 y/o, 6'4''

Interests: 

reading, staying fit, travel, archery, bad horrible puns and jokes, cooking (good with a knife)

about me: 

good listener, workaholic (might take me a moment to reply), dark and dry humor

looking for: 

a genuine connection 

The snort rang loud in his quiet flat. "Genuine connection my fat arse," he huffed, finger moving on its own accord over to the little blinking envelope. "Who'd even fuckin' reply to this sh--" Below the pad of his finger, a picture appeared. "--iiit..." he groned, stretching his arms out and away from his face; like this would do any good, like it could make what he saw unseen, like he could hide from the consequences of his blasted curiosity. Once more, he stared. At the subtle, yet sublime line of a smile that escalated in brightness, in sharpness found in your eyes. 

This was the expression of someone unaware of a camera; he could tell. An image neither staged, nor posed. Genuine. Impactful. Attractive. Like a kick to the ribs. 

What had the world come to if someone with that much fire in their eyes had to resort to this virtual meatmonger to find company? And reaching out to a profile like that? Made by two bad dogs for a rabid one. Trying to wipe the foam off his muzzle long enough to pass as saveable. Yet, his finger keeps moving. He's come this far. Might as well…

>Nightcrawler: Why do Archers make bad Secret Agents?

He groans. 

Suddenly, there's blood on the screen, dripping into his lap. 

With one swift fling of his wrist, the phone whips across the room, thumps against the side of the armchair and plops clacks clatters down on the floor. It gives off a faint, sickly glow for another moment before it snuffs out. 

       3

“Ye didnae change the password.”

Simon isn't in the mood. He doesn’t intend to leave this room until his knuckles are split. And he rather not reach that goal on Johnny's jawbone. So he doesn't turn around, just picks flecks of synthetic leather off his hands. Cheap shit, crumples too easily.  

“But ye read the message,” Johnny continues, but has the wits not to face him. Good. Not all was lost then; he could build back his defences from here. Establish distance again. And fear. 

“What's the problem? Not yer type? Or canna think o an answer?” Simon could hear the pout on Johnny's face. Irritating, that. “Because Garrick and me think it's qu–”

“Don’t need yer help, MacTavish!” 

The boots behind him shuffle back. One step. Two. 

Silence. 

Simon gives the punching bag a shove with both fists. Then swings one right. Two left. Knee. The chains rattle. More flakes drop.

“Price said ye're in here tryin tae retire that thing with a rage,” Johnny says, all mirth gone from his voice. “Thought he was exaggerating.”

“You need anything, Sergeant? I'm busy.”

“Aye, I can see that.” The sound of worry. “Just not sure doing what.”

Then silence. 

Simon turns at last. Not fully, just enough to make him wince from the sight of his knuckles.

“Steamin’ Jesus, Lt,” he hisses. 

“If that's all.” 

Johnny backs up five, six steps, careful, like backing away from a wild beast, before turning and leaving Simon alone. 

It should be satisfying. But it's not. 

Simon skips the mess today. Skips it for the rest of the week. He sleeps at base, unwilling to enter the room where his phone still lies on the floor. Screen split and dead. 

For that whole week he rains terror on his subordinates, ruins lads and lasses with the stamina of oxes in training to the point of retching more than once. People outranking him avoid him like high grass bends out of the way when a predator stalks through it. 

Johnny and Kyle don't even try talking to him when not strictly necessary and when they do, they remember their manners. 

Despite his expectation, the satisfaction won't come. Which, in turn, only drives his irritation further up the scale. 

And then there's Price, ordering him into his office come next Monday. 

“Sir.”

The Captain leans back in his chair, gaze even, unreadable. Like shrouded by led. 

“Close the door, Simon.”

He does. It hasn't been fixed yet still needs an extra shove. The drywall yawns blackness back at him. 

“Sit down.”

“Rather sta–”

“Sit.”

So he does. Under the steady gaze of those glacier eyes. 

“Are you done?” Price doesn't hesitate. “Because I think it's quite enough.”

“Sir?”

That earns him a curl of the lip. “Don't give me that shit, Simon.” Price leans on his desk, eyes narrowing, finger pointing. “You're behaving like a teenager–”

“I’m not–”

“Shhh, I don't want to hear it,” he reaches to his right, slides over a stack of papers and taps his finger on top of it so hard the knuckle whites. “You know what that is?”

“The menu, Sir?”

“It's complaints,” he carries on. “Bleedin’, formal complaints about your grumpy arse.” 

Simon blinks. Unimpressed. 

“Don’t make me send you to the shrink, Simon. That,” he waves a hand at him. “It's not an appropriate reaction to what Soap and Gaz pulled and I wager my hat you're aware.” 

“Why so?”

“Because I didn't hire a damn fool.” He tapped his fingers to the stack of complaints. “Or you trying to tell me I did?”

Simon blinks again. His jaw tenses, teeth grinding. Then he grunts. “No.”

“Then spill.”

He imagines getting up, imagines leaving this office, the base, the country. He could get some land in the middle of nowhere, a cabin, some goats or sheep. A fat cat and plenty of books for the long winter nights, learning all about working the land and becoming self-sufficient out there. 

“Got a message from a bird.” 

Price’s eyebrows shoot up as if he just had imagined the same scenario to happen, rather than Simon actually giving in. “Pretty?”

“Very.”

“Message a turn-off, then?”

“Opposite.”

The eyebrows plunge all the way down into a frown. “What's the bloody problem then?”

“Bloody problem, indeed.”

“Now you've lost me.”

Simon sighs. Suddenly it feels too hot under his balaclava. Like there is a fire raging right behind him. He gets up, around the chair and locks the battered door before pulling the suffocating fabric off his head. 

“Jesus,” Price rasps, alert. “Are you alright?”

“Not gonna put a target on someone,” it bursts out of him. And once it is set loose, it's hard to stop. “Could never feel that lonely. Risking that.” Shaking the image of maroon stained carpet and soaked gift wrapping paper from his mind, he walks back to the empty chair, but doesn't sit. 

“Simon–”

“You can't guarantee shit, John. Besides,” he runs a hand through his hair. Roots getting sweaty. A buzz is long overdue. “S not really me that message was for. They made me sound like a fuckin’... it’s a parody, y'should give it a read."

“I did,” Price says drily. “Nothing in there that’s a lie.”

“Now who's acting like a fool? Good listener? I like to cook?” He grips the back of the chair, leaning down, eyes fixating the man like a harpy. “Good with a knife?”

And the fucker has the gall to laugh. “That one's from me.” The leather of the chair creeks whines pops. “Now, now,” Price, still chortling, leans back and points at the poor piece of furniture. “Put your arse back in there and listen.”

Simon hooks his foot around the leg and yanks the chair back. He glances at the white, fluffy filling peeking out of six holes at the top before he slumps back in. 

“You've cooked for me before,” he says. “Was a true revelation–”

“Outstanding, one thing on there that's not bollocks–”

“It’s not,” he smiles. “Look, I know ‘bout plenty of folks on the force who have profiles like that and none of them advertises with routinely killing people around the globe–” 

“Funny,” Simon scoffs.

“-- I know you like to think that's all you are anymore and I understand the things you've done, what you had to do to yourself to get through hell and come out the other end still standing.”

“What's your point, John?” 

“It's time,” he says, rapping his knuckles on the table top. He's still smiling. It's a fathers smile. “Live a little.” 

A/N: Welcome to my post-writers block from hell-project. I put all my other wips on hold for now so I won't overwhelm myself again right away. I have very little planned for this and have no real idea where this is going but so far I'm having great fun.

Also, I never used a dating app before in my life so be lenient on the inevitable wonkiness. Same goes for military and medical inaccuracies. :3

"C'mon, it wasn't that bad, please talk to me." He whined, following you around as you went about finishing up your chores. He'd been sulking and begging you to talk to him since you started ignoring him. If you sat down at a table to eat, he'd sit right next to you and stare at you, occasionally poking at you to grab your attention. If you went to your shared tent, he'd get on his knees and start begging you to talk to him. It was pathetic, but you can't say you didn't like it.

"He's still at it?" Karen said, looking at Javier, who was standing behind you, draping himself over your shoulders in an attempt to get your attention. You nodded at her, looking annoyed. She laughed, "You're gonna kill 'em with that there silent treatment." She said taking a swig of her drink, "Well, maybe he should've considered that before he started pickin' a fight." You said, making Javier groan.

"Amor please.." he mumbled into your neck, his words muffled. You sighed, pushing him off of you as you walked away.

And of course he followed. He tried grabbing your hand to spin you around to face him, you just turned your face away from him. He didn't like that one bit, he cursed in spanish under his breath before leaving you for the first time in the last few hours. He headed towards Boaz jumping on him before riding off, presumably towards Rhodes. You stared at his back as he rode off, wondering what he was doing, and when he'd be back.

"Javier got tired of the silent treatment, I'm guessin'." John said, appearing out of nowhere, "he'll be back, he ain't just gonna pack up and leave." You said, trying to assure yourself more than John. "If you say so." Is all he said before he walked over to the haybales.

The next hour or so was filled with you worrying, glancing every so often at the hitching posts to see if you could spot Boaz. "He'll be back, he's not the type to just leave like that. He ain't John." Arthur said, trying his best to assure you, it didn't work all that well. You started tuning everyone out, more caught up in your own head than anything else.

You didn't even notice Javi in the distance until Tilly nudged you, "Look there, dear, your man's back." Pointing in the direction of your lover. You gasped, jumping up making your way over to him.

"Oh so you're not ignoring me anymore, huh?" He said, smirking as you approached him, you slapped him on the shoulders as he was getting off Boaz, "You worried me! I thought you left me, you idiot!" You said, "okay okay, ow... I'm sorry! I didn't mean to make you worry." He said trying to dodge your incoming slaps,

"look look look, I just went to Rhodes." He starting digging in his satchel for something, he pulled out a chocolate bar and a book. "I got you that book you'd been eyeing the last time we went there, and ya'know, some chocolate. To make up for the fight and all." He said sheepishly, you took the book and chocolate.

"Next time tell me where you're goin'. And maybe next time don't start a fight." You huffed, though you couldn't help but smile at the sentiment. He kissed your cheek, "I won't Mi Amor, promise."

That promise didn't last long, y'all got into a argument the next week.

Frank meant well. You knew that. He didn’t go around hurting people he cared about on purpose—not unless they had it coming. But sometimes the way he loved felt like being pressed into a mold that didn’t fit, forced to carry the shape of a man who wasn’t you.

“You gotta square your shoulders,” he’d say, stepping behind you, his heavy hands adjusting your stance like you were a weapon that needed correcting. “Don’t fidget. Men don’t fidget.”

Each word landed like a stone. You nodded, swallowed, and did as told. Because it was Frank, and you wanted his approval like oxygen.

He drilled you like a soldier: pushups until your arms trembled, gun drills until your palms ached, sparring until your ribs screamed. “Be stronger. Be harder. Don’t let anybody see weakness. That’s how they’ll tear you apart.”

He thought he was helping. He thought he was protecting you from a world that chewed people up. But every correction, every demand, every “man up” tightened a rope around your throat.

Because for Frank, being a man meant being like him. And you weren’t. You weren’t six feet of muscle and vengeance. You weren’t carved from violence and grief. You were you. And somehow, that never seemed to be enough.

One night, you broke.

It was after a job, blood still under your fingernails, the smell of gunpowder lingering. You’d messed up—hesitated, flinched—and Frank had lit into you, barking orders, telling you to stop being soft.

Back at the safe house, you slammed the bathroom door and braced yourself against the sink, breathing hard. When Frank followed you in, his voice was sharp.

“What the hell was that out there? You can’t freeze. You freeze, you die.”

Your reflection swam in the cracked mirror. Your jaw trembled. “I’m trying,” you spat, voice cracking. “I’m trying to be what you want, but it’s never enough, is it?”

Frank froze. He looked at you like you’d just taken the air out of his lungs.

“Kid—”

“No. Don’t.” Your eyes burned. “You keep pushing me to be like you, to be this… this unbreakable soldier. And every time I can’t measure up, I feel like I’m not even real. Like I’m not a man unless I fit your fucking blueprint.”

Silence. Heavy. Frank’s face was unreadable, all hard lines and shadows.

Finally, he muttered, low: “I didn’t… I didn’t mean it like that.”

But the damage was done. The words hung between you, jagged and raw. You turned away, shoulders tight, and for once Frank didn’t try to correct you.

He just stood there, drowning in the weight of his own shadow, realizing that maybe—just maybe—his way of protecting you was the thing cutting you open.

You snort as you toss the Newsweek paper on your kitchen table for Eddie to see. The picture, of course, was staged by you and Eddie: Him in Ozzy-esque sunglasses, hair tied back, in regular clothing wrapped around you, an iced coffee in his free hand. You’re in jeans and Corroded Coffin t-shirt, snuggled into Eddie’s embrace as you sip on your own drink, a toothy smile on your face. You’d called Ralphie, a paparazzo in Boston that you’d grown close to, to break the story. He was more than happy to do it, knowing these photos would likely pay his rent for the foreseeable future.

“Think they’ll buy it?” Eddie muses, sipping his coffee.

“What’s to buy? It’s true. Maybe a bit exaggerated, but that’s just Hollywood.” You shrug, flipping the pancake on the griddle. “Chocolate chips?”

Eddie nods, rising from his seat to wrap his arms around your waist. “I need this tour to be over. I prefer waking up in a stationary bed.”

“Mmm,” You make a sound of agreement, resting your head on his as comfortably as you can without leaving the stove. “Only a couple more weeks and we’re home free.”

“Where is home, exactly?”

You don’t miss a beat. “Wherever, as long as it’s with you.”

He snorts. “Such a sap.”

“Huh, wonder who made me this way.” You giggle, poking his cheek. “You think we can put this whole thing to bed now?” You study the magazine article, rolling your eyes at their word choice: scruffy, angsty, disheveled. 

“Maybe, but there’s something else I wanna put to bed instead.” He waggles his eyebrows at you. Pretending not to squirm at his flirting, you rise from your seat at the table, clearing his empty plate and your own. 

“Though I am absolutely picking up what you’re putting down, I have shit to do today.”

He pouts, batting his big, brown eyes at you. “What could possibly be more important?”

–

“This fuckin’ sucks.” Eddie kicks the gravel from the sidewalk outside the mechanic. “I didn’t even know you still had a car.”

You shrug. “I like to keep my life outside of being a rockstar pretty normal. Unfortunately that includes taking my dad’s car in for routine maintenance.”

“I coulda taken a look for him, yknow?”

“Psh, right. Ask the rockstar to change the oil in my dad’s camaro.” “My life is not too glamorous to do my favorite person a favor.” There’s no humor in his tone, he genuinely wouldn’t mind getting his hands dirty for you. 

“While I appreciate that, my dad would never let anyone besides Theo and himself touch that thing. You know how many times I begged him to let me take it out?”

Eddie snorts. “I remember. And the one time he finally let you, it came back with the tiniest scratch and he’d grounded you for a month.”

“Theo was the one to fix it, and the one to talk him out of a harsher punishment.”

“And despite already being eighteen, you didn’t go out at all that entire month.”

You frown, because he’s right. “God, I’m such a fake punk!”

“Yeah. Total poser.” He shoves your shoulder playfully.

“Well, she’s all set, kid.” Theo strolls up to where you and Eddie are talking, wiping his hands on a stained rag.

“Thanks, Theo.” You fork a handful of cash in his direction. 

“No biggie. Anything for the biggest Boston rockstah I know. And I know a few, ya know, Steven Tyla…” He definitely doesn’t know Steven Tyler, but you’d seen him at a couple parties. 

“Yeah, for sure.” 

“Before ya go, though. Would yas mind signin’ somethin’ for my kids? They’a huge fans. Daughta can’t get enough o’ya.”

“‘Course, sir!” Eddie beams at the recognition, and your heart skips. He really is still living a dream. You nod in agreement, and Theo pulls out a receipt book that he hands you, along with the pen behind his ear. You sign the top corner, 

Thanks for listening, hope to see ya at the gig! and scribble your signature before passing it to Eddie. You peek over his shoulder and watch him scribble,

Keep rock n roll alive! and his big, blocky EDDIE. “How old are your kids?” Eddie looks up, meeting Theo’s eyes. 

“Eighteen and twenty.”

“Do they wanna come see us? We have a show here in about a month.” 

“Seriously?” Theo’s eyes light up, and you can't help but be awed by Eddie’s gesture. 

“You can too, if you want! I dunno if you listen to that type of music, but…”

“You can't tell my kids, but I'm actually a really big fan of both you guys’ stuff.” He lights up as he says it, and it makes you teary. You’re not sure you’ll ever get used to this part, the effect you can have on other, real people. 

“Your secret’s safe with us, man.” Eddie offers out his hand, which Theo shakes enthusiastically. “We’ll see ya!”

—

Eddie’s POV

“That was a really nice thing to offer.” You nudge him, approaching the door to your parents’ house. 

Eddie shrugs off his vest and lays it over the arm of your couch. “Least I could do. We should probably let Steve know to add three to the guest list. You get his kids’ names?”

“Shit. No, but I can ask my dad.”

He nods, still standing awkwardly in the middle of your living room. “Well, uh. What else did you need to do today?” He can’t see what else needs to be done. You’d gone grocery shopping yesterday, and your parents’ place is pretty set for the week. He remembers trailing behind you: dressed in sinfully short shorts and white tank top while he managed to sweat in the freezer section, even if only in a tank top himself.

 The house is clean— with the help of your parents, but mostly because you’ve been anxiously cleaning since this morning. He had tried to help, but ultimately had to excuse himself when you bent over the kitchen counter to wipe it down. 

He wants to touch you. It’s driving him fucking crazy, he hasn’t been able to. He’s starting to feel like maybe you’re avoiding him, though you’ve given no indication that you’re not interested in having sex with him again. His brain is just telling him that. He hopes. 

Even right now, in a sundress and sneakers, he wishes he could bring himself to take you to the alley behind the mechanic’s. But neither of you have made a move. Eddie’s not even sure he’s entitled to. Everything has been on your terms, and he hasn’t had a problem with it. He owes you that, right?

You glance at your watch and shrug. “Dad’s doing an overnight, and my mom’s away on some business trip as of this morning.” 

“Are you implying what I think you are?” He focuses on the wall behind you to keep his pants from tightening.

“Horror movie marathon? Like old times?” If it weren’t for the hope in your voice, he’d accuse you of being cruel.

So he meets your eyes again and stretches his smile as wide as it’ll go. “Of course, sweetheart.”

—

You’re trying to kill him. You must be trying to fucking kill him.

“Whipped cream?” You offer out the can with a mouthful, a bit of cream landing on his cheek. Fighting the urge to use your outstretched arm to pull you into him, Eddie opens his mouth without breaking eye contact. Two can play this fuckin’ game, he thinks. Unfortunately the giggle that slips through your lips makes his knees wobble. 

“So, I have plenty of movies to choose from. Never brought ‘em when I moved out, guess they kept them all safe for me.” You glide over to the crates of tapes next to your television, neatly organized with their titles facing outward. “You in the mood for something really scary first, or something more along the lines of a horror-comedy?”

He’s in the mood for you, truthfully. The short cotton shorts and camisole you’re wearing aren’t helping that, either. “Ed?”

“Hm? Oh, uh, either one’s fine.” 

You raise an eyebrow at him, and through his flushing cheeks he manages to smile back. Through gritted teeth, albeit. 

“You’re being weird.”

“Am not. What about Possession?” An attempt to dodge the subject. 

You seem to let the subject slide, plucking the tape from its case. “Possession it is.” 

The TV yawns to life, and you place the tape into the player, making sure it's been rewound before pressing play. 

“You gonna sit with me, or are you gonna keep being weird?” He rolls his eyes, collapsing on the opposite side of where you are. “Got it.” 

Half of the movie is spent like that, Eddie resisting the nagging voice in the back of his head, begging him to tug you by your ankle onto his lap. You seem blissfully unaware of his internal crisis, munching on microwave popcorn as the TV illuminates the frightened expression on your pretty face. You retreat under the blanket when the scene before you gets to be too much, and for some reason it springs Eddie into action. He crawls from his side of the couch slowly, doing his best not to spook you, and curls his body into your blanket covered form.

“Hello?”

“Hi.”

“Whatcha doin’?”

“Protecting you from the scary movie.”

“My knight in shining armor.” Your body shakes with laughter, and he joins you. When you stop, you start flailing under the blanket, causing Eddie to release you so you can shove the cloth off your head. You inhale the fresh air deeply before once again descending into a fit of giggles.

“I think we’re safe now.” Eddie looks around dramatically, curly flying on either side of his face. 

“Thanks for rescuing me.” You crane your neck up to reach his cheek, placing a tender kiss against his hot skin. “However shall I repay such a noble act?”

Eddie groans under the heat of your breath against his cheek. “You’re killin’ me, doll.”

“Oh?”

“Gonna make me bust in my pants like a fuckin’ teenager.”

–

Your POV

His words propel you into action, quickly moving to straddle his lap, clad only in a pair of gray sweatpants. You can feel his length underneath you, twitching when you make the gentlest of contact. “And here I thought you didn’t wanna fuck me.” 

“What?” Eddie halts the beginning of your movement, grasping your hips to keep you in place. “What god awful crime could I have committed in the last week to make you think such a terrible thing?” He looks at you with a pout, his eyes dark with want, or maybe hurt. 

“It’s what you didn’t do, actually. I was walkin’ around the house in my underwear, Ed! And don’t even get me started on the shorts I wore to the grocery store.”

“You don’t have to remind me.” His breath is labored, like he’s just run a marathon. You grind your hips forward experimentally, and he whimpers in response. “Fuck, I’m sorry. Jus’ wasn’t sure it was the ri- fuck– right time, y’know?” Your grinding has become more consistent, still slow as the clothed tip of his cock prods teasingly against your throbbing clit.

“Mmm, such a gentleman all of a sudden?” You tease, making sure each word is barely audible, said so closely that each of your breaths tickles the fine hairs of his ear canal. “Where’s the spoiled rockstar that takes whatever he wants, whenever he wants, hm?” You’re being mean, but Eddie squirming and panting underneath you spurs you on. “You just gonna let me tease you like that while you mope because you can't touch me? Because it would be, what? Wrong? You’ve never cared about that shit before.”

“Didn’t wanna ruin anything, didn’t want you gettin’ the idea that I–” He stops short.

“Finish your sentence.” It’s a command. You don’t usually take the dominant role over Eddie in these situations, but you don’t hate the way it’s making you feel.

“Didn’t want you thinkin’ I oh- only wanted sex..” His voice is raspy with want, with need, for you, and you’ve never been good at denying him of it.

“But you do, right? You want sex?”

“I want your trust first.” His eyes bore into you as he says it. 

“Eddie,” You sigh, breaking character to caress his sweaty, flushed face. “You have my trust.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. I would’ve kicked you out by now if you didn’t.” Eddie throws his head back to laugh, but it comes out strangled when you grind down on his lap again. “So, now that that’s out of the way…” Before you can finish the thought, Eddie lurches forward, one hand to the back of your neck as the other wraps around your waist, bringing your body closer to his as your lips meet. Your tongue slips sweetly into his waiting mouth, coaxing a groan from his throat that you feel between your legs. 

The movie playing behind you is long forgotten, now white noise as Eddie slips the strap of your tank top down your arm, calloused fingers gliding over your soft skin. Despite your earlier candidness, he’s being slow. Gentle. Almost cautious. In a way, it feels like revenge for the way you’d been teasing him, and you can’t help but relish the way it works you up. 

Eddie finally breaks your kiss, giving you time to breathe while he sloppily mouths your throat, eagerly adding teeth when you roll your hips forward again. His hands have a mind of their own, tugging at the fabric of your tank top until it's bunched at your waist, exposing your chest to the warmth of Eddie’s hot, panting breaths. At this point you’re practically riding his lap, begging for friction as he takes his time with you, like he’s memorizing every inch. 

“Ed, please,” Your voice is strained, broken and shameless.

“What do you need, baby?” He coos, sending you into a tizzy. 

“Need you to touch me.”

“I am touchin’ you, sweetheart.” He runs his finger down your arm with a feather light touch, barely registering over the way your entire body is vibrating. 

“You know what I mean.” You’re pouting, getting desperate. “Thought you wanted to.”

“Hey,” His eyes darken as he stills the rocking of your hips with firm hands. “I want to. But what’s the rush, huh? We’ve got so much time now. All night, even.” His voice holds an air of mischief, and you’re putty in his hands. 

“You gonna tease me like this all night? You don’t have the willpower.” You wriggle in his grasp for emphasis, and he muffles his groan with gritted teeth. You cross your arms over your bare chest, huffing smugly. “At least take your shirt off?”

–

Eddie’s POV

He can’t resist the way you ask, pleading with him to give you something. Eagerly he complies, yanking his shirt over his head and tossing it lacklusterly aside somewhere in your living room. “Get that later.” He laughs breathily, and you lunge at him. Before he can adjust to your weight, your teeth have sunken into his neck, contrasting with the plush of your lips placing wet kisses along the column of his throat. Your tongue soothes over the sore marks your teeth have left indented in his skin, branding him as yours. He finds himself excited for the next time he’ll go out in public, wearing the hickies you’ve given him like designer accessories. 

“You wanna go upstairs?” You mumble the question between placing chaste kisses on his shoulder. 

“I dunno, I’m kinda set on the idea of you riding me on the couch.” 

“Eddie, this is my parents’ house.”

“I’ll buy them a new couch.” Before you can argue, he pulls you forward by the neck, his lips slotting into your like puzzle pieces. You seem to give in, letting him win the argument. He can get a couch here by tomorrow if he has to.

–

Your POV

You readjust, sliding the tank top and your shorts quickly from your body, tossing them over the arm of the sofa before claiming your former position, this time with less layers between your throbbing clit and the tip of his leaking cock. 

Before you can work him up too much more, Eddie’s hands are sliding down your form, stopping to lightly twist and pinch at your nipples, chuckling at the way you whine and mewl for him. Replacing one hand with his mouth, Eddie then slips his free fingers to the waistband of your panties, snapping them once and causing you to jump before dipping lower to gather your slick before rubbing agonizing circles on your clit. 

“Jesus, angel, you’re fuckin’ soaked.” His pupils are blown as you’re sure your own are, looking at you with a lovely mixture of lust and love. 

“What can I say, you do it f’me.” You aren’t trying to be sexy, it’s the truth. Eddie doesn’t have to do much to turn you on.

“Feeling’s mutual, doll. Gettin’ me all hot ‘n bothered.” His breath is labored as he speaks, and you can feel his heart racing as you press yourself further into his chest. “Need to be inside you, love. Don’t think I can take much more teasing.” You can’t resist his desperation. You move quickly, letting him shove his sweatpants, now with a damp spot staining the crotch, and his boxers to the ground. His cock springs free from the confines and slaps against his stomach, precum dampening the coarse hair of his happy trail. You lick your lips absentmindedly, and before you can drop to your knees in front of him, Eddie grabs your wrist, pulling you back into his lap. 

“Wait, Ed I’m still– oh, f-fuck.” Eddie drags the tip of his dick against the damp cloth of your panties, causing a sensation that ripples through your core. 

“You gonna say somethin’?” He’s taken control, stroking himself against your hole, fabric doing nothing to cease the waves of pleasure crashing through you. “Use your words, baby.” He’s chiding, condescending as you can only whine in response, the heat between your legs seemingly cutting off the communication between your brain and your tongue. “Tell me what you want, can’t read your mind.”

“Need you to fuck me, baby, please.” The words fall out without decorum, desperate and high pitched like you’re being tortured. 

“That wasn’t so hard, was it? Such a good job.” Relief floods your senses when he pulls your panties to the side, sliding himself easily into your drenched hole. You both moan at the feeling, your walls clenching around his thick cock, his grip a vice on either side of you, not yet ready to let you move. You can only shake your head, too cock drunk to form a coherent sentence. Usually, he’d scold you for not speaking, make it harder for you to get off, but you can tell he’s just as desperate to fuck you, possibly even more than you are. “Need you to move.” He tries to keep his voice even, but you can hear it’s close to breaking, begging. You obey, rocking your hips, rolling forward, each movement accompanied by his own, the head of his dick pressing against the sweet spot inside you each time.

“Feels so good, darlin’, takin’ me s- so well.” He knows you value his praise, regardless of how difficult it is to give it between labored breaths. 

“Missed you, Ed.” You sigh the words, brain too fuzzy to muster up the strength to properly speak to him. 

“I missed you, baby.” Eddie’s head falls into the crook of your neck, kissing the marks he’d previously left on your throat while you continue to ride him. “Not gonna last much longer. Need you to cum for me. Please, I need you to cum.” His fingers find your clit without struggle, like he’s memorized the map of your body. He makes tight, quick circles on your clit as he continues thrusting inside of you, and your walls clench more tightly around him as you feel your orgasm climbing. Finally, as Eddie has pulled your face into his, crashing your lips together as his hand and hips stay moving, you fall apart on top of him, legs shaking on either side of his lap as he watches you ride it out, mesmerized by the look of you; sweaty, panting, bouncing on top of him. You’re still shuddering when Eddie lets go, head buried in your neck as his thrusts lose rhythm and grow eager, no longer worried about getting you off. His noises are guttural, coming from the deep recesses of his body. He spills his load inside you, his cum painting your walls as he mutters sweet nothings: “Fuck, shit, you’re perfect, missed this pussy so much, like it’s made for me, ‘s all mine, mine, mine…”

When he’s emptied himself, body heaving with each breath, Eddie lifts you off of his lap, both of you wincing as he slowly pulls out. “Shit!” You fall into a fit of giggles as your bare butt falls onto the couch next to him, suddenly shy about being naked in front of him. He joins you, cackling as you wipe the sweat from your brow with an exaggerated “Phew!” 

“Why weren’t we doin’ that all week?” He says through laughter, and you shrug. 

“Probably because other people live here?”

Holy shit. Your arms are a fucking dream.

Now there’s a sentence Frankie’s not sure he’s ever thought before in his life - and he’s had plenty of years for it to occur to him. You know, since he’s... older than he used to be.

He doesn’t know if he’s ever been so enthralled by a person’s arms before but, fuck, yours are certainly doing something for him.

Frankie finds himself enraptured by the way your bicep curls subtly every time you lift the beer to your plush lips for a swig. The way your shoulders fill out your navy tee, the cut of it emphasising the subtly cultivated broadness of your shoulders and upper back as you lean forward in your camp chair, feet spread wide apart, and elbows resting atop your robust thighs as you cradle your drink

Your body language is innately familiar to him. It’s not unlike his army buddies - he could swear you sit like Pope does- and yet, their way of being could never. Only on you could these simple gestures and mannerisms generate the steadily building throb between his legs.

Your movements make you look tough and purposeful, and yet the way this hardness contrasts with the softness and subtle swell of other areas of your body is not lost on Frankie. Your shirt and your jeans tug tight over other, more undulating contours of your figure too, more subtly framed but no less appealing to him.

You look at once delicate and rugged. Soft and hard. Quiet but steely. And it confounds him. And it pulls him in.

These glances were at first unconscious, his eyes finding you in his casual surveyance of the scene; but now? Now, they are nothing short of deliberate. Now, he can barely look away, his eyes continually seeking you out, his “glances” growing in duration with each peek from beneath the rim of his cap.

Look, don’t get him wrong.

It’s not only your appearance which has him quietly enthralled, as he sips his beer by the grill, acting as a self-appointed sentinel so that no drunk partygoers fall into the still cooling coals (AKA, Frankie will take even the thinnest excuse he can find to be a wallflower, goddammit). No, it is not only how you look -pleasing as that is- which causes him to steal surreptitious glances over at you where he can get them. 

It is all of you.

At least, everything he knows so far. And everything he wants to.

You’ve mingled a little during the party, of course, at which points Frankie has witnessed your unobtrusive confidence and assured amiability, as you’ve dipped in to engage with the wider throng. He’s witnessed your kindness and your humour, as mostly, you’ve been anchored to Benny’s side, taking care of him and keeping him laughing like a hyena all day. The youngest Miller -your old friend and poor bastard- is pinned to his camp chair, nursing injuries and aches from his most recent pummelling at fight night. Indeed, you are his self-appointed guardian. That, or you hate parties just as much as Frankie and you’ve chosen to be a wallflower too.

You’re not doing such a good job of blending into the background, however, as you’ve certainly caught Frankie’s attention - even if you did little to actively invite his ardent focus. Other people at the party have objectively been more attention-grabbing, in their respective ways, whether through dressing to the nines to draw appreciative stares, undertaking boisterous antics to be declared the “life and soul” of the party (or Pope just being himself). But you? You’re just... being. Just being you, and yet you effortlessly draw Frankie’s gaze all the same.

Christ, am I being creepy? he wonders suddenly, as you chat away. Oblivious to his existence and his admiring stares.

He hasn’t been looking for that long; honestly. But he does wonder exactly how long he can use the excuse that you’re conveniently in his eyeline before he has to admonish himself for very bad behaviour. After all, if his attentions were unwelcome, he would hate to make you uncomfortable.

Frankie’s eyes sweep cautiously over you though, as you stand and bend, lifting a fresh beer from out of the cooler, jeans tight on your hips - god those hips- and, with a flare of heat blazing a trail to the junction of his thighs, he finally tears his eyes away. That’s the final straw. He may be drawn to you but he’s not without limits. He aims to look respectfully only. 

His eyes wander back though, when he feels it’s safe enough to do so, his gaze focussing on neutral areas (then again, he thought he was safe with arms but, holy shit, he was not okay).

He pays a little more attention to your outfit this time. You are dressed practically, with combat boots and simple jeans and tee. Frankie hasn’t given much thought to how he prefers a potential partner to dress -it’s all the same to him provided the person is comfortable, and it’s what’s on the inside that counts anyway (and sometimes what’s underneath, wink wink) - but he finds that he actively appreciates your style. It’s a loose riff on something he would wear himself- even if he has opted for one of his more flamboyant, bird-adorned shirts for this special occasion. (Maybe he wouldn’t be averse to a little attention himself, truth be told; even if he would be loath to admit it - and maybe, even if he wouldn’t necessarily know what to do with it if he got it.)

It’s not as though your clothing is especially masculine in and of itself- clothing can mean different things on different people, in different contexts- but on you this simple outfit has an... intentionality to it, like you selected this look to match your... masculine energy.

Until this moment, Frankie hadn’t given much thought at all to what a “masculine energy” might look like, or all the variations and nuances and possibilities of it; but to him, in this moment, you certainly embody exactly that. You seem in control and confident and relaxed and Frankie likes that about you. He likes it a hell of a lot.

It was this comfort in yourself that first drew him to you, he realises. The easy way you carried yourself through the crowd. And, although he knows this assured nature does not exist for his consumption or benefit, he can’t help but feel like you would be a comfort to him too, if only you would wrap him in your embrace.

Maybe wrap me in those strong arms of yours.

Fuck.

Yes, Frankie started looking because of your energy; this quiet charisma and unassuming strength which radiates off of you, even as you appear entirely unaware of it. And he can’t stop looking for every other reason. Indeed, mere hours after you rocked-up with zero fanfare, Frankie is in some deep shit. He has talked himself a goner before he’s even ever talked to you.

Of course, he couldn’t possibly pluck up the courage to do that.

You’re likely the most attractive person he’s ever seen, and, even if you’re single, and even if you’re into men (one can’t assume), and even if you’re into dating, and even if the stars align and you’re into him -and a million other “ifs”- there’s no way he could take a chance.

In Frankie’s head, it’s over before it’s begun. He’s fucked it up before it has even happened. And because of that, he resigns himself to the fact that it never will. So, here he is. Resident wallflower, staring dreamily at you from a distance, where he feels he belongs.

So, with a long, sad exhale of breath, Frankie briefly tilts his head to the side as another figure joins him, plopping themself into the camp chair to his right. He doesn’t need to look all the way around to know that figure is Pope, even before the man has spoken.

“Getting too old for this shit, man,” he grumbles. “Need to take the weight off my fucking knees.”

Frankie merely grunts dolefully in response, as Santi pops another beer open with a clink of the bottle cap. He vaguely registers a frothing noise to his side as the beverage erupts, half-spilling over Santi’s person. “Fuck, be right back.”

Frankie grunts again, still not looking over at his friend, who presumably has gone to fetch something to mop the mess up.

Meanwhile, there you are, across the way. The dancing firelight licking your features and contours like a tender lover, and causing Frankie’s eyes to pool with longing.

Before he can feel too down on himself, though, you laugh uproariously at one of Benny’s jokes, the sound at one with the dancing flames - warm and diverting. Frankie thinks your laugh must be the most beautiful sound he’s heard. It’s infectious, in fact, causing Frankie’s eyes to gently crease at the corners in turn, as the sound washes over him across this distance.

For all your hard edges -of which you do have some, it appears- your voice is rich and soft and your eyes kind; although your gaze soon gives way to a spark of mischief, and your laugh merges into a dirty chuckle as Benny tosses another crude joke into the space between you. You bring your arm up to your mouth to save you from spitting out your swig of beer and, fuck, the brown leather of the watch strap at your wrist has him thinking about your arms again, for a moment. 

He loves the way your face crinkles as you chat with Benny. Gentle crow’s feet -which he got a closer look at earlier- radiating out from the side of your eyes, and your head tipping back in mirth as you add some well-timed riposte which has Benny howling. Finally, it’s all too much for the fighter, and he holds a bandaged hand up in surrender, your assault of humour apparently making his busted ribs ache too hard for him to stand it any longer.

Watching the two of you, Frankie expels a small, vicarious chuckle of his own.

“You might want to pick your jaw up off the floor, hermano,” Pope says softly, experimentally, as he slips back into the camp chair by his buddy and follows his line of sight, making some deductions.

Frankie clears his throat, voice tightly strung when he speaks. “Whatever do you mean, Santiago?” he asks, the question muffled behind a defensive hand drawn up over his mouth.

Shit.

Frankie looks at Pope now, alright, fixing his own expression as though butter-wouldn’t-melt. Pope simply nods his head towards where you and Benny are sat; hitting the nail on the head with a single beat.

“I wouldn’t have pegged them as your type,” Pope says with good-natured intrigue.

Frankie opens his mouth to protest, but Pope’s heavy-lidded brown eyes are blazing; almost daring Frankie to voraciously counter either of his statements, and in doing so, proving the motherfucker’s point. So, instead, Frankie foregoes his protest, which causes Santi’s eyes to glow with a less than subtle pride.

He knows he’s right now anyway - the smug fuck.

“Sophia didn’t work out for you?” Pope adds casually.

Frankie grunts. Sophia. The woman Pope was determined to fix him up with tonight.

“It’s going fine,” Frankie insists nonchalantly, taking a massive swig of his beer.

Pope huffs out air in indignant amusement. “Oh yeah?”

“Mm-hmm.”

“She left an hour ago, Cat.”

“Shit,” Frankie curses, though his disappointment is transparently due to being found out, rather than the lack of her presence. “Didn’t notice.”

Sophia was perfectly fine. Perfectly pretty. Perfectly nice. Perfectly interesting. Perfectly into Frankie, by all accounts (if Santi’s opinion was to be trusted).

Sophia was probably everything Frankie thought he was looking for in a... Well, in a person, he guesses, updating and reconfiguring the terminology in his internal monologue.

But, it turns out, Frankie didn’t know himself all that well at all before he set his eyes on you today.

You’re not quite like anyone else here. Not like anyone else he’s met. You’re just effortlessly you, and Frankie admires that. It’s not any one thing about you that he can put his finger on. It’s all of you. Everything together. It suits you. More than that; it becomes you.

“Why don’t you go talk to them?” Pope asks, leaning forward in his chair and smacking Frankie on the thigh encouragingly.

“They’re thick as thieves over there. How would I even -?”

Frankie has barely gotten his full question out, but as soon as he even vaguely implies his desire Pope is all action.

Of course. As per usual.

“Hey, pendejos! Can we join you?” he announces loudly, already striding across the yard, and Frankie forced to follow as he is practically dragged by his shirt, a firm hand scrunched in his back and guiding him forward.

“What did we say about self-sabotaging, hermano?” Pope whispers as an aside as he clocks his buddy’s panicked expression and irate mumblings, but Frankie is already submitting to his fate. He has to figure it’s less humiliating to walk over willingly than to be dragged over kicking and screaming, right?

“To... not?” Frankie responds, causing Pope to grin and slap him on the back encouragingly.

Frankie laboriously attempts to paint a smile on to his face, quickly taking his hat off and ruffling his flattened hair for good measure.

Christ, I hope they like the shirt.

“Sure, pull up a chair,” you smile, batting your eyes a little at Santi as you introduce yourself, extending a polite hand to be shaken in your firm grip. Frankie tenses up as he imagines a spark flash between the two of you.

Please no. Don’t steal them, hijo de puta. 

“I’m Pope,” he grins in return, in his effortlessly charming manner.

The bastard.

After a prolonged silence, in which Frankie realises he was meant to speak only after all eyes have converged on him expectantly, Pope fills in the gaps on his behalf. “This upstanding gentleman is Frankie,” he announces, reaching behind him and patting his chest with the back of his hand. Then, he drags a couple of stray camp chairs over to form a closer circle, generously leaving the one closest to you vacant. 

Frankie throws a helpless, sidelong glance at Pope, and his buddy’s eyes needle the seat emphatically, silently prompting the pilot to sit the fuck down - instead of standing around like a total clown.

“I’m a pilot,” Frankie pushes out, before groaning inaudibly and wishing he hadn’t said anything at all.  

Good one, Francisco. Why don’t you rattle through your entire resume? Quickly now.

“Yeah. Or he was, until the coke rap,” Benny announces - free from malice, just stating facts- but certainly not doing him any favours.

Frankie feels a stone sink through his chest.

“Thanks for that, Benjamin,” he says through his teeth, his warm brown eyes becoming momentarily cold. 

“It was bogus. I get my license back next month,” Frankie says emphatically, and he doesn’t have time to think twice about the fact that his explanation is directed entirely at you, at if it is owed.

“Okay... Frankie?” you nod, your gorgeous lips curling with a quirk of good-natured amusement, and bending around his name as you experiment with the feel of it in your mouth - matching it to the person you see before you. “That’s great.” You nod encouragingly, earnestly, your gaze unwavering and steady, your eyes meeting his. You almost cause Frankie to shrink back from your beauty. This is the first time he has experienced the full force of you, focussed solely on him. You meet his eyes with confidence and a curiosity that he in equal parts welcomes and fears.

Okay. Mainly fears.

He can’t do this. What was he thinking?!

His throat starts to feel like it’s closing up. He feels a cold sweat developing.

Especially when Benny chimes in again.

“‘Fish, I haven’t seen you all day, brother. How’s the custody stuff going with Luci? Are you getting your Sundays back?”

“Jesus Christ, Ben,” Santi chides as Frankie’s face instantly falls, his gaze dropping to the ground, allowing the rim of his hat to obscure his face. 

It’s not Benny’s fault. He says whatever comes to mind from one second to the next and Frankie knows this. He doesn’t mean anything by it. The man simply doesn’t know how keen Frankie is to make a good impression with you. He doesn’t know how raw Frankie is still feeling underneath, after things ended with his girl’s mother, and all the shit that went down with his job. With Tom. There’s no malice in it, but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t sting.

So, even as Pope kindly and hurriedly shifts the focus back to Benny and his numerous badges of honour from his latest bout, the damage is already done.

In Frankie’s head it’s over before it’s even begun.

You are out of reach.

You’re a sun too bright for a wallflower like him.

“Would you excuse me?” Frankie says gruffly, despondently stuffing his hands in his pockets and beginning to retreat towards the relative shelter of the house. “It was nice to meet you,” he says to you, apologetically, his eyes honest and soft, and you hurriedly nod and smile in polite agreement.

It is all you can do before he turns.

For what it’s worth, Pope jumps up after him, grabbing his sleeve and pulling him to one side for a minute - even if it is less than subtle. “You okay, man?”

I fucked it up.

“I’m fine. Now go sit down,” he hisses. “It’s weird as shit if we both leave, cabrón.” Pope searches his eyes, until Frankie squeezes his arm and insists more firmly. “Stay! I’m okay.” Then, in the face of his buddy’s concern, he softens a little. “Thank you.”

Santi reluctantly obliges, giving Frankie’s shoulder a squeeze for good measure before he heads back inside, leaving nothing but polite goodbyes in his wake.

At least, leaving nothing behind which he is aware of - not realising that your eyes follow him with interest, your curiosity evidently piqued, and your gaze drawn to him.

****

“Okay. What’s his deal? Hmm? The cute one,” you say to Benny the moment the two of you are alone once again, ticking up an eyebrow.

“Fuck. Which one?” Benny says, shaking his head and sucking in air through his teeth as if you’re about to make a cursed decision.

“The pilot. Sexy porn ‘stache man,” you elaborate, biting your lip to stifle a cheeky smile, mischief sparking in your eyes. “Though... I wouldn’t kick your other friend out of bed either, as a second option,” you add with a dirty chuckle.

“Gross, by the way,” Benny chides. “But for real though? Frankie? I didn’t think he would be your type.”

“Why? Is he not an asshole?”

You await an inevitable scathing remark – some juvenile insult; however, surprising you, Benny becomes wistful - which is enough of a rarity in itself that you lean forward in your chair, curiosity piqued even further.

“Naw, hell no. Frankie’s the real deal. He’s... like the big brother I never had,” Benny states with a warm laugh; as usual, determined to tease Will even when he’s out of earshot. His grin is hyena-wide, even as it tugs at his bust lip.

You puff out a small laugh, but then you become contemplative, as if mulling something over yourself.

“Want a beer, Benj? I’ll get it,” you offer generously, even if yours is still half full.

“Thanks, baby,” Benny says affectionately, continuing to languish in place like a king in his camp chair throne. You’re starting to think he’s enjoying this treatment a little too much.

With a fond smile, you ruffle his hair affectionately on your way inside.

It seems that you have a mission. A pilot to track down.

Sure, he had seemed a little... awkward - and maybe a little sullen- but there was a certain sweetness and earnestness in his deep brown eyes. Something you want more of.

Whatever he did, he left you feeling some kind of way.

In fact, he left you sort of mesmerized.

****

You steal Frankie’s breath as you enter the kitchen, even as you find him slouched dejectedly over the kitchen island. He is perched on a breakfast stool and cradling his empty bottle, the label shorn off by his fingers and scraps littering the countertop.

Besides him, the room is otherwise deserted. Pope eventually left him to his moping.

He sits up a little straighter when you enter, the birds on his blue shirt animating with him.

You, meanwhile, saunter in, cocking your head when you spot him there. You pause momentarily in the doorway, one arm lifted and resting against the frame as your piercing eyes survey him. He observes that now familiar curl of your lips, as a flicker of mild amusement passes over your face.

The question is: are you trying to kill him? Your arm flexed above you, muscles popping. Your tee riding up just a little over your stomach, and baring your gorgeous skin to him.

Holy shit. Look at you.

Look at how you carry yourself.

Frankie’s eyes can’t help but sweep the full length of you as you stand before him.

You carry yourself like someone comfortable in their skin - albeit a comfort that Frankie suspects may have been hard-won. You have a sense of being battle-hardened, in a way that - he would suggest- goes beyond your army training (yes, he may have asked the older Miller brother about you -less than subtly- after he fled the scene, so help him).

You stand and move with an efficiency and a grace; as though your body has settled into itself and you have settled into it, becoming one and the same. Maybe you have gone to lengths to achieve this comfort - made it fit you in some ways. Frankie can deduce you work-out, for example, cultivating a particular hardness. And yet, you still you exude a softness and vulnerability about you too. Quite literally, in some of the rounded, more filled-out parts of you. But also in other ways, he perceives. In the openness of your smile. The kindness shining in your eyes. Kindness shrouded with a pleasing mischief, Frankie notes all over again.

Oh boy, you’re trouble, aren’t you?

He gulps.

Yes, Frankie contemplates. Maybe it has taken effort for you to become who he sees before him. Few people are without their trials and tribulations, after all. But when Frankie looks at you, he understands why you might go to such lengths; why you might fight so hard for that hard-won comfort.

Because you were worth the fight. And you seem like someone who knows that too, to your depths.

Holy shit.

Look at you.

Every aspect of you.

Yes. It’s still true. Every time Frankie sees you, he finds more to like.

Frankie finds himself enthralled by you.

He feels as though he’s seeing you exactly how you wish to be seen. He’s met some brave souls in his time, but he can’t think of anything braver than that, in a world that is overwhelmingly keen to make everybody someone they’re not, or to stop people being who they are.

“Hi,” you offer, with an effortless, lopsided grin which has his heart skipping a beat. 

“Hey,” he replies tentatively, a little frog in his throat, and he looks up at you with soft, hopeful brown eyes.

“Beers?” you ask coolly, and he nods towards the fridge.

“Running low.”

You pad to the fridge to Frankie’s rear as he mentally fumbles for something - hell anything to say. Your scuffed boots sound out quiet percussive thuds on the tiled floor, halting only when you reach inside the fridge to grab the remaining bottles.

“Only one left,” you state, neutrally.

When you emerge again into Frankie’s view, you have a soft smile on your face.

You don’t seem to mind his silence. Though, if anything, he respects that you do not feel the need to fill the silence with worthless chat. Here you are, standing strong in this quiet. Just being. You do that so well. Just being you.

There’s more of this intentionality from you that he already likes so much.

And yet, as much as Frankie likes silence himself, he reaches to fill it, as you wordlessly scooch up a matching barstool and settle yourself opposite him. Perhaps, it is your demonstration that you are content with his silence that finally allows him the space and time to speak - in contrast to a world that sometimes won’t shut up (especially considering the company he often keeps - no offense). It eases the pressure. It lets the words come to him in their own time. When they’re ready.

“It wasn’t bogus,” he says softly, as you pop off the cap and take the first swig. You let out a gentle sigh as it refreshes you, and you squeeze a slice of lime into the tight rim.

“Sorry?” you say kindly, looking to understand more.

“The coke thing,” Frankie admits in a monotone, scratching self-consciously at the scruff on his chin. “I fucked up. But I’m getting things back on track.”

You look at him quizzically again. Your eyes dancing around his face for a moment. Then, your brows knit together as you nod slowly in understanding.

He doesn’t have to explain anything to you - you didn’t ask him to. 

Maybe that’s precisely why he feels comfortable sharing it.

“Beer?” you offer, tilting the mouth of the bottle towards him.

“What about his Highness?”

Benny. He must be getting thirsty.

“Fuck him,” you say, with a delicious, wicked glint in your eye, pushing the base of the beer across the surface of the table with a scrape, until it reaches a spot close to Frankie’s hand.

The pilot lets out an equally wicked, much throatier chuckle - a low and rich sound which fills the room. Your tongue skims along your lower lip in response, and your eyes glow like embers. Frankie feels the heat of them on his skin, wherever they touch. His face, his neck, his chest. His arms. It causes a hard swallow to bob down his corded neck.

Frankie doesn’t know where to go from here, aside from absent-mindedly picking at the label on the bottle with his thumb in his nervousness. It’s probably an urban myth, but they used to say that habit was a symptom of sexual frustration. Well... maybe in his case...

Regardless, if Frankie is floundering, he’s lucky. Lucky because you are firmly in control of the situation, even if it’s progressing entirely contrary to how he may have expected.

“I just finalised my divorce,” you offer, trading a secret in return. Your eyes downcast, not giving much away.

Frankie is the one to nod slowly in understanding now, his lips pinching together into a thin line, his intelligent and perceptive gaze trailing over you. He can’t quite decipher whether the look on your face is relief or regret, exactly, but either way it merits a drink, he thinks. And so, he leans forward, resting his elbows on the countertop. With another scrape, Frankie extends his arm, pushing the beer back towards you with the heel of his hand, condensation trailing in its wake.

Noting his action, there is a beat. You suppress a full grin; until you don’t.

“When they say alcohol is a social lubricant this is what they mean, right?” you say sardonically. Then, you raise your eyebrows, indicating it is Frankie’s turn to share now, while you drink.

“I have a little girl- she’s four,” Frankie reveals, his own smile tentatively blooming now at the mere thought of her, his love for his daughter shining through.

He notes -with gratitude- that he’s relaxing into the conversation. You seem engaged also, unconsciously leaning forward, and your elbows resting on the table now, mirroring his posture.

Frankie has no idea why he finds you so easy to talk to (in relative terms), but he’s pretty sure it isn’t all down to the beer.

“That’s cute,” you respond genuinely, your eyes dancing lights. Interested. Happy.

Maybe... Just maybe, Frankie isn’t fucking this up, after all?

“Got pictures?” you ask, raising your eyebrows once more.

Frankie hesitates for a moment, searching your face for any hint that your interest is a veneer for politeness’ sake.

“For real,” you confirm with an assured nod. “I’m giving you a free pass to do the overzealous, proud parent thing.”  

Well, in that case... Frankie doesn’t turn down an opportunity to do the besotted dad schtick. It comes naturally. So, he reaches into his jeans pocket and fiddles with his cell, opening up his camera roll.

“Okay. Check out this one. From her karate exam. Look at her little face,” he gushes, and his smile is entirely infectious, even before you’ve seen the photo.

He passes you the phone, uninhibited pride glowing in his eyes - and, also, he’s not an idiot. He chose a photo where he looks pretty good too. At least, he hopes you might think so.

You look down at the screen, and your smile widens even more when you see the photo of his little princess, full of attitude and entirely adorable. Frankie’s stomach flips involuntarily as your face crinkles, those gorgeous lines radiating from around your eyes like sunbeams.

“Fucking adorable,” you say, before passing the cell back into his hand, your warm fingers brushing his and sending a pleasant shiver up his arm. “And your kid’s cute too.”

Fuck, are you flirting with him?

He’s an idiot when it comes to these things -he needs an independent adjudicator- but he thinks you actually, more than likely are? And so, all of his words become suddenly strangled in his throat at the prospect you might be... interested in him? As you look up at him from beneath your lashes, a gentle, steady heat undeniably brewing there.

In fact, Frankie is not sure if he will ever be able to muster words again. That is, until you push the beer towards him with the back of your hand, and he takes a grateful swig, the prompt shaking him from his stupor.

He can do this. He can ask you a question. You haven’t fled yet, and it can’t only be because this is the last beer in the house, right?

“What do you do? Do you work? Or... how do you spend your time right now?”

You tilt your head to the side. “I was in the army. Mechanical engineering - you get it, repairing tanks and all that shit, right? Welding parts and slapping them on cockpits?” he nods, even more enthralled by you every time you open your mouth. “When I got out, I retrained at a fine arts community college. These days, I work as an artist and blacksmith, and part-time tutor, would you believe?” You bite your lip and look up at him bashfully, expectantly, as if assessing what he might make of all that.

Fuck, Frankie can barely stop smiling just from looking at you. Makes a fucking change from lately. 

“Blacksmithing? That explains your arms.” Frankie says it without missing a beat, before emphatically wishing he hadn’t said anything at all, a heat spreading through his face and a crimson undertone igniting his light brown skin.

Christ. This is why you stay quiet until your brain has had a chance to kick-in, Francisco. 

There’s that amusement again, though, lifting the corners of your lips in the way that is quickly making Frankie fall in love with you. “My arms?” you ask, your eyebrows raised up in surprise, and a musical, delighted chuckle falling from your lips.

“I mean. You look... strong,” he backtracks, his eyes closing momentarily and a pained expression settling on his face. He should have asked about your art, not talked about you like a piece of meat. Fuck. 

But, thankfully, when he tentatively peels his eyes open to risk a glance at you, you don’t seem offended. On the contrary. You seem to have responded well to the compliment.

In fact, you are giving Frankie some of your finest bedroom eyes. “All the better to hold you with,” you say in a flirtatious voice yet humourful manner, pumping your eyebrows. When you smile lopsidedly and you wink at him though, Frankie thinks he might pass out at the mere thought of you wrapped around him.

Even so, Frankie’s expression becomes earnest. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to... you’re obviously attractive, but I didn’t mean to-”

“-Relax, flyboy,” you soothe. It’s not what he’s expecting, in response, admittedly, but your eyes then mist over a little, your expression becoming wistful as you nod slowly, cutting him off “Honestly, it’s nice to hear that. I...” you wrap your arms around yourself. “My ex - he said that I...” your face grows pinched, and as you recollect whatever springs to mind, your voice trails off. Evidently you can’t quite bring yourself to finish that thought out loud.

It breaks Frankie’s heart. For the first time since meeting you, you look uncomfortable - trying to shrink yourself. When you’re talking about him. Frankie doesn’t know the man, but he’s adamant that no-one should have ever made you feel badly like this. On his watch, no-one will again, if he can help it. You should only be taking up space. You should only ever be proud of who you are.

On instinct, Frankie reaches his hand across the table and brushes your fingers with his. Your touch feels like electricity, thrumming under his skin. “With respect,” Frankie begins, after making a few deductive leaps. “It doesn’t fucking matter what that pendejo said.” His tone is robust and fiery, his eyes steel, his resolve appearing stronger than any metal you have shaped before. “Fuck him.”

You are caught off-guard by his intensity, and your lips part in surprise, forming a neat, shocked “o” before tipping into a cautious, fragile smile; one which Frankie only wishes to stoke.

As something unspoken passes between you, the two of you get lost in each other’s eyes for a moment, transmitting layer upon layer of intention through this faint yet lingering contact at your fingertips, like a circuit suddenly completed.

You are in such a bubble that you don’t even notice Will enter the kitchen. At least, you don’t notice him almost enter. The two of you have already created such a powerfully intimate atmosphere without realising, that when Will approaches the open door, your togetherness acts as a forcefield of sorts, repelling him from entering or from even saying a word. He is compelled to halt in the doorway and his words die on his lips, transforming into a mere exhale of breath.

His eyes flit between the two of you, one eyebrow quirking as he clocks your mutual heart eyes. His head shakes from side to side to express his wonder at this happy, unexpected occurrence, and his chiselled face cracks open with a soft, knowing smile. Then, like a good friend does, he ducks out wordlessly so as to spare you the interruption.

You and Frankie continue in this manner for a while - a long while, in your little bubble, the conversation beginning to flow freely even without your trusty beer bottle, long after it has been drained.

Frankie finds you so easy to talk to, and after only a short time in your comforting presence, he feels able to open up to you in a way that would usually take him months. He finds that you’re smart and sharp and just a little less cynical than him; that nothing as of yet has managed to blunt your kindness and your empathy - a quality all too rare these days. You don’t approach him with judgement, but with openness and pragmatism. You make him laugh while his whole chest. You make him feel like a furnace has been lit in his rib cage and is being gently stoked, warming him from the inside out until he is burning with a steady desire for you.

He doesn’t want the night to end, but eventually, to Frankie’s disdain, Benny begins a hobbled patrol around the house, eager to kick out the last remaining stragglers. It’s not a very elegant request, but it gets the message across nevertheless. “Get out of my house, mother fuckers!”

You and Frankie share a chuckle... but it trails off, as you both realise, in the same moment, that sadly, your bubble is burst.

“Can I... walk you home? Do people still do that?” Frankie asks bashfully, his moustache animating as his mouth widens in a gentle smile, his arms folded around himself for comfort.

You bite your lip in contemplation, your eyes narrowing - as if you’re weighing things up.

Frankie hopes. He hopes he didn’t fuck it up, somehow.

Your lips quirk in amusement. “I’m crashing here at Benny’s,” you respond, and there’s a note of regret in it, he thinks. Hopes. “He needs someone to nurse him back to health and I’m it for the weekend.”

Frankie tries to mask it, but he’s sure he must look visibly crestfallen.

“But...” you begin, and his heart flutters in hope. “Do you want some air? You could walk me around the block and drop me off again?”

Frankie perks up. He’ll take that. And so, he nods, bashfully fluttering his eyes at you, and you both head towards the door. You fish up your coat from the hook and sling it over your shoulders, before following Frankie out into the crisp, still night. 

The two of you parade around the block, at a snail’s pace, both dragging your feet and trying desperately to extend your time together. And, even though you’re tired and have already talked for hours, still very much enjoying each other’s company.

Frankie’s hand is practically burning a hole in his jeans pocket as he desperately tries to work up the courage to hold your hand, or to reach out and wrap his arm around you before you complete your loop.

He fails to, however; but he does at least ask you the question he’s been dying to since he met you. “Can I see you again?” he asks with conviction as you face him, stood on the top porch step so that his face tilts up towards you. His brown eyes are hopeful and full of sweetness, yet a determination too. Both hard and soft all at once.

Frankie is not entirely sure where this burst of confidence has come from, but he is sure that you make him feel good. You make him feel at ease. Like he’s always known you. He is sure that he can’t not ask you.

Everything he has found out about you, he likes. But there is so much more to know.

You bat him playfully on the arm, however, and he feels like his hopes may soon be cruelly dashed. “You don’t want to get involved with me, Francisco,” you state, your voice thin, though you try to fill the cracks with humour. “I’ll steal your clothes; fair warning.”

Fuck, I’m in some deep shit, Frankie realises, as the mere thought of you in his clothes send a surge of blood to the area now straining against his jeans.

“Starting with this shirt,” you state, your voice altogether more breathy than last time you spoke, and your hand reaching to stroke the silky lapel of the garment lightly, between your thumb and forefinger. As you do so, your thumb lightly grazes the bare “v” of his chest, sending a delightful shiver down Frankie’s spine and spreading a suffusing heat; everywhere.

“Fuck, you’re cute,” he rasps, in his deep timbre, looking up at you with doe eyes. He doesn’t care that he’s playing his hand rather than playing it cool. He no longer cares that the heat brewing in his eyes must be blatantly obvious.

“And you’re cold,” you say in response to his shiver, confirming your assessment as your fingers brush over his goose-pimpled forearm, his hairs standing on end. He hadn’t noticed. He was captivated by you. It could be snowing or hailing and he could care less.

Still, you appear to care, as, all of a sudden, you’re shrugging off your coat, and in the next moment, you’re shuffling closer to him to affectionately toss it around his shoulders, using the motion to pull him just a little closer.

Holy shit.

With that romantic gesture, Frankie can’t decide whether to melt into a puddle or become hard as a rod. You’re a blacksmith, right? Maybe he can settle for both. He can be like the metal you master and command. He can be whatever form you demand of him.

However, when you tug the jacket around him, your expression looks sad. Your body language reticent. “Look. Frankie?” you say, your voice brittle.

No. Please no, Frankie pleads inwardly. Don’t tell me I fucked this up.

You reach your palm up to his face, your hand warm against his cheek, smoothing over his scruff.

“I’m... honestly... still figuring a lot of stuff out. I’ve had a great time. I like you. But I don’t know if I can....”

You can’t finish your sentiment. Your arms drop dejectedly to your sides.

It is as if you’re giving up before this has even started.

Frankie recognises that feeling all too well. The emotion in your voice, your face, your body. He knows it all too well. And, courtesy of one very particular, wise, idiot friend of his, he has the perfect advice for that.

He knows what to do.

He won’t fuck this up.

Instinctively, then, Frankie reaches for your hand, your fingers twining delicately together, yours rough and his soft.

He tips his shapely chin up towards you. His eyes made of steel again.

Your eyes shine in return, in response to his quiet determination. And, you are silent once more, allowing him the space to speak. You have already established, over the course of the evening, that Frankie is thoughtful in when he chooses to speak. His words are rarely wasted. And so, he has you undivided attention for whatever is coming.

Frankie’s brow furrows as he begins, his fingers still lightly gripping yours in his hand. “You know. I have a buddy who tells me I shouldn’t self-sabotage. I dunno. But I figure that advice might be applicable here?”

His eyes flit over your face, and slowly, ever so slowly, a disbelieving smile gathers in your eyes. They crease at the corners, in that way Frankie likes so damn much already. He wants to stoke your smile for always.

If he has his way, you’ll never feel anything but happy again.

As your smile levels off, it becomes something else. Something reforged. A hard swallow bobs down your throat, and your gaze becomes heavy, dropping to Frankie’s lips. Frankie’s tongue darts out in anticipation, fleeting along his lower lip, his breath quickening as you shuffle your feet just a little closer to him.

In a moment of bravery -or stupidity - he isn’t sure yet- Frankie takes a single step up, bringing your faces level on the porch stairs.

“Frankie,” you breathe, your tone almost incredulous, your hands pawing haphazardly at his chest and smoothing over his bird-emblazoned shirt.

Feeling even braver now, Frankie grabs hold of the thick brown belt at your waist and pulls your hips into him - holding your heat up against him, even as he knows he is a straining mess beneath his jeans already. 

And then, as a small moan falls from his parted lips with this ghost of contact, you do the single hottest thing Frankie could imagine in this moment. You take control. But not only that. You grab the lapels of your own jacket, and use them to tug him to your lips.

Your mouth sinks on to his, the brush of your lips vanishingly soft at first, giving him an opportunity to pull away should he want to. He doesn’t want to. Your kiss is tentative, until you expel a small, disbelieving moan of your own, a sound he eagerly drinks down from your lips as he opens up for you. Then, setting the pace, you grow the kiss, your strong arms wrapping at his back so that you can press a more forceful crush of your lips against him. Frankie responds keenly, his hands wrapping around your waist and reaching up to your shoulders as you twist one hand into his hair, holding him securely as your molten, delicious tongue delves into his mouth.

Frankie blisses out, with your strong arms finally holding him steady, feeling safe in your sturdy circumference. He melts as your supple tongue claims his mouth. Frankie is positively ignited, a molten heat bleeding like a trail of fire right down to the pit of him, and he becomes at once liquid and steel, ready and willing for you to shape him. To mould him to you.

The kiss grows, your breaths becoming ragged in the crush between your bodies, until eventually you must break for air, panting heavily into the space between you.

Holy shit, that was one hell of a kiss.

You’re beautiful. You’re handsome. You’re pretty.

You’re hot as hell.

You’re fucking perfect.

You stifle your smile, until you can’t; and Frankie matches it.

Christ, he wants more. He could take you back home with him right now, if you wanted. But, he doesn’t mind waiting. Not at all.

He’s in no rush.

He’s waited all his life for you so far, and you were worth every second of that waiting.

And so, Frankie pulls your jacket more tightly around him, slotting his arms in properly now, and, with more soft, small kisses against his lips, you make him promise to return it. You make him promise to text you that he gets home safe.

“Good night, cariño,” he says softly, his voice deep and rich, his eyes shining with adoration. “See you in the morning?”

He’s in no rush, and yet he can hardly wait.

You nod emphatically, that beautiful smile curling your kiss-plumped lips. Frankie steals another moan from your mouth -then another- before he prizes himself away from you and skips off down the street, his heart hammering and a cacophony of butterflies in his belly.

He thinks of you, and he doesn’t have all the words yet. He doesn’t know what to call this thing. He doesn’t even have all the words to describe you right at his fingertips. But he does have an overwhelming feeling that you’re... his person. So, as long as he has you at his fingertips, he thinks everything will be alright from here on out.

This time -for once, thank god- he has an overwhelming feeling that he won’t fuck it up.

It seems you whole-heartedly agree too, since you evidently think better of this parting, darting out of Benny’s driveway to chase Frankie down a portion of the street. With glee, he hears you yell out his name, stopping him in his tracks.

“Frankie!” you call hesitantly, wringing your hands in front of you. “Technically, it’s already morning. Do you... want to come in for a coffee?”

He turns, his eyes bright.  Turning towards you like a wallflower towards its sun. But you see him. You see him just as he is. 

He smiles at you, and you smile right back, as he surges forward into your embrace

“What?”

“When was the picture taken, Eddie?”

Pause. Silence. You chew on your bottom lip, regretting your question.

“February.”

“Of this year?!”

It’s Eddie’s turn to yell. “Why does it matter? We hadn’t talked for so long, she’s a friend-“

“There is no fucking way you’re just friends with Kathleen fuckin’ Hanna, Eddie! Did you sleep with her?”

“Excuse me?”

“You heard me!”

-

Eddie’s POV

There is no right answer to this question, he knows that. The truth is yeah, he did. Of course he did! He was high, and very drunk, and she was so beautiful, so nice to him. And he was so, so lonely. If he recalls correctly, though, he thought about you the whole time. Not that that information would help his case.

He doesn’t want to tell you, but he’s decided against lying to you ever again.

“Yeah, I did.” The line goes dead, dial tone buzzing in his ears. “Fuck!” He slams the phone back into its cradle. “I’m Sorry Wayne, I gotta go.”

“You sure you don’t wanna stick around, let ‘em cool off?” Wayne calls to Eddie from the kitchen table.

“No.” He surprises himself with how easily it comes out. “I can’t lose ‘em again. I’ll come back, I promise.”

“Yeah, yeah.” He waves dismissively at his nephew. “Go fix it. And quit doin’ stupid shit, would ya?”

Eddie chuckles despite himself. “Yessir.”

-

The flight to Boston only takes three hours, but they’re the longest of Eddie’s life, and he’s gone through alcohol withdrawal. Logan airport bustles with tourists and townies. “Whe’d we pahk the cah?” A dad turns to his flustered wife, who’s got one kid on her hip, another yanking on her hand.

Eddie hails a cab outside before remembering he doesn’t know your address. “Shit.” He mumbles, crawling back out of the taxi and jogging to the pay phone outside.

The operator connects him to Steve. “Hello?”

“Steve, man, hey. Where does Y/n live?”

“In Boston, dude. You know that.”

“No! Their address, I need their address.”

“Why would you need their address? Wouldn’t they tell you- Oh no. The magazine?”

“Yeah, the fuckin’ magazine, man! Now please, where do they live?” Steve recites an address for Eddie to scribble on his forearm. “Thank you. Lifesaver, seriously.”

“Yeah, a few times now.” Eddie laughs with him before hanging up.

-

Your POV

“Coming, jeez!” You wrap your blanket around your shoulders before answering the door, the figure before you ripping every thought from your head. Eddie stands there in a too big sweatshirt and gym shorts, a duffle bag on his arm. Your parents are out to dinner but you were too sad to go, so you’re in your pajamas with a burrito and your second drink of the evening. “What the fuck?”

“Can I explain? Please?”

“Eddie, what—“

He pushes past you into the hallway, closing the door behind him. “Please.” Is all he says, and you resign, nodding as you crawl back into your spot on the couch. He sits at the other end, too much space between you for your liking. No. Stay mad. But how can you, when he’s here? When he came here, supposedly, to make things right?

Eddie huffs a breath, and you focus your attention. “Okay. Explain.”

—

February 1992

Eddie’s POV

Seattle makes him sad now. Last time he was here, it was with you, and you were still his. The Limelight bar is dim tonight, a few locals nestled into corner booths. Eddie sits in one with colleagues, not friends. He’s not sure he has friends anymore, but these people are important, financially. According to Steve, at least.

He takes another swig of his drink, a double jack and coke, hold the coke. It’s been a dark day, still reeling from the news this morning.

As if to torture him, the screen of the tiny bar TV seems to glow, summoning him to watch. MTV returns to the air, the perky host droning on. Until he’s not, when he starts in on “The underground riotgrrl movement.” He growls the word like a confused dog, but then adds. “We have a new single from Death Dance Approximately. This is Choke On It!”

The MTV logo flickers, and then you’re on the screen, right in front of him. You and your band are dressed in suits, spread out behind a pulpit in front of pews full of stuffy adults. The camera closes up on you, in dark eyeshadow and blood red lipstick, glaring into the lense as you sing.

Left for dead to save yourself / Asked for help but got drowned out. / That fire still lives inside of me, / I just hope one day I’ll get to see…” The scene changes, and Eddie sits up straighter. The video portrays a flashback, where the character you’re playing is wearing much brighter clothing, and holding hands with a handsome actor Eddie’s probably met eight different times without realizing it. He’s got an average face, nothing remarkable about him. That is until he turns around, and his cheap costume vest has the words Corrupted Cadaver painted across the back. The logo is eerily similar to the old Corroded Coffin scrawl, from way before the band got big. It isn’t meant to let everyone know, only him. And it hits exactly where he’s sure you meant it, chest stinging from the realization.

The scene changes again, portraying the couple fighting angrily, Mr. Every Man pointing and exclaiming at your character while you cry and scream back. At some point, you throw a plate, and Eddie less than fondly recalls the time you’d almost knocked him out with a coffee mug.

“Drinkin’ alone?” A voice behind him snaps Eddie from his pity party, and he feels its owner take a seat on the booth. He didn’t think so, but when he looks around the booth he realizes all of his company has disappeared into the dark of the bar.

“Yeah, guess I am.”

“Why is that?” She leans in, resting her cheek in her hand as she stares dreamily into his eyes. He’s trying to focus on her face, her voice, the woman in front of him, but he keeps glancing at the television over her shoulder. She takes notice, and follows his eyes to the screen, where you’re burning a pile of what he can assume is your ex’s belongings, makeup bleeding down your cheeks, far more exaggerated than he’d seen on your face before, but not entirely unlikely.

“You like ‘em?”

“What?” His eyes snap back to where Kathleen observed him.

“Death Dance? You like ‘em?” He doesn’t have an answer to that. “I think they’re cool,” she muses. “Y/n is a rockstar.”

He scoffs despite himself. “Yeah, you could say that.”

She cocks an eyebrow at him. “What’s that mean?”

“Nothin’, long story.”

“I’ve got time.”

-

present day

He stops, finally looking to where you sit to find you’ve stood up. You stare over him, arms crossed over your chest. “What did you tell her?” You sound almost nervous.

“I told her about us. I don’t know why she listened, or why she agreed to leave with me. She let me talk the whole time, and I don’t know if she cared or if she just pitied me, but it was nice. It felt good to talk. I hadn’t talked to anyone about it in so long.”

You sigh, pinching the bridge of your nose between your fingers. “This is so fucking stupid.”

“Look, I’m sorry, I had no-“

“No, stop. I’m not mad at you. Most of those pictures are me anyway, Eddie. These assholes can’t just mind their own business.”

It’s Eddie’s turn to be quizzical. “What do you suppose we do about that, then?”

-

Your POV

You bite your bottom lip in thought. “We could, I dunno, ignore it?”

Eddie snorts, but his smile fades when he sees you’re serious. “Baby, I don’t think that’s possible. I don’t even remember them taking that picture.”

“That doesn’t really mean much, Eds. You were wasted.”

“Touché.” He grumbles. “But still, I think we should just. Ugh,” He doesn’t want to tell you what he’s thinking, but you wait. You have an idea of what he’s going to suggest. “I think we should embrace it. We’re together, right? In any other scenario, I’d be showin’ you off to anyone that would let me. Why should it be any different now?”

You look at him, study his expression with an unwavering stare. There is no hint of ulterior motive, no desperate urge to make you uncomfortable. He’s the Eddie you’d met six years ago, the one you’d fallen head over heels in love with instantly; just a nerdy metalhead with a huge heart. You can feel your guard crumbling, brick walls demolished, and Eddie’s swinging the wrecking ball. “If you want, of course. We can think of something else, though.” He adds, waving his hands anxiously.

“I want to. I’m so tired of this shit, letting these fuckers harass us. I want to be able to exist without feeling like I’m being watched.”

Eddie’s deep in thought, face scrunched, lips pressed together. “Okay,” He says finally, the pieces connecting in his head. “I have an idea.”

-

Eddie’s POV

“You think this is gonna work?” You lean against the bedroom door frame as Eddie dawns one of your father’s old baseball caps.

He grins, meeting your eyes in the mirror. “Are you doubting my ability to play tricks?”

You giggle, and Eddie feels his face ache from smiling. “Of course not! But these leeches twist everything to fit a made up narrative that people eat up without question!”

“Which is exactly why we’ll give them something so cliche they won’t be able to help themselves.” He’s comparing different pairs of your sunglasses next to his face. “And then, they’ll get bored and move on.”

“I dunno, that last part seems unlikely.”

Eddie frowns, turning to face you. “We don’t have to do this, y’know.”

You sigh, pushing off the doorframe to approach him. You smell like lemon and lavender, and Eddie wants to bury his face in your neck. He resists, though, clearing his throat

“No, I want to. They won’t leave us alone either way. Might as well have some fun with it.” You hand Eddie the sunglasses with rounder frames. “These ones. They look like Ozzy’s.”

“God, I love you.”

—

“And that’s what you want?”

Of course it’s not. He’s never wanted this, to watch as if from outside his body as he breaks your heart, leaving you alone and sobbing as he drunkenly drives away from everything you’d built together. But that’s what he’d chosen to do. He chose the life of a washed up rockstar over being with the one person he could trust with his life. Now he’s stuck obeying his label, his rabid fans, letting them drain his energy from his skin while you’re out there, gluing yourself back together when he should be the one picking up the pieces. He fucked up, bad, and there’s no way he’ll ever earn that second chance with you now. All he can do is drink to numb that pain, to maybe forget that realization that you’re gone. That he’ll never get to call you his again.

___

Present Day

Eddie’s POV

”Casanova!” Eddie rolls his eyes at the sound of Robin’s voice, “Wait up, dweeb!” She jogs to catch up to where he loads the trailer with his amps, pretending fruitlessly that he is deaf, ignoring her calls completely. She refuses to play along, though, still yapping into his already ringing ears. “Listen. I know we haven’t been, like, on the best terms. I’m sure you can understand why. But we’re all gonna go to the beach tonight. Hit the arcades, grab some food. I hope you come- ah,” She bites her lip, trying not to snicker at her choice of words. “I hope you decide to hang. Both of you.”

Eddie nods curtly, lips pressed tightly together. He can barely look at her, your best friend, that he pretty much made an unwilling third party only hours ago.

“I’ll do my best.”

She rolls her eyes, making no effort to hide her annoyance. “C’mon! It’ll be fun! It’ll be like we’re back-“

”Back what, Robin? Back in Hawkins?” He doesn’t mean to spit so much venom with his response, but in his defense, she of all people should be able to understand his reluctance.

“No, stupid. Back to normal. Being friends, no worries about fame, that shit. No need to be a dick about it.” Her lighthearted tone carries a slight edge, slicing Eddie with her words. “I’m sure Y/n would appreciate a semblance of normal.”

He rolls his eyes again, irritated at her use of you to convince him, knowing it will work. He will bend at every whim for you. Every time he blinks, he gets a flash of this morning. The sweat on your skin, your whimpers in his ear.

“Dingus!” Robin snaps him back to the present. “Good god, could you be any more pathetic?”

Luckily, he is saved from answering that question. “Munson!” Jeff calls from the steps of the bus. “Cmon, man! Those waves aren’t gonna surf themselves!”

—

Your POV

“Were you, um-“ Steve hesitates, evading your eyes as he saunters forward, head hanging like a shy child.

“Steve,” You start, prepared to ramble a pathetic excuse for why you can’t talk about it.

“Never mind, never mind. Just, y’know,”

“Yeah,” you scoff, shoving yourself into the booth as the driver pulls away from another hotel parking lot. “You worry, I get it.” You pick at your nails, the skin around your cuticles fraying like an old sweater.

“Only because you keep giving me reasons to.” There’s a softness in his scolding, the ghost of a smirk on his sweet face. Poor, sweet Steve. Your best friend, after everything. And you’ve been sending him into cardiac arrest these last six weeks. “I’m sorry, I know you want your privacy from everything. You can trust me. I have no reason to share any of it with the label. I just wanna make sure you’re both alright.”

You nod, shaking your head frantically, trying to shake away the panic. “I told him I love him. I also might have told him about playing Lolla, but I don’t really remember.” You wince, awaiting his reaction, but it doesn’t come. He blinks, face blank, like you’ve only just told him about a book you’ve read. “I give you permission to freak out now.”

He does the last thing you expect from him. Steve bursts into laughter. It’s a bark, a sudden crack in the sound barrier that startles you before you mirror his sounds. Quickly, though, Steve takes a breath to compose himself, ridding the giggles from his belly more quietly, as not to draw attention from the other, crankier passengers. “Sorry, I’m not laughing at you, I promise. It’s just,” He looks for his words on the table before him. “It’s about fuckin’ time, y’know?” His laughter takes over again, and you wipe a tear from your own giggle fit away as you catch your breath. Your cheeks are flushed, heart erratic as you gossip with your friend. That’s all he is right now. Not your manager, not your babysitter. He’s just Steve, and you’re so excited to divulge everything with him.

“How’d it go down? If you wanna tell me, obviously you don’t have t-“

“Of course I want to tell you, dummy. You just have to promise you don’t tell Robin. I don’t care that she knows, but she can’t know I told you all about it before her.” Steve nods in agreement, and you’re off to the races. You tell him how you’d knocked on his door the night before, drunk off your ass. You’d only wanted to tell him about Lollapalooza, you swear. You recall the way he’d looked at you, like he was drinking in your presence, as if you’d been a blessing then, and you let out the one thing you’d wanted to hold onto, at least for a while. You feel yourself blush as you recount the morning after, the way you’d given yourself to Eddie entirely, the relief you’d felt during, and the deep seated worry you feel now. You tell Steve everything, after keeping him in the dark for so long. All the while, he listens as the bus jostles you around, his hand a comforting one in your own. When you finish, you’re breathless, like you’ve just relived the whole thing. Steve only blinks, seemingly digesting it all before he can form a thought.

Finally though, he speaks. “And you expect me not to let any of this slip to Robin?”

You send a half assed slap to his shoulder. “Just for the day, until I get the energy to tell her.” The both of you descend into laughter again.

—

The sun is at its highest point in the sky when you reach the beach. You have no idea what town, what state you’ve all landed in, but the sand is hot and soft under your toes, and the water is a crisp blue to match the cloudless sky. You slide your sunglasses down your nose, and make your way to the dunes.

Behind you, the guys lug the coolers and umbrellas while you and your friends take care of the towels and beach chairs. Eddie is somewhere in the back of your rather large crowd, a boombox on his shoulder. You’re able to find a spot to hold your party further down the beach, and the crew begins to set up the spot like they do the stages every night, in sync with each other without speaking a word. Once they’ve snapped out of laser focus, you spread out your towel near one of the umbrellas, straight across from where Eddie has plopped down his beach chair. You use your sunglasses to your advantage, shamelessly checking out the sight before you. Eddie’s gotten slightly tanner as the summer’s gone on, his shoulders dusted with freckles that remind you of stars, ones you’ve spent hours tracing imaginary constellations on. He shines with sweat in the heavy sun, his shorts riding up on his sticky lotion legs. He’s tied his hair back in a bun to keep it off his neck, and he’s wearing sunglasses that surely must be an homage to Ozzy. Ink litters his arms and torso, pretty pictures you want to ask him about, want to trace with your tongue and lips and teeth.

“Take a picture, it’ll last longer.” His voice shatters your inspection, your face blistering and not because of the weather. You compose quickly, though, remembering your camera stuffed inside your tote bag.

“Sure thing!” You chirp, holding the viewfinder to your face. “Say cheese!”

Eddie flips off the camera, a wry smile on his face and you can’t help laughing. “Aw, that wasn’t very nice!”

“I have an image to uphold, doll.” The nickname brings a silence to your group, a quick one, barely noticeable to anyone else. But you sense it. The beat of confusion no ones sure they can ask about.

Gareth comes to the rescue. “Uh, anyone down to surf? Waves look pretty good!”

—

Eddie’s POV

“So,” Jeff paddles his board up to Eddie’s, where he’s straddled as the current bobs him around. “How was your night?” The teasing is palpable.

Eddie speaks through gritted teeth, biting back the biggest smile. “Word travels fast around here, huh?”

“Only when the word is that you two finally got together again!” This time it’s Gareth who speaks, causing Eddie to throw his head back and groan. “Hey, man, we’re happy for ya! Can’t blame us for being excited when we’ve watched you mope about them for a month.” Jeff snorts at the drummer’s comment, and Eddie sends a frustrated splash towards him.

“I hate you both.” He mumbles, absolutely defeated.

“Cmon, man. Give us something!” Gareth is pleading now, pathetically. “At least tell us how it happened!”

Eddie has no choice but to relent. He recounts a summary of the past day and a half, leaving out some minor details to spare his own dignity. By the time he’s finished, his bandmates gawk at him, mouths agape and eyes wide.

“Wait,” Jeff finally says, “So you guys still aren’t together?!” Gareth groans, long and loud, before dramatically falling back on his board, into the water. “You’re a moron!” He exclaims when he comes to the surface, hurling water at Eddie.

“Thanks, man.” Eddie scoffs, crossing his arms over his chest.

“We’re happy for you, really, but-“ He stops himself, choosing his next words carefully. “I don't think we can watch this happen again, I know I can’t.” His tone is suddenly somber, gentle. “You either have to commit, or you have to let them go. I’m begging you not to put them— or you— through that again.”

Eddie is caught off guard by his buddy’s sensitivity. Gareth and Jeff aren’t touchy-feely, not the way Steve is, not the way you are. They’re usually rather stoic.

“I didn’t intend to go through it the first time.” He’s chosen defensiveness, ready to board up the door to his feelings for the sake of keeping the peace.

“No one intends to go through that, obviously. But, Ed, seriously. Think about it. You’re working the program, you’re doing really well too. Don’t let this be a reason you throw it all away. If you love them, if you really, really mean it this time, fine. But if I have to watch you break their heart again, I’m leaving the band.”

“You wouldn’t.”

Gareth shakes his head. “Don’t try to find out.”

They stare each other down, both convinced they have all the answers, until Jeff breaks the tension. “That’s the one! That’s the best one all day!” And he’s off, paddling towards the growing waves and leaving his friends to stir.

—

It’s almost sunset when they leave the ocean, retreating to the rest of the group still bathing in the golden hue of the sun. Everyone’s there, talking and drinking, laughing and singing along to Celine Dion’s If You Asked Me To. He snickers at the sight, his mismatched group of friends, people he’d never have expected to ever have a bond with, enjoying their well earned rest. Finally, his eyes land on you. Immersed in your book, a well loved copy of Play It As It Lays, you sit stretched out in your beach chair, skin shiny with sweat and sunscreen, a red bathing suit leaving nothing to the imagination. Your feet are buried beneath the soft sand, and Eddie can see that you’re wiggling your toes. Your sunglasses sit on the bridge of your nose, perched like reading glasses as your eyes scan the page.

He feels a presence next to him before he can see it. “You really shouldn’t stare at people like that. It’s creepy.” Robin has planted herself next to him, speaking low enough so you can’t hear her.

“I wasn’t-“ There’s no point. He’d be lying, anyway. “Ugh, whatever.”

She snorts, returning to her less stealthy self. “Uh huh, exactly. Anyway, what’s your plan, Romeo?”

“My plan?”

She nods. “For your month off. Where in the world will Eddie Munson go next?” He can’t answer, and Robin definitely feels him tense at her question. “Me and Lilith are going to Vermont, I think. They have uh, great syrup there I’ve heard.” She’s steamrolling herself, and it brings the beginning of a smile to Eddie’s face. “You ever been? To Vermont?”

Eddie shrugs. “Can’t say I have.”

“Me either. Me… either.” She looks down at her hands, letting the silence fester until it’s unbearable.

“I might go back home.” He says it quietly, not yet sure if the word fits in his mouth anymore. Home.

“Where’s home?”

At that, he glances up at you. You’ve put your book aside to lounge further, the chair further back, legs outstretched in front of you as your eyes flutter closed. Right there. “Well, not home I guess. To Wayne’s. Spend some time with the old man.”

Robin nods, lips slightly pursed as if she’s questioning his response. She can see right through him.

Luckily, though, he’s saved from explaining anything further. “Who’s up for some arcade games? Boardwalk’s only a ten minute walk from here!” Sylvie shakes their bag of quarters, an attempt at enticing the tired group into physical activity.

It seems to rouse you from your catnap. “I’m in. You, me,” you’re pointing at Eddie. “Air hockey. Loser buys the ice cream.”

“What are we, in high school?” Robin snorts, but her eyes widen when she realizes what she’s said. “I am so sorry.”

You giggle, and Eddie feels his cheeks burn. “No, Buckley, it’s cool, you can play Eddie when he LOSES.” You launch yourself from the beach chair and offer your hands out, one crossed over the other. “You on?”

Eddie and Robin each take one of your hands to shake. It’s a deal.

—

Your POV

The boardwalk was once filled with life, you can see that, but has since been discarded like a candy wrapper. Several bulbs on the overhead signs are out, making it spell out A C A D rather than ARCADE. Despite its exterior, the place is bustling with activity. Unsupervised children and bored teens on vacation bounce from machine to machine, yelling to be heard over the cartoonish sounds of claw machines. Further in, you spot the air hockey table in a corner, unoccupied.

“You ready to get your ass kicked, Munson?” You tease, nudging his side with your elbow before taking a spot at one end of the table.

”I think you mean kissed, L/n.” Eddie winks, slotting a quarter into the machine, triggering the bright lights to flash, the canned sound of the game announcer.

You scoff. “Whatever.” You hand the puck to Robin, who’s standing far too still between the two of you, as if she’s decided to referee. Robin drops the puck in the middle, and it starts slowly gliding off to the side while you and Eddie swing your discs wildly. You gain the upper hand, whacking the puck at Eddie’s goal, missing by inches. You groan when it hits the side, now fully in Eddie’s court. He chuckles, swinging hard to send the puck flying toward you, straight into the thin slot. GOAL! The fuzzy speakers blare with exclamation. You take the puck out, placing it in front of you, waiting for Eddie to stop taunting you.

”C’mon, you have to admit that was pretty sick!” Eddie whines, trying to get a rise out of you.

”Are you done?”

”Oh, not even close, sweetheart.”

You bite back a smile, the tips of your ears burning, and hit the puck on a zigzag, gleefully watching as Eddie’s eyes try to keep up. It goes back and forth for a while before you tie it up, hurling trash talk at each other with no malice. A small crowd has even gathered around the table to watch, and you’re not sure if it’s because they’re fans of yours and Eddie’s, or just really invested in the competition.

Finally, you send the puck flying into the opposite goal one more time, winning the game. You celebrate with a cheer, and jokingly chest bump Robin who rolls her eyes when you clench your tit in your hand, cackling.

—

Eddie’s POV

“I’d like a mint chocolate chip shake, extra thick.” You wink, making sure to swing your hips as you walk away from the table with Steve. You’re barely out of earshot when Robin starts flapping her gums. “What the fuck was that?!”

“What was what?”

She flails, gesturing wildly to Eddie, the direction you’ve walked in, the air hockey table. “All that- that flirting. You think I’m stupid?”

Eddie only scoffs, whacking the puck towards her. This game has far less enthusiasm to it. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Oh, come on! You attracted a crowd with how obnoxious you two were being! What happened this morning?”

Eddie stops the puck under his handle. “That’s none of your business!”

“Please, I can get those gory details from Y/n. I’m talking about the important part, the conversation.”

“There wasn’t a conversation! Just having some fun.”

It’s Robin’s turn to freeze, straightening her posture as if it would convince Eddie to take her seriously. “Don’t you dare start this shit again. You need to get your act together. Today. I swear to God if you break their heart again—“

“Robin, what the fuck are you—“

“Let me finish. Please, for the love of all that is holy, unholy, whatever, talk to them. For real. Before we leave. Or I’ll beat your ass myself. They love you so, so much it’s borderline unhealthy. I can’t watch them fall to pieces again because you can’t grow the balls to tell them what you want.”

“Shouldn’t they also be getting this lecture?”

“No! Because they’re letting you set the pace, asshole! You owe it to them, they shouldn’t have to guess what you want. I promise, if you’re honest, they’ll be more than willing to listen to you. Please, Eddie.” Her eyes are soft, and he melts at her pleas.

“Okay. I will.”

“You better.”

“I promise!”

—

Your POV

“So… what the fuck was that?” Steve inserts a quarter into the skeeball machine, the balls clacking together as they roll down.

“What?” You feign ignorance, rolling a ball down the lane. 20 points. You were never great at skeeball. “Do not play stupid with me, L/n! That man loves you.”

“That doesn’t mean he wants more than what we have.” The humor is gone from your tone, and you can feel your throat catch ever so slightly.

“What does that mean?”

“It means, Steve, that love isn’t the only factor in a relationship. There are so many things we’re still missing. The trust, the balance. All that stupid bullshit we can’t seem to figure out.” Steve doesn’t respond, he only watches as you half heartedly toss another ball down the lane. “I don’t know if we’d work together anymore. After everything,” You pause, looking for the right words. Of course you want to try, you’d give it all up to try again. He claims he would, too. But there’s a huge, unspecified roadblock preventing both of you from taking that leap. Like a blocked artery, a wedge that won’t budge no matter how hard you both push.

“You’re a chicken shit.” Steve finally deadpans, causing you to whip around to look at him. There’s no hint of joking in his tone, not the tiniest glimmer of it in his eyes.

“Excuse me?”

“You’re a goddamn coward! You both are! Constantly making excuses for not even attempting the real thing. You’ll kiss, hold hands, even sleep together before admitting a goddamn thing to yourselves. I can’t believe neither of you have collapsed from exhaustion.” He rolls a ball, sinking it into the top left hole of the lane. Show off

“Maybe it’s not enough. But what’s stopping you from doing what is? From having that uncomfortable discussion?”

You bite your lip, knowing exactly the thing stopping both of you from having that conversation. Steve’s right, you’re fucking cowards. You’re afraid of fucking it up again, of watching him leave, of losing him the same way you did the first time. You have to wonder if it’s worth it, having bits and pieces of him to avoid losing the whole thing.

Steve checks his watch and huffs. “Well, you better figure it out soon, we leave for the airport in an hour.”

—

Eddie’s POV

“Mint chocolate chip, extra thick.” Eddie hands you the styrofoam cup as he sits next to you on the bench, green ice cream already stuck in the straw.

“Did you have some?” You hold the cup out, straw pointed at him.

“I had to make sure they did it right!”

You snort, taking a sip before resting your head on his shoulder. He rests his own on top of your head, closing his eyes when he hears you sigh through your giggles. As much as he knows how right Robin is, he’d still be okay staying like this forever.

“We should probably talk. Y’know, about this morning.” His voice is low, even though there’s no one around to eavesdrop. You lift your head to look at him, and Eddie swears his heart stops at the sight.

“Probably, yeah.” He nods slowly, praying to whoever will listen that he doesn’t fuck this up.

“I meant it. I wanna make that clear. I love you. I never stopped, I don’t think I ever will.” His voice is even, stern.

“So did I.”

He nods. “I know. But-“

“It’s not enough.” You nod, and he feels his heart stutter and crack before you can let him finish. He knew this was coming.

You shake your head, your short hair swinging as you do. “No. It’s not. That doesn’t mean it can’t be the beginning of something, though?” Your voice raises at the end, like you’re asking him the question. He has to stop himself from jumping from his seat. There’s hope in what you’ve said, even if it’s barely a spark. “If you want to try, I guess. If you want to see where it goes.”

Eddie can’t stop himself, he sets his own milkshake aside to cup your warm face in his cold hands, steadying your head. “I will do whatever it takes to try this again, sweetheart. You are still the best thing that’s ever happened to me, the only person I could ever ask for. If you’re willing, if you’re able to try again, to trust that I won’t let you down again, then who am I to refuse that second chance? Who would I be to give that up a second time? I know I should’ve said something sooner, I know I’ve been awful during this whole thing…” He trails off as your smile widens under his palms, and your eyes grow wet with what he hopes are happy tears. “I couldn’t ask for anything more, Y/n. I know I don’t deserve it-“

You shake your head again, despite his grip. “Stop it. Stop saying you don’t deserve another chance, Eddie. I wouldn’t be willing to try again if you hadn’t shown me you’ve changed. I never stopped loving you, I was waiting for the day we could try this again. More than anything, you are all I’ve wanted. Please, be kinder to yourself.” You say it all through squished cheeks, and he feels them warm under his hands. “I didn’t want to ask, because I couldn’t tell if that’s what you wanted. You’re a huge rockstar now, with plenty of bullshit to deal with. This is gonna be hard, I need to know it’ll be a priority.”

“You are my only priority. You are the only thing that matters to me this much. It took me years being a fucking moron to figure that out, but I got there.” His heart is practically breaking his ribcage with how hard it’s pounding. He can barely believe you’re willing to try again, willing to give such a broken man a second chance at true love. It all feels way too good to be true, but he can’t be bothered enough to shut it down. There will be no other shoe this time.

“In that case, Munson, would you do me the honor of being my love again? Strings attached?”

He doesn’t hesitate, even though he’s fucking terrified. “I never stopped.” He moves his hands back to your face, cupping your cheeks gently as he moves closer to you. Your hands mirror his, holding his face in them as his eyes begin to water. Your smile grows as his tears fall, both of you laughing through them like deranged children.

“Then kiss me like you mean it.” And he does, tugging you forward until his lips meet yours, tears commingling as you wrap your arms around his neck, and his move to wrap around your waist. “I love you”s are mumbled between kisses, never fully letting go of each other regardless of how uncomfortable the bench has become.

“I love you.” Kiss. “I love you.” Kiss. “I love you.”

—

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