Art by the amazing @janearts
Especially for you bestie @dustjacketmusings, I present you Cassian freaking out:
Cassian didn’t sleep much.
This wasn’t particularly unusual for him. After a match, his body had its own recovery timeline, which was different every time. But this wasn’t anything like that. He wasn’t lying awake replaying tackles, or trying to find a comfortable position because of some gnarly bruises. He was lying awake replaying the specific sound of Nesta’s laugh over his choice of dinner, and the way she’d looked at him, soft and helpless and completely unguarded, and the way that expression had then turned into something else on his sofa, something that had nearly stopped his heart entirely.
He kept replaying the moment she’d gotten up, when the blissful feeling of everything being right, of the world making sense with her in his arms, bringing her pleasure, had shattered.
He stared at the ceiling.
His phone was on the nightstand. He’d looked at it eleven times. He knew because he’d counted, with a grim type of self-awareness. The last two messages in the thread was hers, from just before midnight.
Made it home safe. Thank you, for everything.
He’d read the messages over and over, and did so again, reaching for his phone. He opened the thread and stared at the blank text field beneath it. He started typing.
glad you got home safe. I’ve been thinking about—
He deleted it and put the phone down.
He picked it up again and stared at the empty box, desperately hoping for some inspiration that didn’t come. Because what could he say that didn’t make this worse?
He put the phone on his chest and looked back up at the ceiling. He had a brief but sincere conversation with himself about the concept of patience, which he had in almost every other area of his life, even though not many thought of him as a patient man. On the pitch he could hold a line without flinching, waiting for the perfect opportunity to score a try, or tirelessly creating the perfect opening for Az to do so, even when everyone else had given up. He had spent his entire career making a virtue of not moving before the right moment.
He stayed like that for another ten minutes. The radiator clicked. Outside, Edinburgh was waking up with the familiar sounds of early morning — the first buses hissing, the distant industry rumbling, the early risers jogging and clicking along the streets.
He thought about her hands on his chest. The specific weight of her in his lap. The sound she’d made, low and unguarded, that had gone through him like a current.
He looked at his phone again, realizing he’d been awake all night when it said 6:22 AM. He pushed the duvet back and got up. He went downstairs and filled the kettle. He looked at the table where they’d sat for two hours while the candle burned down, and at the two wine glasses still there.
He picked up his phone and called Azriel.
It rang four times before his brother’s gravelly voice sounded on the other side.
A silence followed, the particular one with which Azriel could convey more than most people could with full sentences. Cassian knew he had about forty-five seconds to justify what sounded like waking him up.
“She left,” Cassian said. “Last night. Nesta. She — it was a good evening. Really good actually, until she panicked and left.”
When Azriel spoke again the tone had shifted, the irritation replaced by something softer. “What do you mean, she panicked?”
“I mean she jumped up as if set on fire and her voice went about eighty miles an hour and she was—” He leaned against the counter. “She was frightened, Az. Not of me. Just — of the whole thing. She said she’d been alone for three years for good reason, and that—”
“I didn’t do anything! We just… Made out a wee bit and she jumped up and left.”
“Right. How did you respond to that?”
“I gave her space. I didn’t push. I did her coat up and saw her out.”
“Her hands were shaking.”
Another silence followed. “And then?”
“Told her to text me when she got home, which she did.” He looked at his phone. “I’ve been lying awake since.”
“And you’ve texted her how many times?”
“How many times have you written something and deleted it?”
“Several,” he said. “A number of times. A not-insignificant—”
“Seven,” he said. “Possibly eight. There was one I’m not sure counts.”
Azriel huffed a laugh, which sounded mildly exasperated. “What did they say?”
“They don’t matter, I deleted them.”
“One of them was about the shortbread I made her.”
This time it was definitely a laugh. Brief and genuine, which from Azriel was essentially a standing ovation.
“Right.” Cassian could hear him shifting, sitting up probably, laced with the particular sounds of Azriel’s flat, which he knew well enough to map blind. “Okay. Listen to me.” He suddenly sounded serious again. “You did the right thing.”
“I don’t know, I think so.”
“You gave her space when she needed it, you didn’t make her feel bad about leaving, and you made sure you knew she got home safely without making it into a big deal.” He stopped, letting silence fill the space.
“Nothing. Honestly quite good. Well done.”
“It sounds like she has some things to figure out, Cass,” Azriel said. “It doesn’t sound like you were the problem, though.”
“I’m giving her time. I’m giving her time right now. I’m giving her time while lying awake the entire night composing stupid texts—”
“Seven texts,” Azriel said.
“I’m just—” He huffed another laugh. “Cassian. You pulled out every register. You cooked for her. You picked special wine and made her dessert and everything. Honestly I kind of hate you for it, because that's pretty close to a perfect date, and Gwyn will definitely have expectations now.”
“Gwyn?” Cassian couldn’t help the smirk pulling at his lips. He knew it. He knew there was something between Az and Nesta’s best friend.
“Shut up, Cass. Focus on your own shit.”
“Just admit that you’re gone for her, mate,” Azriel said simply. There was no judgment there, just plain fact. “You have been gone since approximately the first date, possibly before it, and she’s — she’s trying to catch up. That’s all. Give her time to catch up.”
Cassian looked at the kitchen table. The two glasses. The stub of the candle.
“What if she decides it’s too much?” he said. “What if she thinks about it and decides—”
“Then she decides that,” Azriel said. “And it’ll be awful. But—” A pause, and Cassian heard something in it, something careful. “I don’t think she will. She ate the cock-a-leekie after all.”
“I don’t know why I told you about that.”
Az huffed another soft laugh. “She’s not indifferent, Cass.”
“You know, you could just text her. A simple ‘thank you for letting me know’ would suffice,” Azriel said. “And then you give her space. Don’t text her before she texts you. Let her come back to you in her own time.”
“No,” Azriel said. “But she will.”
“Go back to bed,” Azriel said. “Or go for a run and clear your head. It’ll do you better than staring at your cluttered kitchen.”
“I’m not—” He looked at his phone for a second before putting it back to his ear. “How did you—”
“Because I know you.” The statement came out flat and certain. “Go for a run.”
“Yeah,” Cassian said. “Yeah, okay.”
“Next time you call me at six-thirty in the morning,” Azriel said, “it had better be because something is on fire or someone is dying.”
Let the shenanigans begin!
Read up to this point here
