#jay writes

Robin tells him he’s being negative and stupid, Eddie’s totally the one, she can feel it!!

Steve wants to feel it, thinks the tips of his fingers are buzzing from it, but he just won’t let himself. Not yet. Not until he knows for sure.

They’re on FaceTime, having dinner together because Eddie’s gone away for a few nights with his band for a gig, and they miss eachother. Eddie called him, no prompting needed, and when Steve answered he said: “Stevie, baby, oh my god I missed you— hey fuckin, Jeff!! Look at my boyfriend, how hot is he? I got a cute ass boyfriend, wow, I feel so much better now I get to talk to you again. How are you, sweetheart? I hope you’re okay.”

Steve’s heart fucking bloomed. He feels nauseous he’s so fucking in love.

“What are you doing, Ed’s? You keep looking away from me.”

“I know, a total crime, don’t hate me. I’d much rather look at you, baby— hey shut up, Jeff, let me be in love!” Eddie yelled, tossing a pen at his bandmate across the room, “Sorry, Stevie. Uh, I’m doing some research for some songs I’m writing, making sure I’m not gonna fucking accidentally steal someone’s copyrighted track. Boring stuff, legal stuff, what are you doing?”

“Not much, missing you.”

Eddie chuckles, “God, I miss you too. Want me to come over when I get home? I’d invite you to mine, but these guys always get grouchy after a long drive home and our unit would probably just depress you.”

“Yeah, please.” Steve smiled sweetly, picking at his dinner. They fall into silence for a while, Eddie deep in concentration, his eyebrows furrowed and his tongue poking out over his top lip as he types away on his laptop.

Steve’s got this question gnawing at him. One of those dumb fucking questions that he shouldn’t ask, because it’s stupid. The kind of question that if he asks too many of them, his parter will get pissed off and leave, or yell at him to stop. He’s already asked Eddie one weird question, but it wasn’t even that weird, it still got a strange reaction from Eddie though. Steve didn’t take it as a good one.

Fuck, he can’t help it though, it just starts coming out of his mouth before he can really stop it, “Hey, uh, Eddie…?”

“Yah, light of my life?” He laughs to himself, isn’t looking at the camera so he can’t see Steve begin to blush, thankfully.

“If you became a rich and famous rockstar, would you leave me behind? Be honest.” Steve nodded, “I can take it-“

“Of course not, Stevie.” Eddie said, still looking at his laptop screen, it seems like he barely even thinks about the answer, “Why would I do that?”

“If you were famous, you’d have other options.”

“Yeah, but I have you. Would you leave me, if you got famous?”

“No.” Steve snickers, like it’s obvious. Because it is, because Steve’s attached to Eddie, obviously, Steve loves Eddie more than Eddie loves Steve, probably.

“See, so why would I?” Eddie says simply, a small smile on his face as he looks at Steve like he’s being goofy and weird.

Steve should just shut his mouth before Eddie starts to hate him, but he just can’t, “Well, there are better options for famous people.”

“Not for me.” Eddie says simply, and it kills Steve, genuinely, a fucking stake through the heart in the best kind of way.

“What if you were on a red carpet, and… uh… oh, what if Hugh Jackman hit on you? Would you chose him over me?”

Eddie laughed, “Look, Hugh is hot, but he’s not as hot as you. Have you seen your ass, Stevie?”

Steve flustered, “We- Uh, what about like, Dave from Foo Fighters? He’s really hot.”

“Not my type at all, besides he’s a cheater so ew.”

“Okay…” Steve wonders, “Megan Fox?”

“Gorgeous! But I don’t swing that way.”

“Right, yeah, of course.” Steve sighed, “Oh, you really like Robert Irwin, right?”

Eddie laughed, looked over at Steve on his phone and smiled sweetly, rubbed a hand over his mouth, “Yeah, I like him, he’s cute. Wanna know why?”

Suddenly, Steve feels very jealous. It must show on his face too because Eddie snickers at him, “Uh, why?”

“Because he reminds me of you, dork.”

“What? How?” Steve is baffled.

“He’s cute, I like your little blonde highlights and he’s blonde. And he’s fit like you I guess. But mostly because he’s like, just a good looking chill out dude until you hear him talk, then you realise he’s a huge massive super ultra dork and you can’t help but want to know more about him.” Eddie smiled, turned back to his laptop and Steve watched him scroll through a document through the reflection of his glasses, “If Robert Irwin ever hit on me I’d be flattered as fuck. But I’d kindly reject him, and tell him I’ve got my own dork at home who prepared me for such a moment, by asking stupid questions like would you ever leave me— no Steve. I wouldn’t. Duh. You’re too good of a kisser.”

Steve laughed, let himself feel flustered for a while. Satisfied that he let himself be just the right amount of clingy to let Eddie know that he’s kinda like that, but not too clingy that he scared Eddie away.

“Would you take me with you then? When you’re rich and famous?”

“Oh, you know it baby.” Eddie grinned, “When I’m making millions, you’re quitting your goddamned job and travelling the world with me, and I’ll buy you whatever the fuck you want. I’ll be your full time sugar daddy no doubts about it, gorgeous.”

Steve loves this guy so much. “Yeah, sure, you can be my sugar daddy the day you figure out how to ask me how to touch your dick without stuttering and blushing and hiding in my neck about it.”

Eddie stuttered, clearly caught off guard as he began to choke on air. Steve could hear his friends in the room around Eddie begin to laugh and make fun of him. Steve laughed with him, because Eddie knows how Steve feels about that, he knows that Steve likes how shy Eddie got in bed.

Steve thinks it’s incredibly hot, a guy so confident and out there reduced to a stuttering mess the second he gets a “hot” guy in bed, as Eddie said.

Eddie’s friends begin to heckle and tease him for a bit, and Steve listens in silence as his boyfriend fights with the lot of them.

“Hey, Eddie?” Steve asks, once they’re calmed down and quiet again.

Eddie sighs, rolls his head away from his laptop and over to look at Steve, Steve hates this. Eddie smiles anyway, even though Steve is sure he’s faking it now, and says, “Yes, my love?”

He wants to take it back. He wants to shut his mouth.

“Never mind.” Steve shakes his head.

“No, my love. Ask me, go on. It was a follow up question to the whole fame thing, right?” Eddie shrugged, “I only sighed because you should know that how I feel isn’t something so easily raptured by a mere celebrity.”

“Oh…” Steve nodded, thought about that for a moment. Wondered if anyone else in his situation would have known that, maybe he’s just insecure, too insecure, Eddie’s bound to get annoyed by it. It seems like he already is. “I was just going to ask if you’d ever write a song about me?”

Eddie smiles, blushes, and it’s so sweet, “I already have, Stevie. Three.” He looks back at his laptop, groans and Steve sees in his glasses reflection that Eddie closes all the tabs he’s looking at in anger, “Yah, you’re so easy to write love songs about to be completely honest. But no, I’m not telling you anything about them. You’ll hear when they’re ready.”

Steve is over the moon, “Okay.”

Silence again. He watches Eddie open up a new application, Steve recognises as his music app thing. He makes demos and back tracks with it, which is cool. Eddie begins to play around with if a bit, and Steve listens to the noise and wonders what song Eddie’s trying to create.

He’s got that urge again. God, he’s so clingy. Steve can’t stand how clingy he is, no one can. It’s only a matter of time before Eddie’s telling him he’s too clingy and walking out the door.

He really can’t help himself. Maybe he’s just self destructive.

“Eddie, would you tell the world I was your boyfriend, if you get famous?”

“Yup.” Eddie nodded, “But they’d only know your name, and your face, and how much I love you. Don’t want you getting stalked by weirdos— you know, if I get famous enough that people want to stalk my boyfriend.”

Steve thinks that’s really sweet of him, especially since he had that rolling off the top of his tongue, no thinking time needed.

“Well… would you take me to all your A lister parties and events?”

“If there’s no plus one option, I’m not going sweetheart. Wouldn’t want you sitting at home, worried.”

“What would you do if a celebrity like… hmm, Eddie Van Halen hit on me?”

Eddie grinned, “Then I’d say you’re seeing ghosts, sunshine.”

“If he were alive, though?”

“Then… I’d think it’s awesome that we have something in common, you’re our type— oh! And then you’d get to say you were hit on by two guys named Eddie who played guitar super good.”

Steve laughed, “Would you introduce me to Sabrina Carpenter?”

“It would be the first thing I’d do.”

“Would you get jealous if she hit on me?”

“Oh yeah.” Eddie nodded, “I’m gay as fuck and I’d still take her out on a date, you know, she’s pretty. She’s like, the girl version of you. Anyway I’d be super jealous and heartbroken but I’d tell you to take your chance.”

“Seriously?”

“Yup.” He assured, “You will be hearing from me, I’ll be that crazy ex just waiting for you two to break up. I’d sabotage so bad, but I’d just want you to be happy. But I would hate if that was without me.”

Steve smiled, “Imagine if we were animals? Would you still fall in love with me if we were both little otters or something?”

“Yup, I’d be head otter heals for you.”

Steve laughed, “Dude, you’re so lame.”

“Don’t call me dude whist asking these clingy ass questions.” Eddie snickered out, and Steve shut up.

He swallowed. Stared hard at the camera and tried to surpress his sudden urge to cry.

“You get so fucking clingy sometimes.” Eddie muttered, quiet enough that his friends couldn’t hear him, “I genuinely didn’t think someone could get this clingy.”

Steve hates him.

He’s about to shut off the call when he sees something flash in Eddie’s glasses, squints to get a better look at whatever is on Eddie’s screen.

“Hey, uh, forgot to mention my uncle had this watch he thought you might like— cause I got one, but you don’t wear silver do you?”

“Nope, never.” Steve shook his head, bile rising in his throat, he can’t figure out what’s taken up all of Eddie’s attention, “Tell him thanks though.”

“Got it.” Eddie muttered to himself, pressed enter on his keyboard, and a webpage popped up with large images of golden band rings.

“What are you doing?” Steve wonders quietly.

“Huh? Oh, just mixing some music still, like I was before. Just trying to think up what I should do next.”

Steve is not that stupid. He knows Eddie’s lying. He’s lying so hard right now.

Eddie grabs his phone, pulls it close to his face so Steve can only see from his nose up, and he begins tapping away at his screen.

“Sorry, I’ll put you down in a sec, cutie, just checking something.”

With this closer angle, Steve can see very clearly what Eddie’s checking on his phone. He’s checking his bank account.

He’s checking his bank account, looking back at the web page of rings on his laptop, then pondering something in his head.

“Everything okay, Eddie?”

“Yup, just thinking up some lyric changes. Got them all written in my phone, I’ll put you down now.”

He’s such a liar, Steve’s just confused. And hurt.

“Why are you so quiet?” Eddie wondered, his phone back down on the table like it was before, eyes back on his laptop as he scrolls through rings, “Are you okay?”

“Yep.” Steve nodded.

Eddie sighed, “Hey, would you still love me if we were animals? You never answered back.” Eddie said, “What if I was an otter and you were a little fishy?”

Steve hesitates, “You’d probably eat me.”

“I’d eat you right now, Steve.” Eddie said flatly, then he ducked his head and whispered, “I miss the taste of you. I love kissing you- Hey, can I suck your dick sometime? Been thinkin’ about it.”

“Oh, now you’re brave enough to ask whilst you’re a million miles away and not even looking at me?”

“Yup.” Eddie snickered, froze for a moment with his brows furrowed, clicked on a ring and zoomed in on it, glanced between his laptop and Steve a few times. “Uh, sorry, what were we talking about?”

Steve can see the description of the ring he’s looking at. He can see, clear as day, the description reads (backwards): “Solar - Gold embossed engagement ring.”

Steve can’t believe this. Eddies looking at engagement rings. Is he looking at engagement rings?

“How much do you love me?” Steve asked, a vomit of words.

Eddie smiled, hung his head like he’s all embarrassed about it, “A lot, Stevie baby. A lot.” Eddie chuckled, “I can’t believe I get you all to myself. Not to be poetic or anything, but my life was a dark, empty night sky before I met you, and then suddenly my life was summer sun, gorgeous. You’re my sunshine, right?”

“Right.” Steve nodded, “I love when you call me that.” He squints at the reflection in Eddie’s glasses and can make out the pattern of the sun embossed on the ring.

“God, I miss you.” Eddie sighs, adds the ring to his shopping cart and keeps scrolling.

Jeff walks behind Eddie on his way out of the kitchen and stops in his tracks, walks over.

“Just working on that song, look good?” Eddie asks, and Jeff leans down on his shoulder, “I think if I add this in, this take could be the one. What do you think? Or do you think I’m being too stupid? Is it too soon for that big moment?”

Oh, fuck, he’s really looking at engagement rings.

Jeff smiles, squeezes Eddie’s shoulder encouragingly, “I mean, yeah, in theory. But you’ve never done anything by the book, and all your best choices have been a little crazy like that. If you feel it’s the right choice, and will work well with the music, then yeah, by all means.”

Eddie gins, looks back at Steve, “Yeah, it’s definitely the right choice.”

Jeff snickers, wonders off shaking his head, and Eddie looks so giddy as he takes one last look at the ring.

Eddie’s thinking about proposing to Steve.

“Don’t you think I’m clingy?” Steve blurted out, catching Eddie completely off guard.

Eddie glanced at him, sighed, carefully shut his laptop and set his attention on Steve, “Well, yeah? You are clingy.” Eddie shrugged, “Dude, you don’t understand how lucky I feel, I think. I like that. I mean, you love me so much that you wanna cling to me like a fucking koala. I’m surprised you haven’t gotten bored of me yet.”

Oh.

Oh.

Oh, Steve feels so warm and fuzzy inside.

“I love you so much.” He mumbles, brings the phone close to his face to virtually kiss Eddie, “Do you want to move in with me?”

“What?” Eddie stuttered out, “Uh, are you serious?”

“Yes, I’m serious in this conversation and also about this relationship. About you.”

“Fuck.” Eddie sighed, laughed a little delirious, “Yeah, yes, I do. I’d love that, sunshine.”

“When you get back then. Just… just come over and don’t leave.” Steve nodded, “We can talk more then, about us, and everything. I just want you around me always.”

“God, Stevie, you don’t know how much I feel that in my heart.” Eddie said, two hands pressed over his heart to swoon a little.

Steve doesn’t tell him that he knows of Eddie’s plans, and five months later, when the special day comes, Steve doesn’t tell him that he’s already seen the ring. Though, he does mention it in his vowels, tells everyone watching just how much harder that evening made Steve fall in love with Eddie. That he couldn’t believe someone was falling so hard, so fast, just as he was.

Steve never doubted another relationship again, purely because his only relationship from then on was with Eddie.

He’d never felt as secure as he does with Eddie, since that night, never second guessed his intentions, never doubted their love.

The mountains of Kaer Morhen, visible in the distance.

Bottles upon bottles (he's been drinking a fair bit). The hastily scrawled "Burn Butcher Burn" lyrics on scraps of parchment.

The apartment greets me with its usual silence, but today it feels like it's holding its breath. Like it's waiting for the dam to finally break. It is almost suffocating, and I can’t stop the sigh that escapes as I abandon my work bag and slump into the nearest chair. The flashcards on the coffee table mock me, looking sturdier than I currently feel. My eyes close involuntarily. 

Tomorrow, I think, tomorrow it will all be over.

After four years of grueling work, tomorrow is the day I defend my dissertation for my PhD. The day before your defense is supposed to be peaceful. The hard part is over, and the reward is on the horizon. But this doesn’t feel like peace. My nerves choke me, sitting thick at the base of my throat, and a heavy feeling of dread weighs on my chest.

I drag my eyes open before I can continue down the path of anxiety and despair that I have spent so many hours on these past few weeks. My work bag taunts me from the corner, holding both my laptop and my phone. 

Both demand my attention.

Neither will get it. 

My advisor basically forbade me from doing any sort of PhD related work today, and insisted I rest and reflect. Solid advice, if I’m being honest. Even if I wasn’t exhausted, I wouldn’t have been able to focus today anyway. My mind is elsewhere. Particularly 4,000 miles away in Denmark. 

In the 8 months I’ve been dating Nico Hischier, this has always been the plan. I would defend in May and he would either be with New Jersey in the playoffs, or with Team Switzerland at Worlds. It hadn’t bothered me at first, but as the date approached a harsh realization struck. I would be doing this alone. My parents were already taking off work for graduation in 2 weeks, so they couldn’t make this trip. My roommate had gone home for the week. And Nico was at Worlds. 

It’s not that I was angry. This was the plan, the expectation. Nico and I haven’t even been together for a year, so I would never expect him to change his annual plans for me. But still, a small kernel of hurt was steadily growing inside of me. One that couldn’t be ignored, and carried a quiet, devastating truth. 

I needed Nico. His strong and steady presence. His gooey eyes and proud smile. Even his corny captain pep-talks would be appreciated right now. 

Nico and I met at a bar last October, after I’d wandered a bit too far from the Rutgers campus. My friends had insisted that we head deeper into the city to avoid the Halloween parties filled with undergrads, and we finally ended up in a dim cocktail bar in Newark. 

Naturally, I ran into him and spilled his drink on my way to the bathroom. After I’d offered him one of my thirteen test tube jello-shots as a replacement and spent fifteen minutes explaining that I was supposed to be a sexy scientist and not a nurse, he asked for my number. 

I’d like to say it was smooth sailing from there, but making time for each other between a grad school schedule and a hockey career proved to be a challenge. It never seemed to weigh on Nico, though. He’d pick me up from classes, let me practice presentations in the car, or take pregame naps at my apartment just to get a few more hours together before a long roadie. 

In the chaos of the past eight months, Nico has been a steady presence. The unmovable rock in the storm of job applications, exams, and defense prep. That’s what makes this so difficult. He should be here helping me through this.

The ringing of my phone breaks me from my thoughts. I consider letting it go to voicemail, but the hope that it's Nico has me dragging myself from my chair to where my bag sits on the floor. When I see his name flashing across the screen, a small smile tugs at my lips and I quickly swipe to answer the call. 

“Hey schatz,” his warm voice lifts a small weight from my shoulders and I can’t keep the smile from my voice as I reply. 

“Hey Neeks,” I spare a quick glance at the clock, “It’s midnight there, why’re you up?” 

“I wanted to check on you before I went to bed. The boys and I just got back to the hotel. You hanging in there?”  

“That sounds fun. Did you guys have dinner with the team?” 

Nico sighs as I dodge the question, but plays along nonetheless. “Yeah. Had dinner at a place down the street with Timo and Jonas. Emma and Nola came too,” he pauses, voice softening. “Made me wish you were here, sweets.” 

His words are soft, but they sharpen the ache forming deep in my chest. I knew the distance was hurting him too, but the clear longing in his voice made it difficult to keep pretending I was fine. 

“I wish I was too. Maybe I can go with you next year since I’ll be out of school. You’ll wish you were able to get rid of me.” 

The rumble of his laugh warms me through the phone, “I would never want to get rid of you. I want you with me all the time. And just think, next year I can parade you around as Dr. Hischer.” 

The possessive tone in his voice is obvious, as is the smirk playing on his lips. I can’t help the snort that escapes me. 

“Hischier, huh? You gonna make me your wife?” 

“Been thinking about it. I want everyone to know you’re mine.” 

“I think you make that pretty clear, even without a ring,” I tease. 

“Still. It wouldn’t hurt. I’d get you a big one too. Something shiny, so men could see it from across the room. Then they’d know your mine before they could even think about walking over.” 

“Mhmm. I’m sure you would,” I grin, “Nice try, Hisch, but your name isn’t going on my degree. I’ve spent too much time and money on it for a man to get credit.” 

Nico pretends to think about it, “Fair enough. I’ll still be the one cheering the loudest when you walk across that stage, though.” 

The playfulness in his tone is replaced by a warmth that squeezes my heart. I have to swallow the lump in my throat before I can speak again. 

“You’ll have to fight my dad for that title,” I manage, but the words are hoarse. I clear my throat in a desperate attempt to stop the emotion clawing its way up. “Fuck, I miss you, Neeks.” 

The admission is no more than a squeak, and then I’m sniffling. I’d been fighting the tears for days, unwilling to let him know just how terrified I was, and how hard the distance had become. But I could never hide from Nico. He saw right through me, recognizing that his absence was unraveling me, no matter how hard I tried to pretend otherwise. 

There’s a rustle of fabric as he shifts in the hotel bed, and then comes his voice. Low, and gentle in a way that breaks me all over again. 

“I know, Schatz. I’m so sorry,” his voice breaks, “I would do anything to be with you right now.”

I nodded even though he can’t see me, a silent tear slipping down my cheek.

When I don’t respond, he continues. “I’m so damn proud of you, you know that? You are the most hard-working and determined person I have ever met. You’ve earned every bit of this recognition.” 

His words send goose-bumps skittering across my skin. The obvious pride in his voice soothes the shadow of doubt I’ve been carrying. It's his unshakeable faith that has me finally voicing the fears I’ve been dwelling on the past few weeks. 

“What if I don’t pass?” 

“Then you don’t pass. And we will deal with it together,” he says, like that isn’t the most terrifying outcome. “But that isn’t going to happen, sweets. You have given everything you have to this program for four years, and you know your thesis inside and out. I think you could defend in your sleep at this point.” 

The thought has a small giggle forcing its way out of me, “I don’t think that would go well.” 

“Maybe not,” Nico agrees, “that’s why you’re going to be up bright and early tomorrow. Coffee in hand, cute outfit on. Ready to girl boss your way to a PhD.” 

“Girl boss? You need to get off TikTok.”

“Nooo!” He protests, “I want to be able to speak your brain rot language.” 

“I do NOT have brain rot. I am on social media a perfectly normal amount.” 

Nico hums like he doesn’t believe me. I roll my eyes, choosing to move on instead of bringing up his Facebook addiction. 

“Speaking of bright and early, can you call me in the morning to make sure I’m up by seven?” 

“Of course, Schatz. We’ll be done with practice at eleven here, so I’ll give you a wake up call at 6:45? I can DoorDash you coffee, too.” 

“That’d be perfect,” I sigh. “Thank you.” 

Nico tells me a bit more about their time in Denmark so far, though it's pretty limited since he’s only been there for 24 hours. I fill him in on my post-defense plans, and soon we’re saying goodnight and ending the call. 

I don’t have the energy to do much else after that. I eat leftovers from the fridge while watching our show. Usually, he’d complain about me getting ahead, but he admitted on the phone that he’d watched an episode on the plane. So really, I was just catching up. 

After dinner, I shower, letting the warm water wash away the borrowed stress of tomorrow. I skip the hairdryer, knowing I’ll just curl it in the morning, and collapse into bed. The sheets cocoon around me, smelling faintly of Nico. 

I’m suddenly glad I didn’t do laundry last weekend, even though it's been on the to-do list for two weeks. My heart lurches, still aching for him despite the hour long phone call we just shared. My anxieties about tomorrow fight to keep me awake, but eventually exhaustion wins out and I drift to sleep. 

…

Nico is annoyingly on time with his phone call. The harsh ring of my phone drags me from sleep at exactly 6:45. My arm shoots out and I blindly fumble for my phone on my night stand. Finally, I grasp it and begrudgingly click the answer button. 

“What?” I slur, sleep still clouding my words. 

“Someone is in a lovely mood,” he drawls, a grin evident in his voice. 

“Shut up,” I whine into the phone, “I’m sleepy.” 

“I know, sweetheart. But todays the big day. Gotta get up.” 

“Mmmmm…no.”

“Take a sip of your coffee and see if that motivates you at all. I ordered your favorite.” 

I frown, still half asleep. “What coffee?” 

“The one on your night stand.” 

I pop one eye open, and sure enough, an iced latte sits on the bedside table. 

“How did you get it in my room?” I ask, suspicious. “I thought you were DoorDashing it.” 

“I gave him the code to your apartment,” a voice answers. Not from my phone. It’s too loud. Too close. 

My eyes pop open in disbelief, and Nico Hischer stands in my doorway. His phone is still pressed to his ear and a shit-eating grin is spreading across his face. 

My jaw drops and a strangled sound between sob and a laugh leaves me as I shoot up from the bed. My phone is left behind in the sheets and his clatters to the floor as I launch into his arms. He catches me, laughing as I wrap myself around him completely. I shake as I cling to him, the adrenaline overwhelming. His arms tighten around my waist as my hands thread through his hair. And we hold each other. Like this might all fall apart if we let go. 

We stay like that for minutes that feel like hours before I’m pulling back to look at him. 

Tears stain both our faces as my eyes meet his, “What’re you doing here-” 

He’s kissing me before I can finish. It is all consuming. Everything I needed wrapped into one touch, one action. One arm releases my waist to thread through my messy hair, pulling me impossibly closer to him, while my hands plant themselves firmly on his cheeks. By the time we pull away, we are both breathing heavily and our lips are plump and red. 

I rest my forehead against his and close my eyes. “You’re here,” I whisper. 

“Of course I’m here,” he kisses the tip of my nose. “I wanted to be here for you, sweetheart.” 

I shake my head lightly, still trying to make sense of him being here. I pull back to look at him. “But Worlds?” 

“Can wait,” he says simply, matter of factly. “I wouldn’t miss this for anything.”

I take in a shuddering breath and rest my cheek against his shoulder. “Even the Stanley Cup finals?” 

A small grin plays at his lips, “Maybe not that. Fitzy would probably kill me. But thankfully, that’s not the case.” 

“Knew you loved hockey more than me,” I teased, nipping at his neck playfully. He chuckles softly and presses a kiss to my cheek. 

His tone is suddenly serious when he responds. “No, schatz. This matters more to me. You matter more to me. More than hockey. More than anything.” 

I pull my head from his shoulder to look at him. Tears well in my eyes once again when I see the gooey, love-struck look in his. “I love you, Nico Hischier.” 

He kisses me deeply before pulling back to mumble against my lips, “I love you, too.” 

Then he’s giving a soft smack to my ass before releasing me from his hold. “Now, let’s get you caffeinated Dr. Almost-Hischier.” 

I give him an incredulous look, “I am neither a doctor nor a Hischier.” 

“Yet,” he smirks. “But you will be one of them by the end of the day.” 

I roll my eyes, “And if I don’t pass?” 

“Then I’m proposing at dinner,” he shrugs, seemingly certain about this decision. 

My cheeks heat at the potential idea of seeing Nico down on one knee, and I have to physically shake my head to clear the image from my mind. I choose not to respond to avoid saying something embarrassingly desperate in my flustered state, and down a third of my coffee instead. 

“Ugh, I love honey lavender lattes,” I groan as I savor the taste.

“I know,” Nico says, taking the coffee and gently pushing me towards my vanity. “Now go get ready.” 

...

The rest of the morning flies by in a blur. Nico makes me breakfast while I curl my hair and finish my coffee. He lets me review my major points as I apply my make-up, helps put on my heels, and ensures my water bottle is full before we leave the apartment. He asks me potential questions on my material as he drives me to campus, and hands me my flashcards with a kiss as he drops me off with a promise to pick me up when I’m finished. 

The defense goes off without a hitch, and by twelve they’re inviting me back in the room to share their decision. The table of advisors looks much less intimidating when I reenter the conference room, despite the fact that they currently withhold the most important decision of my life to date. 

“Congratulations, Doctor!” The chairwoman beams, reaching to shake my hand. For the first time in four years, I take a full breath. 

“We have passed you with no revisions to your thesis. This is incredible work.” 

After much congratulations and thanks, I gather my things and all but sprint to the parking lot. The tears are already falling before I even exit the building, but they only fall faster when I see Nico leaning against his car in the parking lot. 

The clack of my heels against the concrete has his head jerking up from his phone. A brief, concerned look crosses his face at the tears leaking from my eyes, but it disappears as a wide grin appears alongside them. 

“I passed!” I screech, and fling myself into his arms for the second time in 24 hours. 

He pulls me in tight, face buried in my hair, and inhales deeply. “I knew you could do it. Never a doubt in my mind,” he breathes. “Fuck, I’m so proud of you.” 

It’s then I realize that even if I had failed miserably, I would’ve been fine. I already have everything I need with Nico. We could be living in a cardboard box on the street, and I’d still be madly in love with him. 

I pulled back then, grasping his face to force him to look at me. 

“Thank you. For everything,” the tears threaten to choke me. “For being here. I couldn’t have done any of this without you.”

His gooey brown eyes meet mine, equally as watery. “Always, schatz. I’d drop anything for you. Hockey or not. If you need me, I’m there. You are everything to me now.” 

I melt into his chest, overwhelmed by his admission and the events of the past few hours. We stay there for a moment, Nico swaying us as his hand rubs circles along my back.

“I’m gonna marry you someday, Hisch.” I mumble into his chest. 

He is unphased, still swaying gently as he presses a kiss to the top of my head. His response is certain. 

You stare at yourself in the mirror for a long time before you pull the heavy cotton shirt off of yourself and wiggle into a much more flattering tanktop. It feels a little stupid to bother looking good for something as trashy as this—it’s not like you’re expecting anybody to actually look at you—but it’s still fun to get dressed up regardless. 

You’ve done this dance countless times before. Tonight will be just like the last time, and the time before that. There’s a faithful battle strategy you’ve fully perfected throughout your final year of shitty high school parties. It is as follows: 

Arrive with Phil and bounce around with him for a bit. Drink. Find a circle of people from school and slot yourself in. Drink again. Listen to gossip, nod when it’s getting good, shrug when people ask you what you think. Third drink. Find somebody outside that’s smoking (preferably an acquaintance) and share a cigarette over some mild philosophy before going back inside. Shots. Look for Phil again, listen to whoever he’s found to talk to. Stumble back to the car, clamber in, knock out. Rinse and repeat. 

You tug the tanktop all the way on and stare at your reflection for another moment before you hear an unmistakable rumble coming down the road. You yell goodbye to your parents— who think you and Phillip are going to a dinner and a football game—and you’re out the front door before the truck is fully down the drive. 

There’s several thuds as your hand meets the window, your other hand trying the handle repeatedly before he slowly leans over to unlock the passengerside door. He falters, though, like he realizes the power he has, and stares up at you. Pretends to be clueless. 

You blink. “Open the door.”

He mouths a silent ‘What?’ 

“I’m going to break your window.”

Click. 

There’s a long bout of silence that is filled to the brim with attitude from both sides of the car as you slip in and buckle your seatbelt. The one thing you can appreciate about this truck, despite it all, is the bench seat. It makes the drives more intimate. Either of you can shuffle closer to the other when you’re talking, and there’s no gap between to stop it. You can reel dangerously close while you’re drunk and laughing. You can stay sitting there, next to him, silent and smiling and horribly giddy. 

There is a new scent in the car that immediately has you wrinkling your nose. Floral and attacking you in full force. “Who’d you have in here?” You turn to him, expecting a guilty look, but he doesn’t give it to you. Doesn’t even look your way. “Why’s it smell like perfume?”

You’re not sure why you’d expect him to look guilty in the first place. Maybe it’s because you became so used to orbiting him, that you expected him to orbit you in turn. That had been the silent agreement the two of you made, or at least that’s what you believed.

But he didn’t owe anything to you, not really. He could have somebody else in the car if he wanted. 

“Uhm-” He whips around fully and rests his arm on the back of your headrest while he grabs the stick shift. “My mom. Dropped her off at the grocery.” If your tone was too accusatory, he didn’t notice. You don’t admit to yourself that his words come as a major relief. And then— “You look nice.”

You’re about to shoot back a smartass reply, but when you look over again, he’s not smirking or laughing under his breath. He’s still pulling the car back, one steady palm against the wheel and the other somewhere behind your headrest. He catches the silence, though, and his eyes flit over towards you. 

You force out—

“Thanks.”

He turns back and shifts out of reverse. The truck starts rumbling down the road, and the two of you sit a perfectly appropriate distance away from each other on your opposite sides of the bench. “Sure.” He hums like the compliment was nothing, but you want to ask him if he meant it any sort of way, if he meant it at all. 

You turn on the radio instead and tuck yourself against the door. 

— — —

When Phillip is coming down your driveway years later, you are not given the gracious audio cue of a truck begging to be put down. It makes sense, there’s no way he would keep that thing, especially with how well he seems to be doing now. And you can tell yourself you miss it, but when he knocks on your door and walks you to the new one, you feel a wave of relief wash over you.

Even though the sun is done setting, it’s still much hotter than you’d like. You’re thankful, as he opens the door for you, for this new truck. You’re thankful that he has the AC on full blast and you won’t melt in his passenger seat like you were summers ago. You’re thankful your thighs won’t stick to the peeling leather in the heat, that the seat belt won’t burn you when you reach for it. You appreciate the interior for a few seconds before he crosses around the front and climbs in himself. 

“You remember where it is?”

He nods, self assured, as he puts a hand behind your headrest and whips around to watch the driveway as he backs up. The truck has a rear camera, and he doesn’t really need to be pulling this maneuver at all, but old habits die hard. Things are done better when he does them himself, alone, with no help. 

“What’d you do to the old one?”

He looks at you then, raising an eyebrow before realizing what you’re talking about. “Sold her for maybe a hundred bucks.” You gasp, and the reaction makes him grin. “What? I’m surprised I got anything for it at all.”

“I just… really liked that truck.” He gives you a look as he pulls out into the road. Okay, maybe you’re being a little hyperbolic. “Or, I liked the memories, at least.” 

That’s true. More true than saying you liked the truck, at least. If it wasn’t Phil’s in the first place you don’t think you ever would have cared about it. 

“Well, it crapped out on me, and then I had nowhere to put it.” 

You put your hands together in mock prayer. “Rest in peace.”

He laughs softly. “In pieces.”

Velvet is at the end of what the locals call The Strip, three blocks of a street downtown where anything worthwhile is. It’s a Saturday night, so people are out. The one mediocre club is beginning to accrue a crowd, and the bars are all filling up. You watch swaths of drunk girls and gangs of equally drunk men giggle at each other and stumble down the road. 

By some miracle, you find street parking, and you both clamber out of the car and towards the bar. He holds the door open for you, and you flash him a stupid grin before slipping into the dimly lit building. 

— — — 

A bulk of smoke rushes past you, trying to escape into the early summer night the two of you are leaving behind outside. Poor decisions are being made all around you, and you will ride this buzz until about midnight when you find Phil and bitch and whine until he helps you back to the car. If you’re lucky, you’ll end up at a Waffle House in the early hours of the morning. But there’s so much time before then, and so many dumb things to do.

You both move straight towards the kitchen, where Phillip grabs his one and only beer of the evening. You grab a dubiously crafted jello shot off the counter and slam it back. Off to the races. Talk talk talk. What college are you going to? Is that far? What major? Another shot and a beer has you feeling antsy, and you leave Phil in the living room to chase after two girls from your gym class for gossip you know damn well they have. He keeps an eye on you when you flit from room to room, bouncing eagerly from conversation to conversation, but after a while he gets pulled into his own business and you two lose each other for a few hours. 

At some point much later, you’re outside passing Don’s cigarette back to him. You’re not sure if he goes to your high school, to be completely honest. At least, you’ve never crossed paths with him. But every once in a while, at these parties, you’ll stumble into each other on the back porch, both itching for a smoke and some quiet. People are dancing and screaming and talking inside, but all of it is muffled by the back door. 

He’s got a sort of punk rock vibe going on that you can appreciate. In a house full of fake people, of assholes and prudes and bootlickers, he is genuine. He’s nice and he agrees with what little you have to say when you’re drunk. 

Tonight Don began by filling you in on what he thinks about The Church, but it diverged into him talking about the same girl he’s been into since the last time you saw each other, three months ago. You know the girl—Katie—and she seems sweet. Despite the deep talks you’ve had with him, you don’t know that much about Don, so you just assume they’d be good together, and that’s what you tell him. You rest your head on the railing of the back porch as a chorus of crickets adamantly agrees with whatever he’s on about now. 

He takes a break from talking and takes the cigarette from you. “What about you?”

You wish he’d go on forever. Not really because he’s thrilling to talk to, but because when you get drunk you want everybody else to do the talking. You’re perfectly content listening and falling asleep. Sleep. God, sleep sounds so good. You force words out instead. “What do you mean, what about me?”

“Do you have anybody you’re into?” You furrow your brow softly, and it must take you too long to answer because he keeps going. “What’s happening with you and the blonde guy?”

It takes you another long moment to realize he’s talking about Phil. Your voice drops slightly in an attempt to seem casual, but the alcohol makes you a shitty actor.“I’m not into him.”

“Last time, you said you were.”

Hm. That’s interesting, you don’t really remember telling him that. Somewhere you must have skipped coming to terms with it yourself and gone straight to running your drunk mouth about it. You wonder who else you told. If Phil knows.

“...did I?”

He puffs smoke over his shoulder and hands the cigarette back to you. If he picks up that you’re startled, he doesn’t show it. “Yeah, you told me he’d committed to the marines and you were really upset about it. Back in March. Isn’t he leaving soon?”

Right, yes. Phillip Graves leaves for boot camp on Parris Island in 23 days. You have it marked on your calendar at home in red marker. Every day you cross off feels like another day closer to the end of the world. 

“Yeah. In a month or something.” You blow out smoke. “It’s whatever.”

— — — 

Velvet is bumping compared to when Phillip saw it last. There’s a band on stage in the back playing for a crowd of dancing drunks. It’s not late enough for it to be jam packed but not early enough for it to be empty, so the bar is almost full, and he follows you aimlessly as you pick out a chair. 

You slip up onto a bar seat and give a friendly wave to the bartender. This is your usual station, the post you take almost every weekend in solitude. You can see the whole bar from here, though Phillip leans over the chair beside you and pointedly avoids sitting. “We could grab a table.”

A side eye is shot his way. “You sure this isn’t a date?”

He huffs out something of a laugh and shakes his head. Not a no, you note. “Don’t wanna be craning my neck. Wanna see your face.” You cock an eyebrow at that, and he lets out another breath. “Just haven’t seen you in a while.”

You think for a few seconds, but Phillip has already made up his mind. 

“Let’s get a table.” He drums his hands on the bartop rapidly before pushing off and disappearing from your periphery. “I’m gettin’ a table.” 

You order drinks while he searches. With both of them in hand, you find him sitting idly in a booth halfway between the band and the front door, quiet enough to talk but not so much so that it feels intimate. You set his bourbon sour down in front of him and the night begins.

Questions are traded between the two of you, passed around in a never ending circle. The dance you had both perfected in high school is very easily picked back up again. Pretending not to want the other is muscle memory for the both of you. But as you prattle on about work, about home, about life here, you watch him watch you. His blue eyes are a lot softer than the rest of his rugged face, especially when he looks at you. You’re probably just making that part up. Nevermind. 

He’s pretty sure you’re talking about your job, and he’s nodding along and trying his best to listen, but he keeps getting distracted by how much you haven’t changed. It’s eerie, sitting here with you now, and you’re still the same. Same demeanor, same confidence, same laugh. So much has happened to him, to the world around him, and here you still are. He sets his drink down and chews his lip for a moment. 

You notice he’s not listening pretty much immediately. “Spit it out.”

He falters when he’s caught, like he thought he was being more subtle, then focuses up again. “You’re just the same, is all.” He looks down at his drink. “Just wasn’t sure if you’d like to hear it.”

You prop your head on your hand and smile softly. For what it’s worth, he’s the same too, at least as much as you’ve seen. “In what way?”

“Same smile, for one.” He hums, nodding his head at you. “And same laugh. And you tell stories the same way you used to, the cadence, it’s the same.” You tilt your head softly, trying to decide what to think of what he’s said, so he clarifies further. “I like that you haven’t changed.”

“There wasn’t much reason for me to, I guess.” You swirl your drink around before taking a big sip of it. You’re moving through yours a lot faster, and you’re both very aware of how this night will likely turn out. Old habits die hard. “It’s the same town you left me in, just… older.”

He nods thoughtfully, looking around the bar. Your turn to press on. 

“I’m glad you haven’t really changed either. As far as I can tell. I mean, aside from the-” You point at your cheek, raising your eyebrows at the scar he acquired in his absence. “But when you came back that one weekend after you’d left the marines, you just… seemed different. I was worried somethin’ had…” 

His gaze shifts from the stage and lands back on you. “...changed?”

“Yeah, I guess. I mean, nothin’ can stay the same forever. I know that. But I was scared somethin’ had happened and I hadn’t noticed until it was gone.”

“Until what was gone?”

“Us.” You falter, then stammer out- “You. I don’t know.” 

Nice save. 

Your words catch the both of you off guard as the words leave your mouth, but to your relief he does nothing but smile. He seems like he’s going to press on further, but the band picks up behind him and interrupts whatever he had planned. He reels his head back, looking at the people on stage, before turning back to you. 

“...wanna dance?”

— — — 

Another shot and one blunt hit later and you’re leaning against the wall, watching a girl shake ass on a guy you think you recognize from gym. Or the football team, maybe? Phil might know him then—he played for a brief stint Junior year. Phillip, you jolt suddenly, realizing you haven’t laid eyes on him in over an hour. His existence fills your head for a moment as you scan the room for him, spotting him lingering in a circle of JROTC kids near the other doorway. He’s already watching you when your gaze meets his. It’s very likely that he’s been keeping tabs on you all night, a thought you enjoy a little too much. 

He raises his arm to tap his watch before mouthing ‘Ready to go?’. You consider how great another shot sounds, but the image of you throwing up in his truck quickly changes your mind. Then there’s the party itself- you know a peak when you see one. It’s almost one in the morning. Things can only really go downhill from here. 

You nod at him and he nods back. It’ll take him a minute to excuse himself from the conversation he’s in, so you dip into the kitchen to get a glass of water before your drive home. The people around you become less and less familiar, the world fraying more and more as you turn the tap on and chug the contents of your solo cup. You’re buzzing. Your bed  sounds so nice. God, this is so much water. 

“Hey.”

You turn to smile at the figure beside you, entirely expecting it to be Phillip. It is not. 

“You’re from my math class, right?” 

You recoil from the scent of alcohol on his breath, which says a lot, given your current state. “Oh.” Your face drops, and you clear your throat, looking towards the doorway to the living room. “Uhm, maybe, I dunno.”

“You are. I just thought I’d come say hi. You’re real nice on the eyes, you ever get told that?”

You don’t smile. “Thanks.” 

You refuse to meet his gaze. He seems to take this personally, so he leans into your personal space until he’s right in front of you. You have to watch his gaze rake down your body. “Yeah, you’re real nice.”

Deadpan. “Okay.” 

“Are you here alone?”

You try to move past him, but he steps to cage you in against the counter. His body starts to press against yours, and you lean as far back as you can to avoid him, hips digging into the sharp edge of the marble counter. You think about grabbing a mug out of the sink behind you and slamming it into his head. You think about what Phillip taught you, about how to hold yourself in a fight, how to beat someone twice your size. You are suddenly dead sober with your heartbeat hammering in your head. Everything is very, very warm, and your hand goes towards the glassware at your side. 

Before you can get a grip on the mug, the man’s already being pulled back. Everything blurs together, but you manage to take a few steps back from the chaos. Phillip is there, grabbing the man by his jacket collar and shoving him up against the cabinet. The people oblivious to your existence five seconds ago are now silent and watching. The man looks like he’s revving up to make some smartass remark, but before the words can leave his mouth, he’s met with a strong left hook. 

You all Phillip watch break the man’s nose. Unceremoniously, the man drops to the floor. 

The party in the rest of the house continues. Destiny’s Child plays in the living room as the people in the kitchen stand deathly still, like they’re expecting Phillip to start swinging on them, too. 

He doesn’t. He turns to you, face red, and holds his hand out. “Come on.” 

You take his hand and move across the blood speckled floor.

The cool air outside hits you all at once as you two leave, and if you weren’t so shaken up, you would have demanded you both spend some time on the front porch and enjoy it. It’s a relieving sensation nonetheless. 

He helps you into the truck, extra mindful of where his hands land. Neither of you say anything as he hops in the driver's seat. 

Everything is already blurring together, and you’re having trouble remembering what had happened a minute ago. You’re not too sure you even knew in the moment. Wracking your brain spurs on a headache, a dull throbbing pain blossoming between your eyes.

“Are you okay?”

You turn. 

He’s staring at you in a way you don’t think you recognize. Concern, you realize after a moment, mirroring his furrowed brow. It’s an odd look on him, someone usually so collected and cocky. You must take too long to answer, because he leans forward slightly and asks again. 

“Are you okay?”

“Fine.” The world comes crashing back in on you. Faux sober. Headache. In the car. “I’m fine. Sorry. Shit.”

“Don’t apologize.” He shifts in his seat and chews his lip, trying to figure out how to be delicate with what he asks. “He didn’t touch you, did he?”

You shake your head. “Just grabbed my arm.”

“Your arm okay?”

“Yeah, it’s okay. I’m okay, Phil.”

He goes to put his hand on yours but stops himself. “Are you sure?”

You move your hand the rest of the way to take his and nod. “I’m sure. I promise.”

It takes him a moment to believe you, but after a few seconds he gently nods and turns the car on. It rumbles to life and buzzes underneath you. “M’ sorry I wasn’t with you.”

“You’re fine. You damn near caved his face in.”

“Shoulda kept punching.”

You snort at that, propping your head on your hand and watching the house disappear as you pull away. You watch his hand shift towards your knee on instinct, but he stops himself before it reaches you. Lord knows you’re not brave enough to tell him he can touch you. 

“Thank you, Phil.”

“Of course.” He hums, turning on his blinker for nobody. 

Five minutes of silence turns to ten. Ten to fifteen. You watch the bluestem sway back and forth in the moonlight, and he expects that you’ll be asleep by the time you get home. 

You stare at the moon, then the stars, but all you can think about is how the boy next to you will be taken from you in three and a half weeks. You know he’ll visit, at least that’s what he says, but what about when he’s sent somewhere far away? What will you do then, when he disappears from your life forever, when he gets hard and cold and mean? It all sounds like a tragedy, you think, like some play you’d read your freshman year where everyone dies in the end. You’ll be here, alive, but you doubt you’ll really be able to live without him. 

You love this boy. You are so tired of pretending that you don’t. 

“We should have danced together at prom.”

He looks over at you for a second. Deducing exactly how drunk you are is hard when he’s busy operating his shitbox truck, but he figures you’re pretty far gone. Just talking nonsense on the fly. “I thought we went as friends.”

You bulldoze forward, not really paying attention to what he’s saying. This is a stream of consciousness and it will never escape you if it doesn’t get out now. “You were making eyes at me the whole night. You should have asked.”

“...I didn’t know that was somethin’ you wanted.”

“I’m telling you now. You should have asked me to dance.”

He furrows his brow. “You should have asked.”

You can’t really argue with this, so you just turn away with a huff and let your head rest against the window. “Well, shit. Guess we’re both cowards, then.”

The car ride is silent after that. 

The two of you listen to the car engine and the crickets for a long stretch of time. He moves to turn on the radio, and Keith Whitley starts halfway through I Wonder Do You Think of Me. You’re not mad at him and he’s not mad at you, but your words and the continuous Nothing thereafter lets the two of you think. 

About the horrible party and about the truck and about Prom. About all the time you’d spent together, pressed side to side, laughing and talking and bickering. 

About how he will go away and change, and you will stay where he left you. You wonder if you could beg him to stay. You wonder if he would. 

You could have had everything. But the time has passed.

— — —