"People like me … well, let’s just say I'm used to it by now."
-Remus Lupin, 1993
A/N: How is this man simultaneously my trauma AND comfort character??
♪ 30/90 - Andrew Garfield
They're singing, "Happy Birthday"
You just want to lay down and cry
Not just another birthday, it's 30/90
♪ The Woods - Hollow Coves
The cold night takes us to a place to escape the chill
Tucked up somewhere in the woods on a hill
Wake up feeling the cold in between our toes
Is there a way back? Nobody knows
♪ Like Real People Do - Hozier
I will not ask you where you came from
I will not ask you, neither should you
Honey just put your sweet lips on my lips
We should just kiss like real people do
♪ I Know The End - Phoebe Bridgers
When I get back I'll lay around
Then I'll get up and lay back down
Romanticize a quiet life
There's no place like my room
♪ Anti-Hero - Taylor Swift (Acoustic Version)
It's me, hi, I'm the problem, it's me
At tea time, everybody agrees
I'll stare directly at the sun but never in the mirror
It must be exhausting, always rooting for the anti-hero
♪ Skinny Love - Birdy
Come on, skinny love, just last the year
Pour a little salt, we were never here
My, my, my, my, my, my, my, my, my, my, my
Staring at the sink of blood and crushed veneer
♪ The Great War - Taylor Swift
You drew up some good faith treaties
I drew curtains closed, drank my poison all alone
You said I have to trust more freely
But diesel is desire, you were playin' with fire
♪ Cardigan - Taylor Swift
To kiss in cars and downtown bars
Was all we needed
You drew stars around my scars
But now I'm bleedin'
♪ Comes and Goes (In Waves) - Greg Laswell
This one's for the lonely, the one's that seek and find
Only to be let down, time after time
This one's for the torn down, the experts at the fall
Come on friends, get up now, you're not alone at all
♪ Fine Line - Harry Styles
Put a price on emotion
I'm looking for something to buy
You've got my devotion
But man, I can hate you sometimes
Being Steve's Neighbor + Rival-to-Lovers Would Include... (Part 2)
Part 1 / Part 3
Summer 1983
the summer days before junior year rolled by in a haze— between babysitting will, track, and going to robin's soccer matches, you rarely had time to think about anything else
the nights, however, seemed to drag on forever; the quiet slide of a window hinge, shuffling feet, the gentle notes of a tears for fears song— it happened routinely when you slipped into bed, radio silence penetrated by noises from next door
you never dared to draw back the curtains, fearful of all the things you might encounter, dreadful of the things your sleep-deprived mind wanted to see
was it steve perched on his window sill, doe eyes glazed behind cigarette smoke? or was it another girl climbing into his room, unaware of the heartbreak ahead like always?
your stomach churned at both possibilities, neither doing favors for your efforts in ignoring him
the knowledge that steve occupied your last waking thoughts infuriated you to no end (as did the blue box that sat in your closet, collecting dust per lack of neighborly chucked items)
even robin noticed the silence during sleepovers, rob lowe's dialogue no longer sparsed between cross-house banter
"so... either you've murdered harrington, which in that case, good for you, or we've entered an alternate universe where you two aren't fated to be mortal enemies"
since your porch blowout with steve, gracie's wandered off for another three times in total— always ending up around where steve first found her, always shaking as though she's seen something sinister
"hey bud, what's with the escapades, huh? those walks not enough for you, explorer?”
September - November 10, 1983
junior year marked many a turning points: you were promoted to captain after aaron's graduation, the regular sleepover schedule now included some robin-style gushing over tammy thompson, and steve had begun dating nancy wheeler from the year below
although you and nancy ran in different social circles, you were familiar with mike through will's animated stories— it was endearing, the way he occupied most of will's attention (which would otherwise have been wasted on people like lonnie byers)
though he seldom mentioned his best friend's older sister, will would occasionally let slip about mike and steve’s late night run-ins
"mike makes this scrunched up, grossed out face whenever he talks about nancy and steve, it's cute. like silly cute"
you realized what all those sleepless nights must have been: steve in his navy green sweater, hair perfectly coiffed and ready to romance all the way across town
could it be possible? steve harrington in an actual committed relationship? the thought rolled around your head like an aimless pinball
still, amidst all the confusion, surprise, and frankly, doubt, you had hoped the two wouldn't crash and burn as steve's previous attempts at dating; the development brought on a heady onrush of emotions, coupled with the lingering intuition of something big brewing ahead
soon, your gut had proven you right on a tuesday afternoon in the form of a missing person poster, tucked beside a food drive poster on the hallway bulletin board
a nauseous spell washed over at the idea of will in danger, and you set off to look for him in plausible places around town, running into a distressed and pacing jonathan outside his house; noticing pieces of a camera sticking out his bag, you'd coaxed the truth about these past few days out of him
"let me get this straight— there's a creepy picture of wheeler in your camera, which steve and his goonies broke, both will and barbara holland are missing, and there's an eight-foot tall monster lurking in the woods?"
christ, what happened to hawkins being the most banal town in midwest america? and why does this sound like a breakdown of one of will's d&d nights?
questions bubbled up your throat only to fizzle into nothing— you realized the only option was to take everything in stride; yes, you could theoretically wallow in disbelief, but it wouldn't bring you any closer to will’s whereabouts
remembering his tendency to hide out at castle byers, you offered to scope out the place again, letting jonathan know you'd call his house firsthand with updates
to your frustration, your search in the woods was fruitless; the lack of candy wrappers and unopened comics told you will had been absent from the hideout for a while
besides, there was something strange about the area; it was colder, a biting freeze almost, and unnervingly dark for an afternoon in early november
steve was en route home when he spotted you along randolph, hands in hair and visibly distressed— flashes of that evening on your porch burning through his mind
"(y/l/n)," he slammed the brakes as you whipped around, eyes darting between the bmw and his face. "what's wrong? you okay?"
"have you seen will? will byers? four feet six, bowl cut, big brown eyes?”
“wha-who- why do you keep losing—” steve gaped, until something registered and his eyes grew hard. “wait a minute, this is about that kid on the poster. byers? as in peeping tom byers?”
you soured at the comment, feeling a familiar drop in your stomach; there was no worse time than the present for a fight with steve, but he was just so damn good at picking one
“actually, jonathan’s a nice guy. but i don't expect people like you or hagan and his circus of clowns to care”
“and you do? the last i checked, you two were complete strangers at school”
“hmm, didn’t realize your head was out of your ass long enough to know that”
“don’t work that pretty little head of yours too hard, princess. i’ve got big enough eyes to see most people”
“bigger than your hair? sure, jonathan might be…odd sometimes, i’ll give you that— but he’s a good brother to will and a good son to joyce. that’s better than half the men here in hawkins”
“which makes voyeurism okay? he took pictures of nance in my bedroom!”
“no,” pinching the bridge of your nose with eyes squeezed shut, you felt the waning fight seep from your body. “not at all, steve"
his head, too, slumped at the crestfallen mutter of his name, all tension in the air now exhausted
"what jonathan did was wrong— and nothing except a genuine apology to wheeler will make it right. but right now, this is about will. he's eleven and nowhere to be found. steve, please, if he ends up on the wrong street in town..."
did the idea of slamming his head against the dashboard appeal to steve? yes. between nancy's distant treatment and his own growing irritation at tommy and carol, he'd been on edge all day
still, did the crushed expression on your face trump all his self-pity and frustration? damn yes
wordlessly, his hand reached for the car locks, head gesturing towards the empty leather seat beside him
"c'mon, let’s drive up lover's lake, see if the kid's camping out around the boat house"
who'd have thought— steve harrington and (y/n) (y/l/n) in the same vehicle, and heading towards the town's number one make-out spot at that? even so, you supposed stranger things had gone down in hawkins before
with a conscious sigh, steve leaned forward to crank the radio down, duran duran's mumbles filling every gap of thick silence
you two kept your eyes on everything but one another, afraid to look (and even more so to look away)
the road signs and block houses all melded together in a blur of colors through the window, stretching north to lover's lake
steve noticed the bundle of nerves pressed against his own chest— which is absurd to think about, for he'd driven the same route more times than he could count since freshman year; so what was so different about this?
deciding to risk a glance at the last intersection— big mistake, really— steve realized the setting sun had begun to work its magic, tender light splitting to coat even the roughest edges in beauty
you were swathed in the delicate glow, hair fanning out around your face like a makeshift halo— the only divine thing in a town that was insipid at best
"take a picture, harrington," you teased, but the jibe was heatless, amused and almost...sweet, "it'll last longer"
a peep in the rearview mirror revealed a steve flushed from ear to ear, and for a moment the sight was enough to ease your worry about will
arriving at the lake, you two began the search— not only did steve weave between trees and boulders with the precision of indiana jones himself, he was also surprisingly chivalrous, extending a hand for you to grab onto at each tricky obstacle
"done a lot of exploring around here, harrington?" you grimaced at the tone of your own voice, neither friendly nor casual enough for your liking, too deliberate in its pointed pitch
steve, too, had been surprised by the question, rubbing the back of his now slightly reddened neck
"not more than the average teenager," he replied uncertainly, "but what's it to you, princess?" (it was the exact same question, two years apart and still, no answer in sight)
instead of a half-baked answer, steve received an elbow to his stomach instead, instantly doubling over per his personal brand of theatrics
"sneaky way to get me on my knees, (y/l/n)"
"as if i have to stoop that low," you had almost smiled at the return of his pink-tinted cheeks
November 10 - 12, 1983 
your futile trip to the lake was a last shot at optimism before an ensuing two days of hell; between news of a body in the quarry and the eventual announcement of will's funeral, you were sucked into a whirlwind of shock and grief
robin had been your rock through the forty-eight hours, making sure you were eating and taking naps despite your complete lack of will to do so
he'd been so young, will, so full of dreams and wonder and hope, always cheered up by the prospect that there'd be another campaign to plan; all those nights spent in each other's company— you had come to see him as a friend, a brother
and all you did was fail him, the voice inside you raged, punching at your insides until there was nothing to do but crumble on your doorsteps
some time later, the roar of an engine broke through your hysterics; steve had pulled into his driveway, one hand on the steering wheel and the other hovering above his door handle
one minute your vision was a teary mess, and the next it plunged into darkness; immediately, you breathed in the smell of klein cologne and detergent
"christ...harrington..." you choked out, caught between shoving the jerk away and reeling him in by the lapels
almost bent over from the push and pull of elation and agony in your chest, you were steadied only by the firm grip of steve's arms
"i'm so sorry," he whispered, his head a grounding weight atop of yours
"it's my faul- my goddamn fault - didn't even know he was travelling home so late, if only i had offered—"
"hey hey hey," his voice was firm, as you blinked through the curtain of tears to focus on his face, "it's not, okay? you had no control over what happened— don't go punishing yourself because i know you will, you've got too big of a heart"
"i just wish—" the rest of your sentence blubbered into nonsense, though steve had guessed it nonetheless, thumb rubbing circles into the crook of your arm
"i know," he looked pained, the most empathetic you had ever seen him, “i know, princess”
sensing your quick descent into fatigue, steve leaned down and slid one arm behind your knees, the other supporting your back; with a slight lift he was carrying you inside the house and onto the living room couch
you tried hard to hold onto his jacket sleeve, desperate for another warm presence in the vacant house, but merciless sleep took over before you could mumble stay
you didn't need to, however— steve had remained at your side until he heard the sound of your parents' car in the driveway, at which he slipped through the back door, into the garden, and over the fence to fall, in a very non-ninja like manner, face first into his hedge
you didn't wake up until well into noon the next day, when you were knocked out of heavy slumber by a series of brash, urgent knocks downstairs
the door opened to reveal— and you swore hawkins was just getting more and more flabbergasting by the day— steve harrington, pressing a coke can to an alarmingly huge bruise on his face
he was obviously agitated, mouth opening and closing repeatedly as words seemed to escape him
"steve," you tugged him into the house, closing the door in case nosy mr. pleet from across decided to poke his head out, "you okay? what happened, why are you—"
"i screwed up," he made a face that was half wincing and half frowning, though you couldn't tell from the amount of blood smeared on his cheeks, "i screwed up with nance so bad, (y/n), i'm such a goddamn idiot! a stupid, no-good, hot-headed waste-of-time—"
"okay—" you interrupted before he could spiral any further, guiding him to the couch, nudging him to sit down and plucking the can from his hands, "though i am thoroughly impressed by your vocabulary, you are going to split that face wide open if you keep up the vigor. sit here, i'm getting the first-aid kit"
steve watched with half-swollen eyes as you sprinted to the kitchen, busted lips left stinging in an ill-advised attempt to smirk when he spotted the bunny slippers on your feet
it was even harder for him not to when you threatiningly held up a damp towel to his face, false hostility betrayed by the gentle grip of your other hand on his chin
“make one comment,” your gaze dropped to the white slippers shortly, “one comment, steve, and i will smother you with this towel”
“wasn’t about to say anything,” he shrugged and mimmed zipping up his lips, a flash of delight visible in his brown eyes before they dimmed, before current circumstance flooded his memory
“c’mon lover boy,” you tossed the bloodied towel aside, moving onto antibiotic cream and brushing it over steve’s nastier scrapes and cuts. “what really happened?”
for two hours, steve had relayed his twists and turns with nancy, jonathan, and what now was probably his former clique
the conversation had you reeling between disappointment and hope, second-hand embarrassment and relief, all of which you concealed under the calm guise of treating steve’s face
smoothing over one last band-aid near his temple, you rapped your knuckles against his forehead lightly, determined to get his full attention (not that he’d been able to concentrate anywhere else with you so close)
“i don’t know what goes on in here, assuming there’s actually something— but your only way out is through. drag your sorry ass to wheeler and jonathan. apologize. you’re obnoxious, steve, but far from despicable”
he’d held your gaze with such appreciation that it nearly made you blush; within the duration of a week, it was as though your neighbor had shed his entire king steve persona, now a simple boy seeking redemption
no, not simple, you corrected yourself— nothing about steve harrington was simple
“alright,” he relented, the ghost of a smile hanging on his mouth, “if you say so princess”
when he returned the next day, it was with double the expected good news; not only had he made amends with nancy and jonathan, will was alive, passed out in the hospital but nonetheless alive
you’d managed to jam your feet into one shoe, ecstatic to see the kid before steve wrapped a hand around your wrist, drawing you closer to him on the porch
“(y/n),” he cleared his throat, then reached into his coat pocket to pull out a tiny tazer the size of a matchbox, “promise me you’ll be careful? lock the doors at night and keep this with you at all times?”
you frowned at his grave expression, lips parted to seek an explanation when he beat you to it
“i just- after this thing with will - i want you to be safe,” he pressed it into your palm, “please, princess”
and pray tell, how were you supposed to refuse those doe eyes?
you nodded, slipped the tazer into your bag, and tiptoed to hug steve briefly; his neck was strangely warm
“thank you,” you pulled back with a bright grin, before dangling the keys that you had sneakily tugged out of steve’s jean pocket seconds ago
Being Steve's Neighbor + Rival-to-Lover Would Include... (Part 1)
Part 2/ Part 3/ Part 4
Pre-1981
growing up in hawkin's wealthy neighborhood, you were warranted an easy childhood: nice clothes, parents who skillfully mastered the laissez-faire attitude, and opportunities to pursue everything from ballet to athletics
you had a knack for maneuvering around obstacles, taking to hurdles like a fish to water
hawkins middle school had never seen a faster pair of legs, that was, until your neighbor decided to dip his musty toes in the sport
steve harrington was the nightmare of all opponents: arrogant and crude but unfairly blessed with exceptional motor skills
you hated his guts with a burning passion, the way he'd carelessly flick his sweat-drenched towel around, fancy running shoes digging into the ground to make obnoxious sounds
not to mention his ego, so honest-to-god swollen that it couldn't handle being bested by a girl
"hey princess, why don't you go ahead and quit already? save yourself the humiliation"
"like when your parents never show up at any of our meets?"
few in town knew how dysfunctional the picture-perfect Harringtons were, but as their neighbor you had witnessed first hand how little steve's parents cared about him
the ugly truth was a fatal sore spot with steve, and the results were deadly each time you weaponized it
clear brown eyes would darken into a muddy blur, fists clenched so tight you'd see crescent marks on flesh when they unfurled
you always almost felt sorry at the sight of his crumbling expression, frustration and loneliness marring a twelve year-old's face
walking off silently in opposite directions was the only form of truce you two knew
you'd never admit to looking back twice, but under the setting sun there was never a more forlorn shape than his shadow
steve and you were always neck and neck in training, but your rivalry also extended beyond the track and school
on weekends, the little asshole loved to lounge in his pool, blasting the radio at an ungodly volume while you tried to read in the garden next door
"harrington! do you mind? some of us actually have a brain we'd like to enrich once in a while!"
"what? can't hear you over this totally tubular song!"
if your parents were at home to shout over the fence for you, he'd turn the music down in a heartbeat, apology laced with faux sincerity
"sorry mr. and mrs. y/l/n! i didn't know y/n was reading"— you could just hear his shit-eating grin
your parents might've found him cheeky, likeable even, but your protective dachshund Gracie knew better
watching steve squirm as she gave him the stink eye on her daily walk was a great source of satisfaction
"(y/l/n)! get your sausage dog to stop glaring at me"
joint-house dinners for thanksgiving were the worst; the harringtons, knowing nothing about their son, would insist that you and steve sit together at the table
he was relentless with his antics; swapping your salt and sugar, flicking peas into your mashed potatoes whenever the adults weren't looking, "accidentally" using your salad fork and then proceeding to lick it clean in the most revolting manner possible—
needless to say, you would be seething before dessert every time
the look on his face whenever you stamped his pristine sneakers under the table, however, always lasted you through the rest of dinner
1981
when high school rolled around, steve was still unpleasant as ever— though he seemed to have turned his attention away from track, spending it on basketball and swimming instead
you befriended the spunky robin buckley on your first day, both of you late to algebra with mr. mundy
bright as a button, and never one to tell lies, robin was quick to earn your trust
she also learnt your disdain for a certain neighbor in no time
"i'm telling you rob, it's all farrah fawcett and no brain in that head"
to your utter horror, and her amusement, you and steve end up getting paired for ms. jones' chemistry project
"na-cl-uh? what the hell is na-cl-uh?"
"jesus harrington, it's NaCl— sodium chloride"
steve would've loved to roll his eyes and mutter an indiscreet nerd, but he knew damn well you were his grade's saving grace
halfway through freshman year, steve had officially quit track, unable to juggle three sports and his father's crushing expectations
to everyone's surprise, you were livid at the news, storming up to his lunch table one day with a flabbergasted robin in tow
he'd taken one glance at your furious face before ducking behind tommy h for protection— coward, as if that stick of a boy could even land a punch
"why’d you quit?"
he just stared at you, doe eyes comically wide and mouth hanging open with a disgustingly half-chewed hot dog inside
"what's it to you, princess? thought you'd be glad to get rid of your strongest competition"
robin gave you a gentle nudge, seemingly in agreement with steve's statement— now quite true in hindsight
would life be easier if you didn't have steve "the hair" harrington breathing down your neck at every training? yes
but did the idea of steve throwing away his potential, when you know he's got what it takes to win state, national even, sting like hell? also yes
anyone who has a problem with it can sue you, but it still didn't take away the fact that, for some absurd reason, you'd had higher hopes for the insufferable jerk
the unreal confrontation that day ended with you stalking away from the table, simultaneously mortified and disappointed
steve had laughed it off with tommy h and the rest of his underlings, but his eyes never once left your retreating back, curious and astonished
that summer, you focused half of your time on training and hanging out at robin's house, with the other half spent babysitting kids around town
will byers was one of them— soft-spoken, imaginative, and extremely perceptive, he was your favorite gremlin of them all
you'd watch him when joyce and jonathan were out late on their work shifts, always ending up in castle byers because will didn't like staying in the house without them
you'd sit comfortably surrounded by quilts and pillows, chin propped on folded knees as he talked about the party and their latest campaign
he missed his dad sometimes, you could tell, despite the man's sleaziness and self-served character
you hated seeing the sad frown form between will's eyebrows, too familiar and jarring on a little boy's face
"hey kid— you think i'd make a good clerk?"
"cleric," he'd correct, exasperated but grateful for the momentary distraction
1982
sophmore year rolled by quickly; you did well in hurdles and picked up pole vaulting, started learning russian with robin, and grew an unhealthy obsession with rob lowe when the outsiders came out
you'd coax robin into watching it with you at sleepovers, rewinding the tape over and over again with the window open until steve chucked something through it from his room across
"if i have to hear rob lowe ask about his dx shirt one more time—"
he'd argue that you're addicted, but it's more a religion, really
already used to your bickering, robin would snort, swallow her mouthful of popcorn, and toss whatever steve had thrown in into a blue basket labelled "environmental pollutant"
it's mainly filled with socks, marbles, forgotten toy cars, and a few crumpled up pages of playboy that was excellent blackmail material
for three weeks, you sat next to laurie hills in english, listening to her go on and on about steve's hair, his "manly" hands, how much of a gentleman he was to her
not much, you thought to yourself, if the sight of amy pline climbing through his window on a friday night was any indication
he'd catch your squinted eyes through the window, having the audacity to look the slightest embarrased at having gotten caught
he always covered it up with a half-baked smug grin, however, and you'd tell laurie she was better off without him every time she came to class late, poorly hidden tear streaks peeking through fresh powder
the somewhat civilized hostility between you and steve continued on until late march, when you came home one day to find gracie missing, the front door swung open ominously
overcome with panic, you looked up and down the street before spotting steve on his porch, nursing what seemed to be a sore cheek
"harrington! have you seen gracie?"
startled at your voice and already cranky from being slapped, steve couldn't help but react harshly
"in case you haven't noticed, (y/l/n), i'm not exactly in the state to keep an eye out for deranged canines”
the worry in your stomach swelled, along with fury at steve's nonchalance— you'd thought he would at least offer a helping hand in looking, knowing how much gracie meant to you after your grandfather's death
"you know, steve, despite what your blockhead friends tell you, you don't actually have to be an ass all the time"
if the tears threatening to spill from your eyes didn't do the trick, hearing the rare sound of his name from your mouth definitely jolted steve from his grouchy spell
"hey, i'm sorry, i didn't—"
"forget it, steve, i don't want to beg for your help. i shouldn't have to"
you hurried away from the harrington house, scurrying around the area in search of a black and tan blob
it began to pour soon after, the rain soaking you to a tee; unable to see anything in the weather, you began to tread back home reluctantly
if there ever was a stranger sight, it'd be steve harrington standing on the steps of your house, equally drenched and holding something in his bunched up jacket
upon walking closer, you realized it was gracie, fur damp and shaking slightly in steve's arms
"i-uh-found her on mirkwood, scared and everything behind a dumpster"
he watched as you cooed and whispered soothingly at gracie, fingers reaching out to rub behind her ears— all the while ignoring the heavy thumping in his own chest
"i'm-uh-sorry, for earlier, laurie came over and we started fighting—"
"i know, steve, i sit next to her in english," you offered a wobbly, pained smile as the olive branch, only to have steve see it as another stick tossed to the fire
"oh? so that's how it is? class bell rings and a gossip parade starts like it's the fourth?" the sudden souring of his tone caused you to tense, ready to revert back to the usual jibes and digs
"what in the— steve, i'm not the bad guy in your relationship. it's not like laurie is clueless about your conquests, you know, since amy pline can't keep her mouth shut about you even if her life depended on it—"
"so you tell her to break up with me, steve harrington, the big bad neighbor”
"oh please!" you could hear the rush of blood from your ears to cheeks, "you look at anyone remotely interested like a goddamn piece of meat, and you chew and spit them out so carelessly, like you're above all us peasants, who have to pick up your mess just because you can't keep it in your pants—"
"oh ok, i'm smelling some big-time jealously here. you're mad i don't pay you enough attention, princess? that i don't grovel at your feet like aaron marvey and the rest of the track team?"
that's it, you think to yourself in sheer bewilderment, steve harrington's officially out of his goddamn mind
plucking gracie from his arms, your hands gentle despite the rage, you swerved around steve to unlock your front door, entire body trembling in shock
such wishful thinking, that eight years of knowing each other could, if even for a minute, somehow place you in his good graces
there was no hiding how upset you were, so you spun around, looked straight into his eyes and whispered, "have a good rest of your day, king steve— i’d say i hope to see you later but i don’t"
leaning against the door as it slammed shut, you felt the prickle of fresh tears in your eyes— why were you crying? and of all people, because of steve harrington?
gracie, the rain, messing up your pace more than usual in training today— that had to be it, not your stupid neighbor who didn't know the definition of humility until it slapped him across the face, who suddenly decided to soak his 40-dollar Gazelles looking for a dog whom he didn't even like (not to mention before insulting her owner in every way possible)
jesus, what was wrong with him? and what was wrong with you? you never cared about what steve harrington thought— this weird, antagonistic dynamic worked just fine for you both all these years
with that thought, you hugged gracie closer to your chest, the sounds of your sniffling muffled by her coat
"hey-sweetheart-it'll be alright"
whether the words were for gracie or yourself, no one knew— not even steve, who stood outside your door the entire night, fist half-raised against the wood
- Bright-eyed and prepared to conquer the world with his little fists, baby James is always ready to spread some much-needed cheer
- A fast learner with agile hands, he's eager to try anything and everything—ranging from activities that are mildly hazardous to mortally threatening
- So far, he's made some brilliant attempts in ditching his nappies, ridding the garden of its weeds with his bare hands, and kidnapping the neighbor's fire crab during his visits next door
- It had taken three whole months before his scorched left eyebrow grew back completely; nevertheless, James' love for the grumpy creature is stronger than ever
- Active in imagination and having been immersed in magic since birth, James also adores all kinds of stories and legends, especially if they include dragons and hippogriffs
- He's a real Hungarian Horntail enthusiast, proven by all the pictures he's done of them on his bedroom walls—although a few have bronze spikes that seem to resemble wiggly bananas instead
- James likes to name all his masterpieces, and so far glitter-lined Pip stands as a personal favorite, followed closely by macaroni-for-claws Buggleworth
- Spending time with him includes a lot of drawing (snack breaks for pudding included of course), and pretend-Qudditch on the living room couch
- His chubby hands can't quite aim yet, so you're always leaping around with a washing basket
- Granted, it's not the most enjoyable thing to do on a hot summer day, but James' bubbly laughter after scoring a goal makes all the sweating worth it
- And when he's tired himself out by late afternoon, there's nothing sweeter than the sight of him falling asleep against you—eyes droopy, dishevelled curls fanning out across your shoulder, and a small, content smile etched on his lips
- He'd wake a few hours later, bleary-eyed, then buzzing with life again, ready to take on the world one more time with that infectious chortle of his
- Bath time is another highlight—James will go wild over bubbles, hoarding them into a tiny mountain before him
- While he's occupied, you'd shampoo his hair, styling those unruly curls into the most ridiculous of shapes
- Shark James takes a regular appearance, along with Cloud James and Ladybug James—he'd sit there without a care, happily oogling at his bubble minions
- Post-shower baby James smells like sherbet lemons, sweet with a slight zest—compelling yourself not to nuzzle against his cheek is always a lost cause
- For all the zeal he's got bundled up in his small form, however, James has got a remarkably sensitive soul too
- Doesn't matter how well you hide your unease or misery, he'd be able to sniff it out like a hound
- And whenever he wraps his arms tight around your neck, pressing his puny fingers to stop whatever tears are rolling down your face, there's no better comfort in the world that you can possibly imagine
- Baby James Potter has a knack for hugs, there's just no denying that
- Very little upsets him, easygoing nature and all, except for spilled pudding and any prospects of romance for his favorite person—also known as you
- Then and there he'll throw a tantrum or two to ward off interested candidates, to which you'd laugh and reprimand him gently
- Although in all honesty, it's difficult to be cross when you're looking at those bulged, flushed cheeks and that absolutely harmless glare
- Most often than not James would settle from his fit after a minute, distracted by the sweets in a shop window or a passing stranger
- Despite the occasional wild ride, taking care of baby James never feels like a hassle nor chore—he's got a way of winning everyone over with that bold charm of his
~ Sirius Black ~
- Against all assumptions, baby Sirius starts out as a fairly reserved and gentle one; in all surroundings he's quick to adjust, rarely fusses, and only likes to draw attention through gentle tugs on your sleeve or hair
- In fact, the sprog seems a little too subdued at times, as though he's terrified of showing too much emotion
- An upset Sirius is difficult to soothe—whereas most babies would wail or throw a punch, it's almost impossible to discern Sirius' sour mood from all the silent brooding that he does
- The only telltale sign would be the delicate furrow between his brows, or the murk hanging over his sterling eyes
- You'd gather him in your arms, rock his tiny frame back and forth, and mumble sweet things to coax the temper out of him
- Underneath that guarded gaze and tightly pressed mouth, you know there's a world bursting with thoughts and feelings, woven together by all the silent mornings when Sirius would sit by the window, staring into the world outside
- Gaining his trust is no easy feat, but with time, as well as some ups and downs that you overcome together, your patience begins to wear down his relunctance to open up
- Turns out, he can be quite affectionate once you worm your way into his heart—his stretched out arms urging for a cuddle, semi-toothless grin, and babbling of mispronounced words are enough to send even the most cold-hearted to tears
- There's no point in denying it—Sirius is, most objectively, the prettiest baby to roam this planet
- And the little moppet is fully aware of this himself, judging from the number of times you've had to lift him up and away from the mirror
- When he knows you're in dire need of some peace or cheering up, he'd let you braid his locks using his star-shaped hair ties, while flipping through The Quibbler's kids section quietly to let you collect your thoughts
- Baby Sirius is a fan of music; he'll listen to you humming tunes and drumming gentle beats onto the countertop, sometimes joining in with a few notes of his own
- Unsurprisingly, shower-time is usually a full-blown concert—Sirius will draw up an award-winning symphony by splashing the water, blowing raspberries, and tapping on shampoo bottles
- Post-shower baby Sirius smells of salty ocean air, along with the barest hint of lavender from his baby oil
- A favorite pastime you two share is listening to muggle programmes on the radio, you with a glass of wine in hand and Sirius with juice in his rainbow sippy cup
- Though he loves spending time indoors, Sirius does carry a rather adventurous side—a temperament most prevelant at the beach
- His inability to swim does not stop him one bit from barrelling head first in the sea, nor does the constant need to shake wet sand out of his ears
- So far he's recruited an army of flying seahorses there, naming each after a constellation like himself
- An independent soul, baby Sirius thrives on an adequate amount of privacy and alone time; as expected, getting a little brother is the least of his desires
- The horror blooming on his face upon seeing Regulus' wrinkled one, so eerily like his own, is comical and just slightly concerning
- He'd spend the first few weeks peering into Regulus' crib, grimacing whenever the newborn reached for him with his pudgy fingers
- But the prideful kid is fooling no one — many nights you've spotted a petite shadow slipping in and out of the nursery, and not once has Regulus thrown a fit in his sleep
- As they both grow older, and Sirius less displeased with someone toddling after him at all times, he starts to appreciate the extra company
- On sunny days, you'll bring them out to the beach, where Sirius will eagerly introduce to his brother the now alarmingly large number of flying seahorses at his service
- He'll point at everything from the sun to the waves to the shells washed ashore, explaning each in careful details
- To witness Sirius blossoming into the bright and inspiring child that he was born to be, as well as being part of his beautiful world, is nothing short of a wonderous journey
~ Remus Lupin ~
- Devilish or heaven-sent—baby Remus is most definitely both
- Having to rotate between the wizarding and muggle world frequently since birth, he's grown a keen eye for observing his surroundings
- There is nothing, absolutely nothing, that the cunning little trickster can't use to his full advantage
- Every knob, handle, straw, and toy becomes a weapon of destruction in his hands; every pout, dimpled smile, and batted eyelash becomes a ticket to more cookies, as if he doesn't already get enough on a daily basis
- Since most around him find themselves too busy being dazzled by his wit, it can be assumed that Remus gets away with a lot
- Turn your gaze away for a second, and the next you can expect some sort of disaster to strike his vicinity
- Catching the tips of his sandy hair on fire, emptying an entire bag of flour into his lap, switching labels on the sugar and salt tins—you name it, he's done it
- And that guilty giggle of his is a downright menace, the endearing sound never failing to distract you from the actual havoc he's wrecked
- Funny enough, however, tears are a rare occasion for Remus; for all the mischief and drama that he strives to create, the kid is also incredibly brave and resilient
- In some ways, he's got the temperament of a lion—usually amiable, but fierce and protective once provoked
- It is moments when his beliefs are compromised, in particular, that make for quite the violent outbursts—rare as they may be
- You've learnt to give him space for calming down alone, which he'd do until he's placated enough to climb into your lap, blotchy face pressed against yours in silent defeat
- On a lighter note, he's a firm believer in head butts as the remedy to sadness; if he so much as catches a sniffle or tear, you'll be sure to hear hurried waddling, followed by a gentle knock on the forehead in seconds
- He'd hold your hand too, pressing his warm palm into yours for reassurance
- Heart full of compassion, Remus takes it upon himself to rid the world of each injustice; be it an abandoned kneazle on the street, or a neglected elf in Diagon Alley, no act of cruelty escapes his eyes and tiny fists
- Such purpose stems from his ability not to see the world as it is, but as it should be—fair, altruistic, and bettering always
- Undeterred from finding the beauty in life, Remus also maintains a fondness for listening to different languages on the telly, and, with half a cookie in his mouth, mickming their sounds in eery semblance
- You love watching him during these hours—his wide amber eyes that remind you of all the hope in the world, of all the great things he will do one day
- And at night, when those eyes become hooded with sleep, you'll read travel book after travel book, the soft sound and vivid imagery of architectural wonders lulling him to sleep
- In addition, bath time is when he displays the greatest sign of magical talent; bubbles will gather into shapes like the crescent moon upon an unsuspecting blink, then disseminating with ease upon another
- Post-bath Remus smells of strawberries and milk powder, a scent which is overlaid with (surprise) cookie dough
- Unfortunately, keeping his feet away from his mouth then becomes somewhat of a Herculean task—the boy will gladly sacrifice a toe or two for his sweet tooth
- Most evenings, the two of you will take a stroll around the neighborhood, with Remus beaming and blushing from all the old-lady-cooing
- Lately, he's made good friends with every dog around the block too, having them follow him around like happy little ducklings
- For all his brilliance and passion, baby Remus is a force to be reckoned with—you know from the full swell of your heart that he's one special kid indeed
Synopsis: After months of skirting around poorly concealed feelings, the mighty force of a black, fluffy feline might just be able to bring you and Remus closer.
A/N: This is just a 5,000 word rant of how beautiful Remus Lupin is in disguise. Also, extra kudos to whoever can spot the Taylor Swift reference I wedged in here.
For you, a perfect afternoon implied three simple things—the pitter patter of rain on the window panes, steaming hot tea, and an undisturbed session of rigorous daydreaming in the common room’s loveseat.
There was a streak of bright light outside, followed by the rumbling of thunder. In your head, it was the roar of a canon, splitting the dry earth with a thud. The crackling of the hearth nearby made up the footsteps of frantic soldiers, scampering and scurrying for safe ground. You emerged amongst them, sword resting snuggly on the bronze belt wrapped around your hips. Another roar of thunder. Another canon fired. Sword unsheathed, you raised it towards the sky, eyes gleaming dangerously with a madman’s thirst for vengeance. With a holler, you charged forward, sword meeting that of your enemies in a precise rhythm. Swerving around, you struck down another unsuspecting soldier. They had their back to you— a mistake naturally—and a moment later found themself swaying backwards to hit the ground.
You gazed down at the fool, only to feel the blood drain from your own face. A familiar pair of amber eyes met your gaze, its owner’s mouth panting and agape with pain. Dropping your sword, you kneeled beside the dying man with a hand pressed against his paling cheeks.
“No, no, no” you cried out. He groaned as he tried to return your touch.
“(y/n),” he croaked. Just as the light began to fade from those wide, beautiful eyes, a screeching noise broke the tragic moment between lovers.
“Pads! She’s just a baby!”
You blinked. What—
“That little devil is hissing at me!”
Jerking awake, you recognized four figures slipping through the common room doorway, though there was an additional small lump resting in the arms of one.
Sighing, you propped yourself upright. Unfortunately, it seemed a perfect afternoon was also impossible when you were friends with the rowdiest bunch at Hogwarts.
“Quite sure you four are the only devils around here,” you greeted dryly.
“(y/n)!” James exclaimed, eyes crinkling into crescents behind those round spectacles. Sirius waved, but the sour frown hanging on his usually pleasant face did not go unnoticed. Peter copied his movements, followed by a sheepish Remus Lupin. You had to blink twice to shake off the image of him dying on a battlefield.
Remus met your stare for a second, shrugging like he always did when there appeared to be no remedy for his best friends’ antics. You smiled and felt somewhat satisified when he returned your gesture with a lopsided grin.
Sauntering over to the sitting area in his usual manner, James tilted his arms forward for you to get a better look at the lump. “We’ve met a new friend.”
“More like new foe, I reckon,” Sirius sniffled indignantly. He then proceeded to earn a hard nudge from James’ elbow.
The lump was bundled up in a white shirt, and upon James slight bouncing of his arms, “it” let out a tiny whimper.
“James,” your head shot up, suddenly very aware of the conversation that had snapped you out of your daydream. “If I see news of a missing infant in The Prophet tomorrow—”
“Infant?” His squawk elicited another whimper from the concealed bundle. Peter moved to peel the shirt back, revealing—a cat? A kitten, you corrected yourself quickly. The animal in James’ arms was far to small to resemble anything close to a cat.
“Merlin’s beard,” you whispered, hands reaching out to stroke the kitten’s black fur. “How?”
“Found her near Madam Puddifoot’s, shivering like it was Christmas day. We waited for some owner to show up, but no one came near the muddy box she was left in for the whole afternoon,” James explained with a grimace then went on to grunt, “Bloody irresponsible, whoever left her there.”
“What about the mum? Did you spot any other cats around the area?”
The group shook their heads in unison. Even Sirius, whose natural puppy-like disposition left him wary of the feline, dropped his head in regret.
“Madam Puddifoot said she hadn’t seen any strays since last spring,” Remus spoke. “Until now, of course.” You noticed the rigid way he was leaning on the bookshelf, as though he was trying to distance himself from the kitten for some reason.
“Couldn’t leave her out there, all alone in the dark, so we opted to bring her back.” Sensing the kitten’s unease, James set her down on the couch, wrapping the shirt around her small frame again. You adjusted some of the pillow to make more room for her, but not before turning to address your friend.
“You did good, James. She won’t last another week with the weather getting so cold out there these days. And who knows how long she’s gone without food.”
“Should we get some milk from the kitchen? Make sure she’s fed for now?” Peter piped up.
“Hmm,” James hummed in agreement, his worried gaze never leaving the orphaned creature. It amazed you, to be honest, seeing the boy who once cared little for anything but tricks and jokes come to love others so deeply. The map, the animagi, and now the kitten—you’d say he was almost trying to rid the world of all its injustices, all the suffering he hadn’t known at birth but came to witness from those around him.
You spotted, from the corner of your eye, a new scar peeking out of Remus’ crumpled collar. It looked alarmingly red, raw almost, and with every small movement Remus was desperately failing to hide his discomfort. You wondered how many more were littered over his body. No one ever spoke openly on how the seemingly proper Gryffindor came to wore them, but every one had their guesses. You knew the blemishes were no aftermath of a silly little brawl, nor were they remnants of a simple cold ready to be chased away by a cup or two of pepperup. These scars and bruises were a part of Remus, lodged deep inside him, regardless of whether they were desired in the first place at all.
“She’ll be alright, she’ll have us,” you declared, though uncertain whether the sentiment merely extended towards the kitten beside you. Remus’ head drooped lower, his nervous demeanor palpable in the fidgeting of his hands.
Sirius sighed, which you highly suspected as a sign of defeat. “And we’ll have each other,” he mustered up a wistful smile. If there was anything you were sure of, it was that every one of the boys standing before you were good, if not extraordinarily kind. Even Peter, who could find himself lost very often, was difficult to be imagined as anyone remotely wicked.
“Damn right we do,” James pumped a dramatic fist in the air. A grin crept across your face, threatening to unravel the serious expression you had managed to conjure up seconds ago.
“There’ll be much to do then. We’ll have to come up with a name that’s half decent, make sure we’re capable of caring for her, and keep ourselves from trouble–or McGonagall, really. We’re lucky she’s not injured or ill either—that'll make it a lot easier to nurse her back to health.”
“Eh, I don’t know. Something tells me Minnie would be alright with this,” James’ tone had sounded lighter for the first time since he spoke about the kitten’s state. “The cat whisperer she is.”
The room broke out in laughter, dissolving all the remaining tension it had housed.
“And maybe,” Sirius teased, “It’ll show Evans what a darling gentleman you are.”
You all watched as James blushed a deep red, no doubt musing on his Hogsmeade date with Lily next weekend. The cycle of relentless failure and misunderstanding between Gryffindor’s most anticipated couple had, thank Merlin, ended this year. It seemed you were not the only one to notice James’ drastic growth in maturity.
“Oh! And she’s got Louis!” His eyes brightened at the thought of Lily’s orange tabby cat. “I bet she’ll help us with, uh, with—”
“Liquorice?” Peter suggested, his proposal met with disdain from more than one Marauder.
Sirius shook his head in distaste. “Wormy, we’re not inflicting your appetite on this poor cat.”
“Fine, fine. That may be a bit too much, I’ll admit. What about Bean?”
“Wormy.” You made no comment towards James’ strange nickname for his friend.
“Pepper?”
“Wormtail.”
“Olive?” A low, quiet voice replaced Peter’s.
“Pete—” James started, then stopped himself in surprise. “Remus?”
A similar blush found its way to the boy in question. Ever jittery in the face of scrutiny, Remus’ shyness had always struck you as something more than a boy’s wariness of attention. At times like these he appeared to seek comfort in hiding himself, melding into corners and shadows to escape the curious looks of others. Granted, you weren’t particularly outgoing yourself, but juxtaposed against Remus’ abnormally reserved nature you might’ve passed off as an extrovert.
“Just thought the name had a nice ring to it,” he explained with another shrug. “Fits rather well with Pete’s theme but not exactly. Holds its own, I guess.” He then risked another look at the kitten, who had miraculously fallen asleep to James and Peter’s loud discussion. Huh. You couldn’t quite tell if he wanted to sprint away or smush his face into her fur.
“Olive,” James muttered, testing the name on his tongue. A small smile found its way to his face a moment later. “I like it. Sirius?”
“Sounds good, Pete?”
Peter bobbed his head. “(y/n)?”
You laughed softly. Though the Marauders had unanimously considered you their very own, as revealed by a relatively drunk James during Halloween fifth-year, the honor was somewhat burdening to carry. By no means did you harbor any ill feelings towards the boys; their company was great to have when spared from the occasional diabolical scheme. Having said that, there was also no denying the prolonged headaches one acquired from dealing with James and Sirius’ spirits at times. And, for all you knew, Remus already had that strenous role covered.
“Congratulations. You are all officially parents to an Olive Potter-Pettigrew-Black-Lupin.”
“Splendid,” James crooned annoyingly. “And you can add (y/l/n) to that exceedingly long name as well.”
“Why, I’m honored,” you placed a humbled hand over your heart. Sirius rolled his eyes at the both of you.
“C’mon, dinner’s in an hour and the others will be coming in and out soon. I’m telling you, they’re going to want to lay their grimy hands on her. Especially Marlene and Dorcas. Those two can’t go three bloody seconds without squealing at a cat.”
“I must say, Sirius, fatherhood is looking suprisingly well on you.”
“Does not!” The grey-eyed Gryffindor stuck his nose in the air, though it was more theatrics than anything. In lieu of jeopardizing his pleasant mood, you swallowed the urge to point out just how much he had looked like a certain Slytherin seeker. Any mention of his estranged little brother would only serve to sour Sirius’ mood, and the rest of you knew better than to thrust yourselves towards some deaths.
Remus and you shared a look over Sirius’ unsuspecting head, no doubt recalling his dramatic fits in your heads. It had come to your realization, some time during fifth year, that it was a lovely thing to be on the same wavelength as Remus Lupin, who was considered a riddle even by his own best friends. It instilled a sense of near satisfaction to know you and Remus bonded over a mutual penchant for sarcasm and affection towards idiots as well.
And what complaint could you possibly warrant about that? If anything, this delicate alliance had also kept your crush on the Gryffindor prefect in pristine shape.
“There there, Pads. Don’t get your insides all twisted,” James slapped his back in good nature. “Shall we retreat to our natural habitat for some research?”
“More like bothering Evans in the library until Pince kicks us out, you mean. Very subtle, lover boy,” Sirius sighed for the umpteenth time today, but said nothing as James moved to put a comforting arm around his shoulder.
“Pot and kettle, kettle and pot—what’s the difference really?”
Remus frowned, “I don’t think that’s how you use—”
“Anyhow,” James cut him off in a sing-song tone. “We’ll be off to the library. Wormtail, see to the warmed milk, won’t you? That’ll leave Moony to keep an eye on Olive for now.”
The four of you watched in fascination at Remus’ rapid change in expression. It morphed from something like horror, then apprehension, and you watched as it finally settled into a odd sort of conviction, as though the boy would sacrifice his own life for her’s in the next moment. You wondered what that spoke about his way of loving, or how it would feel to be on the receiving end of such devotion. With the thought came warmth sweeping over your face, and you hoped the redness would pass before anyone noticed.
“(y/n),” James called softly. You lifted your head to meet his gaze. “Keep an eye on Moony, will you?”
There was none of the usual humour in his . It was soft and firm—the way a father would speak to their child. You nodded, too caught up in the meaning of James’ words to give a proper response.
“Prongs,” Sirius placed a hand on his friend’s shoulder, grey eyes flickering between you and Remus. “C’mon.” The implications of his fleeting gesture were enough to prompt panic, but it was worse to realize that they’d also sparked something akin to hope and worse—expectation. Remus remained in his spot by the wall, characteristically silent. If he had thought anything about James’ strange comment, he certainly made no sign of it.
“Well, off we go then.” James allowed Sirius to steer him towards the door, only stopping once to look back at Olive. In her sleep, she was curled up between two pillows, one tiny paw crossed over the other. “We’ll be back before dinner.” He managed to grab one of Peter’s sleeves and pulled the oblivious boy to his side.
“Catch you later!” Peter shouted over his shoulder, feet clumsily following those of his much taller friends.
With that, the three disappeared under the archway, leaving you, Remus, and the little feline in silence. Outside, the rain continued to pour, casting blurry shadows onto the common room’s stone walls. In the absence of the other Marauders, the gravity of your unspoken feelings for Remus seemed to weigh on you more than ever. Your heart thudded at a quicker pace, your fingers agitated to touch something, anything, to ease your raging nerves. Swallowing hard, you placed a hand on Olive’s back, stroking the slightly damp fur right below her shoulders. All the while, a pair of amber eyes watched you two attentively.
There was a whoosh in the air before a figure loomed over you. Trying to raise your gaze as casually as possible, the sight of an unsure Remus entered your vision slowly. His shoulders were drooped, his head hung so low that you couldn’t tell if he was looking at you, Olive, or the nasty stain James had made on the carpet some hazy nights ago.
“Hello,” Remus whispered, voice hoarse but tender.
“Hi,” you offered him a tentative smile, which went unnoticed with the way his chin was almost touching his chest. Such a waste to hide those beautiful eyes, you told yourself. “Remus?”
“Hmm?”
“Come down a little.” Remus’ expression was still hard to read, but you could practically feel the confusion rolling off him like waves. He answered to your request, however, with no questions asked. He bent down and lowered himself to the floor, avoiding the aforementioned stain and crossing his legs carefully. You could see most of his face better now, including the scar that ran across his right cheek. Not enough, a part of you thought impatiently. Not nearly enough.
Removing your hand from Olive, you touched the bottom of his chin, breath hitching as your fingertips tingled under the warm skin. Remus was no less affected, his mouth slightly slack from surprise. Seizing the opportunity, you lifted his head. A second passed, then a bright amber flooded your eyes.
They were lovely. An invisible fist clenched around your heart, squeezing tightly. He was lovely.
“There,” you blurted out, unable to look away. “Much better.”
Daydreams were great, you realized, but the smile that bloomed on Remus’ face was worth a thousand of them.
“I’m meant to keep an eye on you, you know?” Feigning caution, you withdrew your hand. A dull ache lingered between your fingers, as though your body was seeking Remus out on its own.
“I promise I'll behave?” Something suspiciously like mischief had flickered in those pools of ember, a reminder that as mannerly as Remus liked to conduct himself, he was still a Marauder—brilliant in all their disastrous, chaotic glory. This was the Remus you liked best, the bright boy with his wild edge and big heart.
“I sure hope so,” you glared at him playfully. “For your sake and mine.”
In that moment, Olive stirred in her sleep, pink nose wrinkling in a manner you were sure would leave Marlene and Dorcas devastated for days. Remus’ eyes widened, his legs instinctively tucking themselves in. He was wary of the kitten, you observed, but for what you could not make out.
“Easy Remus, she won’t bite.”
A perplexed expression perched on his face, pulling his brows into a tight frown. Judging by the forming wrinkles on his forehead, it appeared a frequent reaction for the Gryffindor prefect.
Olive began to snore now, the sound comically guttural for a newborn kitten. You were tempted to laugh and coo at the jarring noise, but there were more pressing matters at hand. Namely, the nervous breakdown Remus was about to have if you kept him wallowing in panic.
Stifling the chuckle bubbling up your throat, you took the boy’s hand in yours, glad for another excuse to touch him. For a long minute, Remus had given no reaction but a heavy exhale. Sixty-one, sixty-two, you counted. Perhaps you had misread his friendliness for more. The idea stung but did not seem implausible.
Before you could retract your hand from embarrassment, however, his fingers had curled around yours tightly, holding them in place. A brief wave of relief washed over you, followed by the rapid pitter-patter your heart composed. His effect on you was almost ungodly—if you didn’t enjoy the giddy feeling so much yourself.
“This alright?” You managed to ask through the haze of anticipation. Remus nodded, eyes flitting to the ground then back up in diffidence.
Slowly, so as to not startle him, you guided his hand to the couch, where it hovered over Olive’s sleeping form. He had a slight tremble in his palm, which you steadied by brushing your thumb over his wrist. Inch by inch, you lowered your hands until you could feel the kitten’s half-dried fur.
A soft gasp escaped Remus, one you couldn’t help but smile at. It was filled with all the eagerness of an awe-struck child, someone who could find pleasure in life’s smallest occurrences. Such was Remus’ nature–sincere, thoughtful, and grateful even if the world had nothing more to give him.
“They’re soothing her, your pets.” You paused to let Olive’s purrs fill the room. “Can’t imagine the frenzy she must’ve been in before you lot found her, being away from her mum for so long and everything.”
“She was shivering mad in the rain,” Remus murmured at last. “We weren’t even sure if she’d make it back to the castle grounds.”
“She’s a strong one, I reckon. After all, she's a Marauder.”
Remus chuckled, still careful around the kitten but no longer as blatantly wary. Then and there, you were tempted to pause the moment, frame it up, and lose yourself endlessly in the picture. Just you, Remus, and Olive—void of the world’s nonchalant cruelty.
“I’ve never held a kitten before,” Remus confessed. Your eyebrows raised in surprise.
“Never?”
“No,” he shrugged weakly. “Didn’t want to…” His next words were so quiet you had missed them.
“Didn’t want to…?”
A pained look flickered across his face, as if someone had clawed him in the gut. Recognition struck. Those scars–
“Hurt her.” Remus brushed his fingers over Olive one last time, before tilting his head back to stare at the ceiling in silent defeat. “Didn’t want to hurt her, like I always do.”
“Remus, what—”you started, but his statement had left you scrambling for words.
“No,” he rubbed a hand over his face, sighing in frustration. “You don’t– you won’t understand, (y/n).”
Irritation surged through you without warning. Maybe it was anger, or the disappointment that after all this time—all the hopeful side glances and expectant greetings—you were no more than a casual connection to him. He owed you nothing, none of his smiles, laughter, ideas, or dreams. But he had shared them with you anyway, the easy trust and lack of pretence worming its way into your affections. And in the end, how much of Remus Lupin did you truly understand? You couldn’t bring yourself to find out.
“Of course I don’t, Remus, when you won’t help me to!” The words spilled from your lips like water bursting from a dam, frenzied and irreversible. And from the way Remus grimaced, he had felt their force as well. “I would wait for you, you know? However long it takes. But unless you plan on letting me in—I’d be waiting in vain.”
Knowing that you had ruined the occasion for good, and wanting to brace yourself against the impending ripple of embarrassment, you heaved yourself from the couch in haste. One leg touched the ground, then the other—
You felt a firm tug on your wrist.
“Wait!”
It would’ve been so easy to turn away, give up on this ridiculous game of push and pull. You could do it, you could—if only it wasn’t Remus Lupin on the other end of the string. Each tug was a constant threat to your footing and against all your better judgement, you’d let yourself fall without doubt. The only lingering question was the landing—would you meet his arms or the thin, cold air?
“Did you mean it? That you would want to wait? For me?” He frowned, disbelief etched into his pressed lips.
“Yes,” you breathed. “You, Remus. For you.”
It was hard to keep a clear head in front of Remus under any circumstance, really, but when he looked like that, like he could melt in elation just from the sight of you—those seeds of hope you’d gathered from every shared look and word felt as though they would bloom any second and, in the most poetic fashion, burst from your chest in a flurry of petals.
In spite of his own tendency for self-deprecation, there was nothing ugly about Remus Lupin. From his clever tongue, warm hands, to the very core of his kind being—Remus was overwhelmingly good. And how he had developed such a loathing deposition towards himself was beyond your understanding.
Why are you hiding? You wanted to ask. What are you hiding?
The image of him in corridors, crouching behind James and Sirius as if he wanted nothing but to disappear from the world, was a constant reminder of the worth Remus did not believe he possessed. You wanted, needed to show him otherwise.
Lowering yourself next to him, you reached to tuck an unruly curl behind his ear. It was endearing, so different from the rest of his kempt appearance. He was used to this—repressing feelings, stifling outbursts, reducing himself to a bare shadow. But certain things belonged in the light, were meant to shine until and even after everything else had ran its course. Remus was one of them not only in his uncanny ability to find good in others, but his tendency to draw the very best out of them.
And if the world had to burn to realise this simple truth, you decided, then so be it.
“I think you’re wonderful, Remus John Lupin. I just wish you could see it too.”
You’d felt like a true Gryffindor then, with your declaration bleeding with the courage and candour of one. But there was fondness too—lots and lots of it—that you hoped would somehow weave itself into a hymn, memorable and durable enough for Remus to recall when he deemed his cords too broken to play. Each note would sing of the different things that you adored about him, the parts of him that could convince gods to move mountains and churn seas.
Merlin, a thought occurred. You were so far gone for him.
“Wonderful?” He repeated, tone yet to show any agreement.
“Very. And quite handsome too.” You watched with fierce pride as a flush rose to his cheeks, spreading down to the hollow of his throat. There was nothing to stop you from leaning forward and touching the tender skin there—so you did.
Remus’ eyes darkened, and then he tipped his head downwards. If he were to move simply an inch closer, you feared you would find yourself drowning in him.
“And those eyes—”
“What about them?” He murmured, gaze trained on you. With every praise, he had grown bolder, more sure of himself. The air between you two reeked with anticipation, the tension crackling like lighting before thunder.
“They can drive a poor soul wild.”
“Oh?” The tips of your noses were touching now. “And how are you feeling today?”
“Absolutely unhinged,” you sighed, heart thumping as you felt the lightest pressure on your lips. Remus’ mouth was warm, slightly chapped, and entirely too compelling. The tip of his tongue prodded once, twice at your lower lip, causing the delirious flame in your chest to spread everywhere in its vicinity. You shuddered and placed a hand on the back of his neck, ready to draw him in and deepen the kiss—
Meow.
You both started, foreheads bumping into each other’s with alarming force. Ah, you grunted, looking down to see a small, black ball of fluff nestled in Remus’ lap. Olive pawed at his calf, calling out in her high-pitched voice until Remus rubbed her chin indulgently.
Snorting in amusement, you tapped the spot on his throat again, half wishing he’d kiss you again and half wanting to savour the precious scene in front of you. “My, young Romeo, seems I’m not the only one vying for your attention.”
“(y/n),” Remus groaning softly into his free hand, no doubt red in the face again. “Please.”
Completely oblivious to the mental combustion her owner was about to experience, or the kiss she had interrupted so casually, Olive proceeded to nuzzle against Remus’ palm with the happiest little mewl.
“It’s alright, I know when to back down when there’s tough competition.” You leaned sideways into the couch, resting your chin against your hand. It gave you quite a view of Remus’ side profile, everything from the slope of his nose to the curve of his full lips, which, upon retrospection, had been a delight to be acquainted with. The pleasure of kissing him had nearly wiped out all memory of the frustration that preceded it. Nearly, being the key.
“So,” you began, blinking up to see Remus’ shoulders tense in recognition at your new tone. “Was that part of helping me understand?”
Being so close to him, it took incredible strength not to cave into temptation and seek another kiss, where you could give yourself up to all the stunning things that comprised Remus. Yet that would leave the both of you in no better condition than before—always guessing and stumbling around each other, with your footsteps out of sync in an endless tango. If there was anywhere you and Remus needed to be together, it was forward. No more lying in bed wide awake at night, mind wandering with thoughts of whether this would ever be but a silly crush. No more whispering feelings into the empty darkness, no more backing down in front of guarded walls—if Remus handed you the chisel, you’d die trying to dig and pound and scrape at them until the walls were no use for the boy you loved anymore.
Love, the realization struck you immediately. All at once, the world seemed to shift into place alongside it.
“Yes,” Remus answered in a fervent whisper, as though he was a mad man praying for divine intervention. But mad men did not show resolution that you were offered now—no, they did not look at others with such burning clarity in their eyes, such faith and trust.
Come what may, you wanted to shout into the air, you'll stand by him always.
“Good.” Contrary to the firmness you had spoken with, every nerve in your body was willing you to collapse into a boneless heap, buzzing with the sheer relief of having your affections finally and fully returned. “Good.” The word rolled off your tongue again, and you knew Remus had heard the trembling sound.
His face crumbled in a way you had imagined your bones would, in utter surrender and bliss. To think the two of you had been dancing in a circle around each other for so long, terrified of the monsters that were no more than mere shadows of trees. But now, with the light streaming through, it was clear that you simply had to meet him halfway and hold on, as tight as you could so when dark fell there was no getting lost anymore.
“I have too much to tell you,” Remus declared with his bottom lip gnawed hard. “But I will. Even if you hate me for it afterwards, I will.”
Shuffling forward so that your knees were touching one another’s, you traced the frown between his eyebrows down to the tip of his nose. “Who’s to say I won’t find you more delightful than you already are?” You gave him a gentle tap on the nose.
Remus shook his head and laughed. “Not very likely, but thank you. And I should warn you that this here,” he gestured to himself, “comes with a side of self-deprecating humour, no reimbursement included.”
“Didn’t plan on getting one anyway.”
“Wasteful spender you are.”
“I’ve been told that I have my eyes set on exquisite things.”
“Ha,” Remus threw his head back in a snigger. “What an interesting statement.” When your gazes met again, the crooked smile on his face was worth it all.
“Are you saying I’m a liar?” You pressed closer, careful not to crush the calm kitten in his lap.
“No,” he met you midway, brushing his mouth against the corner of yours. “Only persuasive.”
This time, the kiss felt just right.
Later, or a half hour in reality, James and Sirius returned to find a riveting scene: Remus sprawled across the floor in a position highly resembling of a starfish, one arm wrapped around you with your head nuzzled sideways into his neck. Defying all expectations, Olive was the sole one awake, standing on Remus’ stomach like a warrior queen looking down from some jagged cliff. James held out his hand to find Sirius doing the same.
“Well done, Padfoot.” He left a generous slap on his friend’s palm.
“Likewise, Prongs.” Sirius’ cheshire cat smile was unsettling, to say the least.
“All hail the whiskered wingman.” James nodded approvingly at the black kitten, who was watching him with a glint in her own oxford blue eyes. "Or Winggirl."
“She’ll fit right in with our plans to rule the world, don’t you think?”
“Most certainly. And so will (y/n), don’t you think?”
Sirius glanced at you and Remus again, noticing the small, satisfied quirk of your lips.
“I don’t think, Prongs, I know.”
Sirius Black might not be the wisest person around, but he knew love when he saw it.
And this here—his brilliant, stubborn werewolf friend and the one person who could out-do his dogged determination?
So. Just finished The Song of Achilles. I know I know I'm late, but wow do I have a thousand thoughts running across my mind like a stampede. Although I should warn you—these afterthoughts are scattered and chaotic, pretty much like the Trojans fleeing from my boy Achilles. Still, this was one of the first books (along with Six of Crows + Crooked Kingdom) that I picked up after quite a few years of solitary fanfic reading. And boy am I glad for shoving myself out of my AO3 cave (though I suspect I will crawl back into it fairly frequently), as this story was worth every tear and gasp I produced while reading it in the hair salon (my hairstylist is probably used to me by now, and if not, my apologies to him). But yes, to the praises I would like to sing about this book but doubt anyone would actually read.
1. The foreshadowing in this is just beautiful, and hauntingly so too.
"Come back," I said. Then louder: "Come back. Are you afraid?"
That strange half-smile again, his back still turned. "No, I am not afraid." (p. 44)
- The first time Patroclus asks Achilles to fight him, to place Patroclus' life in the direct vicinity of his path to heroism, it is a request borne from frustration, envy; the desire to prove himself worthy of divinity, even if just a little
- Achilles refuses—is it pride? Is it vanity, amusement, surprise? Is it fear for Patroclus, or all of these sentiments?
- Through Patroclus' perspective, however, it is almost impossible to place where Achilles and his ambigious half-smile stand; despite their close companionship, Achilles is an entity Patroclus believes he can never fathom wholly—until the moment he becomes Achilles himself
I will make him look at me, I thought. My legs swallowed up the five steps between us, and I crashed into his back. (p. 44)
- Achilles turns him down, but it is Patroclus who refuses to settle, barrelling into a tussle with Achilles instead
- Achilles may be the fated champion, but it is Patroclus who will unravel the cord of fate that grants him victory—tragic as his triumph may be
- Years later, Patroclus asks for the same again, to confront Achilles' ordained eminence, but now it is a greater request borne from unconditional love and fear—the desire to rid Achilles and his people of their suffering
I had found a way through the endless corridor of his pride and fury. I would save the men; I would save him from himself. (p. 309)
- And different from his younger self, Achilles relents, fueled by ambition and the glimmer of hope that his vow with Patroclus had bred
"I know. They never let you be famous and happy." He lifted an eyebrow. "I'll tell you a secret."
"I'm going to be the first." He took my palm and held it to his. "Swear it."
"Why me?"
"Because you're the reason. Swear it." (p. 98)
- As a reader, we may know with dread the fruitlessness, naivety even, of such a promise, but like Patroclus, we cling to the hope that it will come through, however dismal it may seem
- But as always, the higher we hope, the further we plummet; and if you knew what you would have to lose, would you still dare to hope?
"No one has ever tried to take something from me." (p. 48)
"What has Hector ever done to me?" (p. 230)
"I have always said that Hector has done nothing to offend me. But he cannot say the same now." (p. 241)
- In a world void of greed, perhaps Achilles would be right—do unto others as you would have them do unto you (look at me quoting the Bible)
- But here it is the world of gods and mortals, heroes and monsters—there is no fairness in karma, we are all someone's villain in the end
My eyes close. I am remembering Phoinix's story, the image of the Calydonians kneeling before Cleopatra, covering her hands and feet with their tears. (p. 302)
- I love how the story of Meleager is presented thrice in the novel, each time with an increase in details and semblance to our protagonists
- The first time we hear it is through the ears of a distracted and young Patroclus, too preoccupied with his newfound desires that the story seems like a mere bedtime tale from Peleus' mouth
- The second time we recognize the story through its enactment by Patroclus and Achilles, though they themselves are unaware
- The final time it is mentioned, the story serves as a warning and plea from Phoinix, with Patroclus finally realizing its eery likeness to his relationship with Achilles
- Meleager as a foil for Achilles, and Cleopatra for Patroclus, their stories bound by the same delicate web of glory and love, only Patroclus does not simply ask Achilles to fight—he asks to fight for Achilles
- Still, in the end, both pairs of lovers perish—one dies and the other follows in grief, and so continues this endless cycle of loss and tragedy, no matter how many times the cautionary tale is told
"Here is Phoinix's craft: Cleopatra, Patroclus. Her name built from the same pieces of mine, only reversed" (p. 294)
- I LOVED this, just the beautiful way the words came together
- The use of philology here also reminds me of CMBYN (O-L-I-V-E-R, E-L-I-O); how the intertwined, embedded nature of names, something present since birth and believed to determine one's character, is used to signify the inseparable bond between two people
Later, Achilles pressed close for a final, drowsy whisper. "If you have to go, you know I will go with you." (p.111)
As for the goddess' answer, I did not care. I would have no need of her. I did not plan to live after he was gone. (p. 177)
- Achilles and Patroclus' willingness to follow each other to the ends of the earth and possibly further, their refusal to live without the other, their easy acceptance of dying alongside each other—it all weaves into a wistful and poignant picture that you can't look away from
2. My boy Patroclus is really dropping angst bombs everywhere
I had embraced him [Pelelus] too, those thin, wiry limbs. I thought, this is what Achilles will feel like when he is old. And then I remembered: he will never be old. (p. 178)
- NO. I was not ready. For that. At all.
- Even something that feels as natural and given as aging—making peace with time— is a foreign concept to Patroclus; for him, the future is a luxury neither he nor Achilles can afford
Almost, I can imagine that this is my life, held in the sweet circle of her arms. i would marry her, and we would have a child.
Perhaps if I had never known Achilles. (p.298)
- It is rare to have what Briseis and Patroclus share—not quite philia, not quite storge nor agape, but something in between, with its own class of tenderness and understanding
- We are incapable of choosing who we love, who we bare our souls to completely; sometimes we forget that there is pain, helplessness too, in loving and being loved
3. Patroclus. Just Patroclus in all his mortality and tragic brilliance
- From the beginning we understand that Patroclus, intelligent and observant as he may be, has very little to do with the fame or glory that others seek and hold onto so desperately; his fate, so distant from so-called greatness, echoes relentlessly in the actions committed by him and upon him—Helen's choice of Menelaus, his exile, Thetis' contempt for him, etc.
- But as Patroclus grows and witnesses all the horrors and wonders of his world, it is his mundanity that grants him the remarkable capacity for compassion
- His moments in the physician's tent and with Briseis are some of my favorite in the book, just because they are so illustrative of the humanity he possessed
- It didn't take long for his character to grow on me at all, and his years in Troy—the bonds he forged at the camp, in particular—made me feel so. many. things (coming from someone who rarely names the narrator her favorite character)
- When I got to his death, I had to physically put down the book and take a break, because I knew I was going to burst out in tears if I didn't (still ended up crying in public so never listen to any of my advice)
- But yes, I will die for Patroclus, if he hasn't already—ok, too soon
4. If fate does exist, it's a raging bitch
- Stories based on mythology and religion always fascinate me—perhaps the idea of fate as things that can tear down kingdoms, topple kings, and create gods sounds silly, but it's worked for centuries and still does today, be it in less discernable ways
- I wonder how many of the things we experience in life is truly fortune, and how many of it is karma, the seeds we've sown knowingly
- Are certain losses inevitable—some victories and their accompanying sacrifices more justified than others—or do we tell ourselves so to pardon our own wrongdoings?
This was the cruelty of adults. Do you understand? (p. 28)
"He will be a god," she said. [...] "Do you understand?" (p. 50)
"You will not disgrace him, do you understand?" (p. 161)
- Patroclus is constantly asked, demanded to understand his place, his life, his significance against Achilles'
- He isn't expected to consider or agree with what he is told, but to understand—as though there is only one universal, unchanging truth to be taken in and accepted passively
- Is it the will of gods? Or greedy men?
5. The way matured Patroclus and Achilles mirror each other's younger selves
- Young Achilles is naive, trusting to a fault and unaware of his world's cruelty—yet he is also generous, lively, full of the warmth and optimism carried by a child who knows they are destined for greatness
- Young Patroclus is clever, mature, vigilant to see his surroundings for what they are—yet he is also hurt, angry, reserved, and uncertain of the life he is to lead
- Like the early rays of light at dawn, tender but firm, Achilles guides him out of the shadows, saves Patroclus from destroying himself
He is lost in Agamemnon and Odysseus' wily double meanings, their lies and games of power. They have confounded him, tied him to a stake and baited him. (p. 299)
- As a man, pride becomes Achilles' fatal flaw, and the hatred it breeds thrusts him into a world of cruelty, stubborness, and indifference to the suffering of people
- As a man, empathy becomes Patroclus' greatest gift, his talents lie in his granting of comfort to others, his healing of wounds both of the flesh and heart
"Kill me. It will not bring him back. He was worth ten of you. Ten! And you sent him to his death!" (p. 323)
- Patroclus' sacrifice is what redeems Achilles in the end; it is the magnitude of his love and kindness that wakes Achilles from his vengeful haze
6. EVERY woman in this story is a forced to be reckoned with
- Thetis, cold and terrifying goddes, yet still a victim caught in a man's world, assaulted and left to bear a child she did not want
- Deidameia, arrogantly intelligent, ruler of a kingdom, who in the end is reduced to nothing but a pawn in a larger game
- Briseis, who is robbed of her family and freedom, subjected to the cruel power play between Achilles and Agamemnon
- Princess Polyxena, a brief face in the mast sea of displaced Trojan women, bloodily sacrificed to appease a man's pride
- The constant stripping of women from their posessions and homes are meant to make them smaller, weaker, yet with each instance of oppression their presence only strengthens, as if daring you to turn a blind eye towards their injustices
- I loved the way Miller manages to give these women, who are supposedly side characters in a story about men, importance by highlighting their silence and lack of power, so that when you close the book, you know they are there, in and between every line of the Iliad, the Aeneid, and all the epic stories singing of great men
7. I would give my soul just to experience a fraction of the way Patroclus and Achilles loved each other
I had minded, once. But who was I now, to begrudge such a thing? (p.45)
- Patroclus' constant comparison of Achilles to the sun—warm, bright, good (with a slight edge to burn and destroy)
I had seen the way he looked at Deidameia; or rather the way he did not. It was the same way he had looked at the boys in Phthia, blank and unseeing. He had never, not once, looked at me that way. (p. 127)
"Philtatos," Achilles says, sharply. Most beloved. "Best of men, and slaughtered by your son." (p. 333)
- Even when surrounded by kings and goddesses, warriors and princesses, Patroclus is the one person Achilles never loses sight of, the dearest, greatest of all
8. THE. FINAL. CHAPTERS
The last thing I think is: Achilles. (p. 319)
- The fact that Patroclus' last thought before death is Achilles' name, and his name only, will haunt me to my grave
- Pyrrhus is a little shit, but also a disturbing reflection of how Achilles would be, if he did not have Patroclus
- Patroclus reliving all his memories with Achilles, all the moments that they and they alone had shared (at this point I confess the waterworks were all out; it was full on sobbing as the hairdresser straightened my hair)
"I could not make him a god," she says. Her jagged voice, rich with grief.
But you made him. (p.351)
- This may very well be my favorite line of the book, judging from the times I re-read it aloud and in my head
- Thetis and Patroclus grieving together is a scene that feels so strange yet natural and necessary at the same time—two people who loved Achilles most, albeit very differently in their own ways, mourning the loss of a version of him they each knew respectively
- For Thetis, it was Aristos Achaion in her womb, half-mortal Achilles wailing in her arms, in her short-lived meetings with him by the sea, in the flicker of purpose in his eyes that he sometimes shared with her
- For Patroclus, it was simply Achilles, warm and sweet in his sleep, golden-haired in the rivers of Mount Pelion, playful in every sweet touch and word he offers to Patroclus
- I still believe she does not and would never understand Patroclus, but we know from her final words to him that she does understand his love, and that alone is enough
In the darkness, two shadows, reaching through the hopeless, heavy dusk. Their hands meet, and light spills in a flood, like a hundred golden urns pouring out the sun. (p.352)
- Beautiful, beautiful conclusion—a standing ovation for Miller
- Usually I finish books with a sense of fulfilment, then a pang of sadness, but this was a reverse uno card (was smiling through the snot and tears)
- This has officially restored my faith in humanity, and I am inclined to keep this hope until the world and I disappoint each other yet again
Being Hermione’s twin sister would include playing dentist with Hermione is such a wholesome and adorable idea, that I didn't know I needed to read, but now lives rent free in my mind. Honestly, I feel like such a fool for not thinking of this, but now it seems so obvious. Thank you for this awakening! 💛
thank youuu😭and yesss just imagine play pretend dentist tools scattered around the floor, cat plushies lined up in the doorway like patients, and giggling at the gargling noises you both make😭
* Despite the mountain of duties and agendas that befall Aleksander’s shoulders, you know a part of him craves the relief only adventure can provide
* He insists, with Ravka’s delicate politics and a brewing war on the verge of outbreak, that “fooling around” simply isn’t an affordable option
* With some help from Fedyor and Genya, however, who know just as well that a wound up general is no good news, you manage to secure a few unchaperoned horse rides into the outskirts of Os Alta
* Though initially reluctant, he soon warms up to the idea of quiet, uninterrupted afternoons with his favorite Grisha
* It’ll be the two of you in meadows of budding bellflowers and daisies, strolling at a leisurely pace with your shoulders brushing against each other, and wearing poorly concealed smiles that threaten to break the coy atmosphere
B-est friend
* Friendship is a foreign concept to Aleksander—he’s lost so many soldiers and allies along the way that companionship comes across as a costly luxury
* He never denies a want for connection, but years of loneliness have made him wary of affection, or the possible ways it could be exploited as a weakness
* His displays of attachment take on more materialistic, subtle forms: beautifully embroided keftas, saddles made of the highest quality leather, soothing bath oils, and other gifts designed for self-care
* To others, such behavior may look superficial, but you’ve known him long enough to recognize it carries all his efforts to become a better friend and confidante
C-ommitment
* Aleksander understands all about the importance of committing to a plan, or a deal, or a treaty that is void of any emotional prerequisites; committing to a person, however, that he has nearly no clue of
* To him, pledging devotion to a living being, breathing and capable of breaking him and everything he’s endured to build, frightens him to the core
* In fact, you frighten him to the core sometimes, with the way he so willingly allows you glimpses into what’s beneath his carefully curated mask
* It’s a long journey to have Aleksander open up, and it can be a constant struggle to remember that for every one step forward, it holds the risk of pushing him three steps back
D-ynamics
* You’re dealing with possibly the most complicated man to exist of all time, and that alone signals quite an interesting relationship
* Often it’s a blend of push and pull, testing the waters, unnecessary pining, witty banter, and moments of intimate bonding over grief and hope
* You and Aleksander surprise each other more than you realize; there’s sides to yourselves that only become pronounced in one another’s presence
E-ntertainment
* No one’s immune to the pleasures of gossiping—the big, bad, brooding Darkling included
* He tries to keep a straight face, but the sight of you leaning against his desk, half-heartedly whispering about the Little Palace’s most scandelous affairs, makes his hectic day much more bearable
* When he does have a less strenuous schedule, however, he’d visit you at the training grounds and watch you mentor the younger Grishas with a twinkle in his eyes
F-ight
* Though bearing a fair share of impressive qualities, Aleksander is, at the very least, also dramatic and short-tempered; there’s really no telling how he’ll react to the smallest of things
* Most of your fights are no product of small nuisances; they’re accumulations of pent-up frustrations and worries, a mutual shortcoming that you both know requires dire improvement
* When angered and threatened, it takes every fibre of his being not to revert to his usual guarded self—the ruthless, cold, and exhausted shell he donned before meeting you
* The entire palace has learnt to recognize when you and Aleksander are in conflict—your willingness to throw icy looks at one another anytime and anywhere speaks volumes
G-rowth
* Loving Aleksander is no easy feat, and learning to understand his insecurities has given you a greater capacity for empathy, tolerance, and, above all, forgiveness
* Grishas who grow up in the Little Palace tend to be sheltered, disconnected even, from the outer world, but being with him has made you tougher and more prepared for the horrors that await you in reality
* Aleksander’s wounds run deep, sometimes scarring into vengeance that renders him a creature of immense greed; but loving you has taught him the value of vulnerability, that it need not always be a sign of undoing
* There’s strength in weakness too, he realizes, when weakness breeds hope to carry on regardless of the road ahead
H-abit
* Aleksander denies the act, but whenever he manages to outdo a formidable opponent, tackle a tricky dispute, or draw a smile onto your face, the general squints his eyes in ill-contained glee
* There’s also the barely visible furrow between his brows, reserved for his darling Tsar and Tsaritsa, which you always remember to kiss away in private settings
* In the mornings, he’ll attempt to stay in bed with you as long as possible; nonetheless, when duty calls, he never forgets to give you a small peck on the head
I-ntimacy
* True to his mysterious persona, Aleksander treasures privacy greatly, preferring to share intimacy behind close doors and the familiarity of your chambers
* He revels in the feeling of you in his arms, your fingers threading through his hair, or the pulsing beneath his lips when they’re pressed against your neck
* Being close to you physically gives him a sense of security, but even so, it’s nowhere near the satisfaction that comes with the bonding you do emotionally
J-ealousy
* Surprise surprise, he is quite familiar with an old friend named envy; after all, Aleksander’s possessiveness constitutes half, if not most, of your headaches
* Your role as assistant trainer garners you a fair amount of popularity and attention from Grishas, both children and adult—the latter of which triggers every single overprotective gene he holds
* In all honesty, you find his reactions nothing short of childish or irritating, but it’s also heartbreaking to realize why they exist in the first place
* Nevertheless, you approach this flaw of his with a good balance of gentle reassurance and firm chiding, confident in his ability to best it with time
K-isses
* Contrary to expectations, Aleksander is a gentle lover—his kisses are firm but never forceful, tender and soothing and always redolent of home
* When your lips touch and you feel the slight scratch of his stubble on your skin, a soft heat spreads from your chest, arms, to every part that you share with him wholeheartedly
L-uxury
* Neither of you are particularly frugal individuals—for Aleksander, luxury is a token of success and his ability to care for his kind; for you, it’s a pleasure appropriate in small doses
* Besides, any small opportunity to milk the Tsar of his money is a victory in itself, and the two of you bear no hesitance in using it to pamper other Grishas
M-emory
* Aleksander’s favorite memory is the first time you launched yourself into his arms, elated at his return from a risky trip to negotiate with Zlatan; the warmth of your body pressed into his and the puffs of laughter you’d released continues to ground him in moments of turmoil
* Yours would be the night when he’d gazed into your eyes and whispered his true name, with no one but the stars witnessing your intimate exchange; he was no longer General Kirigan but the Aleksander you had come to love so fiercely
N-icknames
* You rarely address him as moi soverennyi or Darkling, but when you do it steals his breath away without fail
* He calls you solnyshkoh (little sun), oomnitsa (clever one), or the occasional sweetling as a cheeky homage to his other title
O-ccupation
* You understand Aleksander’s ambition will one day outgrow his position as general of the Second Army, and that his plans to reunite Ravka will be impressive and dangerous in every fathomable way
* But for now, until the time is right, he will continue to serve the foolish Tsar
* You, on the other hand, will take over and lead the general learning curriculum, ridding any dated teaching methods and guiding your Grishas to the best of their potential
P-arenthood
* Parenthood hasn’t been a priority for you and Aleksander—his responsibilities keep him from considering it seriously, and you care for the palace’s young Grishas as if they were your own
* Like any pleasant surprise in life, however, it comes to you as an uncalled but precious gift
* Reminded of his own unhappy childhood, Aleksander strives to give your daughter the support and space she requires to flourish, be it as a Grisha or just a person of goodwill and strength
Q-uirks
* The annoyingly picky eater he is, Aleksander has a major contempt against condiments in his beverages—he won’t take his tea and coffee if it’s not black
* Conversely, as an endearing trait, he’ll scrunch his nose every time he’s about to sneeze, laugh, or moan
R-econcile
* You two aren’t very wordy when it comes to the first steps of reconciling, too much time spent apart from each other renders you touch-deprived
* That being said, knowing communication to be the greatest obstacle in your relationship, you always make sure to secure a serious conversation later on
S-ecrets
* Though he’d placed his life in your hands without a second thought, the lingering fear of driving you away with his ambition makes some of his ideals extremely difficult to share
* Because of your impending mortality and the limitations to your power, loving him brings about waves of dread and self-doubt that come and go
T-rust
* Aleksander struggles with depending on others, and would much prefer operating on his own, but there’s no doubt to the amount of trust he places in your character and abilities
* In return, you honor his trust by instilling faith in his disposition, or giving him the benefit of the doubt and room to revise his decisions
U-nderstanding
* Aleksander’s led a long life of trial and conflict, and while others would shy away from his stoic and indifferent demeanor, you understand it as a protective mechanism that’d become disposable with support and patience
* At the same time, he understands that he’s a broken and bad man in many ways, one undeserving of your affection without redemption and acknowledgement of all his demons
V-ows
* After realizing the pain his creation has brought to all sides, including his people, Aleksander promises to seek the fold’s destruction and generate other means to strengthen the country
* You promise to take good care of yourself and stay healthy, so that Ravka may still be led to a better future should anything happen to him
W-ar
* You two have fought side by side in countless wars—some against foes like Zlatan and the Fjerdans, others with people you’ve once called friend
* But amid the chaos and cruelty of it all, you endured for each other, yourselves, and the family you’ve built
* There exists a mutual acknowledgement between you and Aleksander that nothing is more important than the well-being of your kind
X-tra
* To Aleksander’s chagrin, you’ve dubbed yourself the unofficial matchmaker of the Little Palace, bringing together couples like Genya and David with unrivalled enthusiasm
* He’s had to aid your schemes here and there with feined reluctance, though everyone knows it doesn’t take more than a pout for their general to comply
* You’ve also heard the young Grisha you teach address him as Mister (y/l/n), a revelation that you remind him of constantly with the smuggest expression
Y-outh
* His youth is a dark place he never wishes to visit again, but Aleksander finds comfort knowing that yours was filled with happiness
* And the more he opens up to you about his past, the more determined you are to build a brighter future with and for him
Z-zz
* If there’s one thing that will cause an upheveal in Os Alta, it’s the sight of Aleksander Morozova fast asleep
* In fact, you like to tease him about how tame and relaxed he looks, with his normally impeccable hair and clothes dishevelled
* Of course, that just prompts him to disagree with you in relatively pleasurable manners, but won’t that be the goal in the first place anyway?
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