34 yr old/Bi/she/her Atiny Carat LyOn Moa Army Stay + I have depression & anxiety I may not interact much but, I'm friendly & just a little awkward lol 💙💜💎🧷🏳️🌈🏴
Don't get him wrong, Eddie's very impressed by his ultimate badass boyfriend, he just wishes sometimes Steve were... a little less brave. Eddie's starting to get gray hairs from it all.
"You love him don't you?" Wayne whispers, breathy, quiet, his voice cracking around the edges of something that feels like raw emotion.
It's then that Eddie turns his gaze away from Steve to look at him, the light never fading from his eyes and the smile never wiping from his face.
Steve's sitting on the trailer floor, in the middle of the living room, Eddie's clothes hanging from his body as he flips through one of Eddie's many monster manuals. Wayne knows the boy would never admit it, but he's just as interested in D&D as the other kids. He's helping Eddie plan his next campaign for christ sake.
Next to Wayne, two cans of coke in hand and a love struck smile on his face, Eddie nods, his cheeks darkening as his smile ever so slightly fades. "Is that okay?" He asks, looking all the bit nervous as his eyes roam Wayne's face.
"More than okay Son."
Eddie's smile brightens once again and if Wayne notices the small amount of tears welling in his eyes, he says nothing about.
"You ever going to tell him?" Wayne continues, nodding in Steve's direction, the boy still oblivious to the conversation being whispered behind his back.
"I don't know if I can."
Wayne says nothing to Eddie's reply as he watches the boy return to the living room where he sits down next to his best friend. Steve smiling bright as the sun upon Eddie's return.
Months go by and Wayne gets to watch as Steve falls too. It's there and so obvious to anyone but Eddie.
His eyes linger and his smile never fades. Soon Wayne sees as he sits a little closer and his cheeks grow a little darker.
There's moments when Wayne catches what he can only describe as a love struck expression across Steve's face. Eddie's talking, because when is he not, and Steve's there, eyes wide and locked onto Eddie's ever changing expression.
He looks fond. Fond in a way Wayne's never seen anyone look at his nephew.
There's moments when he sees Steve hesitant. Moments when he and Eddie are so close and Steve's hand twitches like it wants to reach out. Moments when Steve looks like he wants to lean in but bites his lip and turns away with rosy cheeks.
It's nearly a year into their friendship when Steve's standing at Wayne's side and whispers, "I think I love him."
"Tell him," Wayne answers easily, leaving out the 'please' he so desperately wants to tack onto the end of that sentence.
Please, he thinks again as he watches Eddie turn to face them from across the yard, a smile so beautiful Wayne thinks it's the first time he's seen it on Eddie's face. The boy's elbow deep in his van as his cheeks grow a little pinker as he says with a smile, "Stevie come here for a sec."
Steve leaves, but not before whispering back to Wayne, "I think I will."
No more than a week later Wayne comes home to find the boys on the couch, Steve sleeping and curled into Eddie's side, snoring with his nose pressed to Eddie's neck.
Wayne offers his boy a smile as he stirs from the sound of the door closing. He looks tired, arms tightening around Steve's waist as he smiles back and burrows closer, kissing the top of Steve's head before drifting back off.
"He loves me," Eddie says one evening, weeks down the road, a rare occasion when Steve isn't over and Eddie's actually home.
Wayne smiles, his heart so warm and full as he says, "I know."
Steve's been over for a few weeks now. Part of Wayne's convinced he's moved in, what with the new additions to their fridge and bathroom vanity. The idea doesn't upset him in the least.
He's gotten to witness their love grow during that time anyway.
He's gotten to witness the way Steve kisses a grumpy Eddie good morning until he finally smiles.
Or the way Eddie lights up when Steve's arms wrap around his waist and he whispers an "I love you Eds," that Wayne isn't sure if he's supposed to hear.
Or the way they giggle and kiss and love one another in such a beautiful and uninhibited way.
Granted too, sometimes that means Wayne's hears a bit too much. Eddie would be mortified to know there's been far too many occasions in which Wayne's had to leave the trailer to escape the gasping breaths that occasionally pour out from under his bedroom door.
Though this time, Wayne's inside as the boys are on the roof smoking and he thanks the lord above that all he can hear are the faintest of whispers.
There's only parts of the conversation that he catches, but his heart swells when he hears Eddie's voice so clearly say, "I'm gonna marry you someday Steve Harrington."
Wayne cries the day Eddie shows him the ring.
And cries even harder when Steve shows him his.
Steve's hand is shaking where the single golden band lies on his ring finger, Eddie standing directly behind him, arm around his waist with a smile that matches Steve's in the way it resembles Sunshine.
They can't marry, not legally anyways. But that doesn't stop Jim Hopper from officiating a ceremony or Joyce Byers from walking Steve down the aisle.
The backyard to Hoppers cabin is filled with faces Wayne has grown familiar with over the years. Young and old, smiling and crying all the same.
Dustin and Robin both write speeches, both as rambling and as funny as they are beautifully heart wrenching.
There's not a dry eye in the house.
The boys move into an apartment where they build a life together.
Wayne visits often for meals or a cup of coffee in the mornings, still delighting in the way his Eddie seems so wonderfully overcome with love and affection.
He'd thought he'd shed enough tears for his lifetime at the wedding, but one evening, sat at the table with Robin Buckley and his boys, Wayne finds out he's gonna be a grandpa.
Wayne couldn't believe his eyes the first time it happened. He was smoking on the porch, enjoying the breeze and trying not to think about rent coming up due when a shiny BMW pulled up in front of the trailer. The windows were down and Wayne could see clear as day that the driver was none other than the Harrington boy. And his Eddie was in the passenger seat, body turned towards Harrington, laughing at something he said.
Eddie grabbed a backpack out of the backseat but didn't get out right away, lingering to talk to Harrington, who was smiling and touching Eddie's shoulder.
Finally, when Wayne's nerves had just about had enough, Eddie got out of the car and bounded up to the porch, stopping on the top step to turn and wave goodbye to Steve as he reversed back onto the road. Then he flung himself down into the seat beside Wayne and propped his chin on his hand.
“How's it going, old man?” he asked, grinning the way he did whenever he was deliberately needling Wayne, trying to get under his skin.
“Come off with that shit,” Wayne said gruffly, which did not at all dampen Eddie's spirits. “And what's the likes of him doing giving you a ride home?”
“Who, Steve?” Eddie said, sounding baffled. “Oh, the van got a flat, and I never replaced the spare, so he gave me a ride. No big deal.”
Wayne stubbed out the cigarette and dropped it in the ashtray. “You need help getting it fixed up?”
Eddie didn't answer right away, chewing on his thumbnail.
“Nah,” he said at last. “I got it. Should have the money by the end of the week.”
He was a good kid, Wayne’s boy. Understood that money was short more often than not and tried not to take from Wayne what he didn't absolutely need. Wayne knew that Eddie sold on the side for extra cash and that he'd probably be swinging by a few parties on the weekend to get what he needed. He didn't like it, worried sick about Eddie ending up like his dad, but they'd be in a bind without it.
“If you need a ride to school or someplace, you let me know.”
“Oh, Steve already said he'd take me,” Eddie said with a wave of his hand, like it was no big deal. Like it wasn't setting off alarm bells in Wayne's head.
“Didn't realize you were that friendly with him,” Wayne said. “He doesn't exactly run in your circles, does he?”
That made Eddie laugh. “Definitely not.”
Wayne wanted to press further, to try and figure out what Harrington's motives were—because there was no way a Harrington would do a favor for a Munson without expecting something in return—but Eddie was already standing up and stretching, slinging his bag over his shoulder to head inside.
“I'm starving,” he said. “How about hamburgers for dinner tonight?”
“Sure,” Wayne said, and waved Eddie off when he lingered at the door. “You go on. I'll be in in a minute.”
He wanted another cigarette, but he was trying to cut back. He also wanted to sit Eddie down and tell him to stay away from Harrington, but he couldn't do that either. Eddie was grown and he wouldn't take kindly to Wayne trying to dictate who he could spend time with.
Besides, it wasn't like Eddie didn't already know about the Holland girl. If he was still willing to spend time with Harrington, knowing that Harrington had been involved in her disappearance—in her death, because Wayne didn't believe for one second that she'd run off to the city—well. Wayne was going to have his work cut out for him trying to keep Eddie safe.
hello my favorite writer this is me very politely asking how bet joe is and also ily you’re the best hope you’re having a good time
bet!joe is being too sweet and too nice and too smart and so now we need a plan to flabber his gasts properly (also: thanks youre the best ❤️)
Wordcount: 3.6K
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Call Your Bluff
part one - part two - part three - part four - part five
By the time you find him, he’s halfway down one of the aisles, basket hooked loosely over his arm, looking like he’s having trouble finding something he’s looking for on the shelf in front of him.
You pause for a second when you spot him and your brain whispers there he is.
It’s been a bit of a long day, nothing dramatic enough to complain about, but it still manages to sit a little heavy in your bones. You’re ready for a slow, soft, cosy evening that doesn’t require much thought, and there’s something about seeing him that feels like a sigh of relief.
You hadn’t realised how just the sight of him could make you feel so much better, but then you notice how he’s looking specifically at something you like, and your heart swells even more.
You start walking again before you can linger on it too much, weaving past a couple that’s quietly arguing over something inconsequential, past some terribly in-the-way cardboard boxes stacked on top of each other, and past someone reaching for something directly in your way. It’s busy enough that you have to think about where you’re going, but not enough to lose sight of him.
He doesn’t see you at first.
You think maybe just your eyes on him might activate his senses, but he’s turned slightly toward the shelves, scanning, one hand carefully reaching for something while the other keeps the basket balanced against his hip. There’s a kind of absent focus to him – he’s busy, he’s got no time to think about who is seeing him and how much comfort just him being there might bring someone.
Someone being you, obviously.
“Hi.”
Initially, Joe doesn’t really react. There’s no immediate turn of his head or a quick hello back. For a moment you think he’s wearing earphones and hasn’t heard you, but then he leans sideways a little bit, into your space some more, and turns the pot of pasta sauce in his hand so you can read the label.
“Good?”
“What? Oh, yea fine.” You glance in his basket, which has only got about four things in, and you piece together which aisles he’s already walked through.
You then watch how Joe keeps his attention with whatever else is in front of him, and doesn’t rush to greet you properly.
Which is unfortunate.
You want a hug. Want some closeness. Want to smell his collar whilst feeling his arms around your lower back.
You understand you’re surrounded by people and that Joe’s mind is with the task at hand, but now that you’re here and stood in front of him after feeling just slightly out of sync with yourself from the day, from the week, the only thing you really want is to step forward and just… fold yourself completely into him.
Properly.
You want to tuck your arms under his jacket and press your face into his chest, and you want him to try and close his jacket around the two of you which won’t work, but it’ll feel so nice to be hidden away like that. You want to throw your arms around his neck and hide your face in the crook there, and you want to feel his hands around the back of your thighs as he lifts you up so you can also wrap your legs around him and just be held like that for a bit. Just… for a second. Just long enough to take the edge off, give yourself a little hit of him, before you pick up some oat milk for Izzy since you used some (most) of it.
But you don’t tuck your arms under his jacket or wrap them around his neck. Instead, you hover. Watch Joe silently study labels with squinty eyes because he’s not wearing his glasses.
Maybe today isn’t the day for long hugs in a supermarket.
There’s a woman next to you comparing prices like it’s life or death, and then someone pushes you aside whilst trying to squeeze past behind you with a trolley. You mutter a soft sorry as you step aside and get zero acknowledgement in return and feel like maybe you should just go find Izzy’s oat milk now rather than wait for Joe to give you a bit of eye-contact.
“I’m gonna go fi–”
“Give me a second,” Joe cuts you off as he puts something back on the shelf and picks something else up. “I’ll squeeze you in a minute.”
It’s so casually said it almost passes as nothing, but it lands exactly where you need it to, right in the centre of your chest. You huff a quiet breath that might be a laugh, might be relief.
“Wow. Generous.”
You could still walk away, find Izzy’s oat milk, but… fuck, you want that squeeze.
“Mm,” he hums, eyes scanning the label of what he’s holding as you stay put beside him. “You’ll survive. Quick, help me with this. Which one looks better?”
You lean slightly into the shelf beside you, arms loosely folded, desperately trying not to think about how tired you actually are.
“They’re the same.”
“That’s what I thought, but, look… they’re not.” Joe steps to stand right beside you, shoulder to shoulder, so you can see what he means.
“Okay, then get that one.” You nod towards what’s in his hands.
Joe pauses, squints at small letters for another second, and then chooses the one you didn’t pick. No apology or explanation, just the simple action of putting the item into his basket without much ceremony.
You glance at it.
Then at him.
“Why even ask me?”
“You’re opinionated, usually.”
“Joe, they’re the same exact thing, just different brands, look, who gives a shit, just get whichever–”
You get shut up by a basket that gets put down onto the floor and Joe closing the space between the two of you.
“You give a shit.” Joe says pointedly with full eye contact before he moves in to actually hug you. You’d argue that he’s wrong, that you don’t give a shit, but the arms that squeeze you and press your face into his front shut you up. You don’t want to say anything in case it cuts this moment short.
Joe’s hand slides from your waist around your back, pulling you fully into him with enough certainty that your body just… gives in. One second you’re standing there trying to hold yourself together, giving your boyfriend some snark in the middle of a supermarket aisle, and the next your face is pressed into the front of his jacket exactly like you wanted, his warmth wrapping around you so quickly it almost makes your eyes sting with relief.
“Which is good, you know… I like that you care about things,” he murmurs. “Even when they’re not important.”
You make a quiet sound against his chest that’s dangerously close to a whine.
His hand smooths up your spine, and you tuck in your chin a bit more, curling into him as people shopping for their food pass behind you. It’s a bit weird and PDA-ey to embrace someone for this long in the place that you’re in, so you enjoy it for three seconds longer than you think is acceptable and then pull back.
“Here, wait,” Joe then says, and just like that, he’s decided to ruin your life completely by opening his jacket slightly before tugging you closer into the space it creates.
“Oh my God,” you mutter into him. This is everything. Fuck Izzy and her oat milk, none of that matters anymore.
Joe laughs quietly above your head. “What?”
“This is exactly what I wanted.”
“Yea,” he says easily. “I know.”
You hate how much the little smug undertone you detect there has become an endearing thing more than anything else.
Next, one of Joe’s hands settles at the back of your neck while the other stays firm against your lower back, and for a few seconds he just lets you stand there folded into him whilst people continue moving around you and those bigger baskets on wheels rattle past.
You don’t care about any of it. Actually, you think maybe you could fall asleep standing up like this.
Joe shifts slightly after a moment, leaning his head down just enough that his voice stays between the two of you.
“Bad day?”
You sigh, which is enough of an answer.
“Mm,” he hums softly. “Thought so.”
You pull back just enough to look up at him. “Why?”
Joe’s mouth twitches slightly before he softly mimics you in a high voice, “They’re the same exact thing– usually when I say stuff like that I get an earful.”
“That’s not true.”
“It is,” he says immediately, but not before he’s bent down a bit and kissed you. “You normally would’ve argued for at least four minutes.”
You narrow your eyes at him.
“I still can.”
“Exactly. Because you give a shit.” his tone is annoyingly calm, not smug at all, and the lack of teasing throws you off a little bit.
You immediately straighten slightly inside his arms.
“Because I care about things?” you try to mimic Joe a bit, but unfortunately, it ends up looking like you’re sarcastically make fun of yourself.
“You care so much–” Joe reaches down to pick his basket back up without fully letting go of you, “–that later, I’m going to make dinner with all the things I picked instead of the things you picked, and then halfway through eating you’ll tell me your picks would’ve been better.”
Your mouth falls open a little.
“That is not true.”
Joe quickly raises his eyebrows, “No, it’s okay! You’ll say it jokingly and it won’t hurt my feelings at all.”
“That’s–”
“Well,” Joe cuts you off. “You’ll still mean it a bit, but I promise it won’t hurt my feelings.”
You stare at him. He’s lucky your brain’s fried and you can’t quickly come up with something good to say. The worst part is that, yes, that does sound exactly like something you’d do. You like to be a little irritating for fun, to make Joe feel the slightest bit humbled before you let yourself be kissed silly by him because he thinks your mischievous little smile is so cute.
“God… you’re making me sound unbearable.”
Joe snorts softly. “You are unbearable.”
And then he squeezes your side affectionately before stepping away entirely, like he hasn’t just completely reset your nervous system in the middle of a supermarket aisle. Rude.
“Come on,” he says, holding a palm out behind him for you to grab as he walks away. “You need to buy oat milk for Izzy.”
The walk back to Joe’s flat is cold enough that your shoulders instinctively creep upwards against the evening air, tube station warmth long gone now that you’re back outside properly. Joe reaches for your hand at some point without really looking at you when he does it, fingers slotting through yours naturally.
You stay tucked close to his side the entire walk back, just because it’s nice, and maybe also because some stubborn little part of you is still trying to recover from how Joe knew exactly what you needed back in the shop.
You’re bothered. Not that you’d ever admit that to him, but you are.
Every time Joe quietly notices something about you without you having explained it first, you feel two things simultaneously: loved and deeply, deeply exposed.
You hate it.
By the time you reach his flat, your brain has already started turning the whole thing into a competition again. How the fuck are you going to prove him wrong? There’s got to be something. Something he’s not aware of. Something he’s missed. Something he can’t predict and that will take him by surprise enough to acknowledge it so you can double down and really shove it into his face for ultimate satisfaction.
You’re still thinking about it when he unlocks the front door, are still thinking about it when you follow him inside, are still thinking about it whilst you shrug your coat off and place it over his on a wall hook.
You think you might be getting somewhere whilst you’re taking your shoes off, one hand against the wall to keep your balance, the other unzipping the zips at your ankles. But then a hand lands lightly against your bum and jolts you out of your spiralling thoughts for half a second.
“Oi,” Joe says behind you, voice light and easy. “Get out of your head for a minute, will you? I said I left you something on the sofa.”
Joe doesn’t even wait for any sort of response; he just disappears into the kitchen where he starts unpacking and leaves you to find out what he’s on about by yourself.
Your annoyance grows another inch when you see it’s one of his hoodies, draped over the back of his sofa, waiting for you to wear it, clearly placed there intentionally before you’d even arrived. It’s the one you’d stolen weeks ago and didn’t tell Joe about. He’d turned his whole flat upside down to find it, and the outburst when he’d found it in your wardrobe had made Izzy burst into your bedroom to shut him up. It’s just a good hoodie, you know? Not your fault that it’s all soft from being overworn and overwashed, sleeves too long for you in the way you secretly like best. The second you pull it over your head your body relaxes a little despite yourself.
You silently wonder if you’d have gone to find it on your own had Joe not left it out for you.
Yea, you probably would have… which is slightly annoying, about half an inch worth.
Then, something soft hits you square in the shoulder.
You blink, and then look down to find a balled-up pair of socks on the floor right beside your feet.
Slowly, you turn your head toward the kitchen.
Joe is putting vegetables away with his back half turned toward you, like he absolutely did not just silently identify the exact moment your feet got cold.
You stare at him suspiciously, wait for him to make a smart comment, but… it doesn’t come. He doesn’t even look up, and, listen, you were already close to wanting to fight him over the hoodie. The effortless ‘knowing you’ Joe is showcasing without holding it over your head like a child makes your annoyance grow another inch.
You put the socks on, anyway.
The sofa pulls you toward it almost immediately after. Long day, warm flat, Joe moving around the kitchen in the background with the promise of making dinner – it all combines into something dangerously capable of making you melt straight through the cushions.
But even whilst curling up into the corner of the sofa, your brain keeps circling the same thought over and over again.
There has to be something.
Something he doesn’t know.
Something unpredictable, because this is getting ridiculous now.
You let yourself sink into thought whilst Joe moves around the kitchen with practised ease, with his sleeves pushed slightly up his forearms now, and with music playing low enough from his phone that it barely registers as more than background noise. Every now and then he talks to you from the other side of the room, small easy conversation drifting back and forth naturally, but mostly he just lets you exist there quietly whilst he cooks.
Which, unfortunately, feels very nice.
At one point, when the smell of whatever Joe’s cooking starts to become particularly nice, you wander into the kitchen to steal a bite of something from the pan. You stalk closer, acting like you’re just there for a little look, to see if you can maybe lend a hand, only for Joe to hand you a fork before you can even secretly reach for one yourself.
You stare at it as it hovers in front of your face.
Then at him.
Joe gives it a shake, says, “Take it.” without any smugness or any other comment.
You take the fork from him in silence and feel your annoyance grow yet another inch. When you have a bite and it tastes fucking amazing, you let it grow even further.
The worst part is that he’s not making a thing out of any of it. You know you would have had you been in his shoes. You’d have sat there all proudly, announcing that you’d know him so well or whatever the fuck. But Joe isn’t trying to embarrass you or prove you wrong every five minutes. He’s just quietly adjusting around you like your habits and your wants and your moods have become second nature to him somewhere along the line.
You don’t know what to do with that.
By the time dinner’s ready, you’re back on the sofa with your legs tucked underneath you, hands hidden inside the long sleeves of his hoodie whilst Joe plates everything up in the kitchen.
“I hope you’re hungry,” he says eventually as he walks over with both plates balanced carefully in his hands. “I made far too much.”
You automatically shift to make space for him beside you, but before he sits down, Joe tilts his head once in a little nod toward the other side of the sofa. He wants you to move over to the other side. To the good spot. To where the cushion’s worn a bit softer than the rest, slightly dipped from overuse, shaped perfectly to fit a body after years of someone sitting there.
Usually you fight him for it.
There’ve been times where you’ve raced each other into the flat, arms pushing and pulling at each other, just to stake your claim over it.
There’ve been times where you made it to the sofa before him, prompting Joe to take hold of a foot and pull at it until your ass hit the rug.
Tonight, though, Joe just looks at you expectantly whilst holding both plates, like he’s already decided where you’re sitting.
You move without arguing, and try to act as casual about it as you can, because Joe is too, and you can’t let him win, obviously.
The second you settle properly into the corner, you realise how much more comfortable it actually is, and for fuck’s sake, is that… guilt?
Are you feeling guilty over being annoyed by all the nice things Joe’s done for you this past hour?
Surely not.
Who the fuck are you?
Joe sits beside you afterwards like this was always obviously going to happen, handing your plate over carefully and you take it with narrowed eyes.
He notices. “What?” he asks, though there’s already a smile threatening at the corners of his mouth, and any possible inkling of maybe-guilt you had vanishes like snow in the sun.
“You’re so annoying.” Emphasis on the so.
Joe laughs softly under his breath.
“You’re comfy though, aren’t you?”
You’re in his soft hoodie, wearing a pair of his big soft socks and are sat in the most comfortable spot on his sofa. Of course you’re fucking comfy.
That’s kind of the problem. It makes your brain want to start spiralling back into that same thought process again.
You stab vaguely at your dinner with your fork whilst Joe turns the TV on and squeezes your knee before he picks his fork back up. He looks unfairly relaxed for someone who’s currently becoming your greatest personal enemy. Not in a real way, obviously. In a very specific deeply affectionate way where you still want to kiss his stupid face a little – a lot – every time he proves you wrong.
Hey.
Shut up.
Now’s not the time to think about frivolous little things like kissing him. If you’re not careful, you’ll just let him win, and then what? Come on. There has to be something. Something he won’t see coming. You try to think through the haze of comfortable warmth and delicious food and the low pleasant hum of being near him, but every idea that briefly sparks gets immediately dismissed again. You could act completely differently for a day maybe. Throw him off somehow. Stop reacting the way you normally would. Stop settling into all of your routines around him.
But then what?
You can’t exactly become an entirely different person just to win a bet, can you?
You narrow your eyes down at your plate again and conclude that this feels a lot like psychological warfare, actually.
After a few more bites, just as you start drifting too far back into your own head again, Joe speaks.
“Go on then,” he says casually, eyes on the TV still. “Make your stupid joke.”
You glance at him. “Mm?”
Joe turns and immediately mirrors your expression back at you with an exaggerated little face, his chin tucked in, eyebrows lifted high, voice pitched slightly softer as he mocks you: “Mm?”
You can’t help it. A smile breaks instantly across your face before you put on a silly voice and tell him, “My choices would’ve tasted better.” You’re already laughing halfway through the sentence, playing into the stupid bit, and Joe’s laughter follows yours immediately, warm and low beside you.
“Hope that didn’t hurt your feelings.”
“No, you don’t mean it, remember? So it’s fine.”
“Meant it a little…”
The knee nudge and the warm smile Joe throws your way kind of makes all of the inches of annoyance that had grown inside of you vanish like they’d never even existed.
Maybe today just isn’t the day for any surprises.
Maybe exhaustion and soft hoodies and being looked after too nicely has ruined your ability to properly strategise.
Still, this isn’t over.
Tonight, you can let Joe think he knows you, but soon, you’re going to surprise him so badly he won’t see it coming until it’s already happened.
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