How they react to seeing Reader breaking down {Wyll, Astarion, Gale, Lae’zel}
This is a request from my main blog (@a-bit-of-writing ) featuring a reader who’s breaking down from their usual sunny/optimistic self and how the companions react to it.
Wyll
He notices but doesn’t push (at first)
Wyll is perceptive, especially when it comes to people he cares about. He’ll notice the subtle changes first: the forced smiles, the distant gaze, the silence where laughter used to be.
He won’t confront you immediately. He’ll observe — give you space.
“You’ve been quieter lately. Not like you. …Not that I mind a little peace and quiet, but I’d be lying if I said I didn’t miss your laugh.”
He’s gentle about it, not invasive. He’s been taught to lead with kindness, not pressure.
Once he knows it’s serious, he shifts into steady support
When he realizes it’s not just a bad day – that you’re really struggling – his tone becomes steady, his warmth unwavering. He’ll sit with you in it, no grand speeches, no magic fixes. Just presence.
He stops trying to cheer you up and focuses on being there.
“You don’t have to smile for me. You don’t have to say a word. Just… stay. I’m not going anywhere.”
His hero complex makes him want to fix it, but he reins that in. He understands that this isn’t a battle he can fight for you but he can fight with you.
He shares his own pain — to show you you’re not alone
Wyll doesn’t often speak about his own regrets or loneliness. But your breakdown would open that door. Quietly, hesitantly, he’ll begin to offer pieces of himself—not to shift focus, but to remind you he understands.
He speaks plainly, without dramatics.
“There were days I didn’t believe I deserved anything better. Days I looked in the mirror and only saw what I’d lost… or what I’d become. You ever feel that way?”
He doesn’t pity you. He relates to you. And that matters.
His affection grows deeper, not distant
Some would shy away from the intensity of someone unraveling. Wyll doesn’t. If anything, he draws closer. More careful. More devoted. Not because he sees you as fragile but because he sees your strength even when you can’t.
He flirts less during this time — not because he’s lost interest, but because his love becomes more protective. More reverent.
“You don’t have to be the light all the time, you know. Even the sun rests. I’ll keep the fire burning till you’re ready to rise again.”
Long-term: he’s patient, loyal, and will wait as long as it takes
Wyll isn’t going anywhere. Not when you’re struggling. Not when you’re quiet. Not when it’s hard. He will wait. Fight for you. Sit beside you through every storm. Because once he loves — he chooses.
He’ll keep offering small joys — stories, warmth, reminders of who you are.
“You once told me I was a hero. But you — you’re the one who kept hope alive when everything went dark. I haven't forgotten. And I never will.”
Astarion
His first response is deflection — sharp, defensive, and a bit cruel
Astarion senses the shift. He absolutely notices your sudden quiet, your lack of spark and it scares him. So his first instinct is to mock it, to distance himself emotionally.
He’ll say something sarcastic to cover his panic.
“Well, this is new. Have we given up the role of radiant optimist for something more… dreary?”
There’s venom, but it’s hollow. He’s not being cruel — he’s terrified. This is how he protects himself.
When he realizes it’s not a mood — it’s a descent — his mask slips
Once Astarion really understands what’s happening — that this isn’t passing sadness but something deeper — his tone shifts. Not immediately into comfort, but into a rare, raw honesty.
He’ll sit near you without knowing what to say, awkward and unsure. But he stays. That’s the tell.
“I’m not… good at this. The comforting. The caring. But I notice. You’ve gone quiet. And I hate it.”
He doesn’t ask you to be happy again. He asks you to talk to him. Because he feels helpless otherwise.
He’s afraid you’ll leave — or worse, disappear from the inside out
Astarion has abandonment trauma. Seeing someone he cares about emotionally shut down triggers that fear. He’ll begin clinging in his own way — more teasing, more barbed jokes, more hovering.
He won’t say “I’m scared.” He’ll say things like:
“You don’t get to break now, darling. I’ve only just gotten used to you.”
But there’s a plea underneath. “Please stay. Please don’t fade.”
Small gestures, deep meaning
Once he realizes words won’t fix this, Astarion begins to act in smaller, unexpected ways. He’ll bring you food without fanfare. Offer to clean your gear. Sit closer at night. It’s clumsy affection, but it’s real.
He shows up even when he doesn’t understand what you need.
“I don’t know how to fix you. But I’m here. And I’m… trying, gods help me.”
That’s the greatest intimacy he can offer: effort. Not performance. Real effort.
If you let him in—even just a little—he breaks first
If you open up to him, if you trust him with your darkness, it breaks something in Astarion. Because someone as good, bright, and lovely as you just let him see what you hide. And to him, that’s sacred.
He’ll try to laugh it off, then go quiet. Too quiet.
“You shouldn’t have told me that. Not because I don’t care but because I do. And I don’t know what to do with it.”
And when he really means it:
“I’ve clawed my way out of darkness. I know what it feels like when it whispers to you. If you’re going to fall, fall toward me. I’ll catch you — clumsily, but… I’ll try.”
Gale
He sees it immediately and treats it like a sacred secret
Gale is perceptive in the way of scholars and poets — he sees subtleties. He’ll recognize the cracks in your smile, the fatigue in your voice, the way you pause too long before answering. But he won’t rush in with questions. He’ll wait, watching with quiet concern until the right moment to speak.
He might approach it gently, over tea, over books, over starlight.
“I notice things. Not just in the stars or in spellwork—but in people. You… aren’t quite yourself lately. Would you like to talk about it?”
He gives you the space to not be okay. No judgment. Just a safe harbor.
His reaction is compassionate, never condescending
Gale would never suggest you “cheer up.” Instead, he’d normalize your pain, offering philosophical reflections that are both grounding and comforting.
He speaks in metaphors — light and shadow, storms and silence — but always with sincerity.
“Even the sun rests, my dear. Even the Weave frays. There is no shame in being… still. In being soft for a while.”
He reassures you that your value does not fade with your smile.
“You, in sorrow, are no less radiant. Only quieter. And I will sit with you in that quiet as long as you need.”
He tries to bring you back gently with joy, not pressure
He doesn’t want to pull you out — he wants to walk with you through it. He might read to you, share arcane stories or magical curiosities just to make you smile. He offers warmth through shared wonder.
His flirting slows, becomes sweeter, less performative.
“I’ve missed your laughter. I don’t expect it but I look forward to its return. Like waiting for the first bloom of spring.”
If you cry in front of him? He won’t rush to fix it. He’ll witness it. That’s love to him.
He opens up, too — so you know you’re not alone
Gale has his own darkness. And when you begin to break, he shares more of it, not to compare, but to let you know you’re not the only one walking through shadows.
His confessions are quiet, offered like gifts.
“There were days I feared the world would forget me. That all I was, all I am, would disappear. And still, I carried on. And now I see you. And I want to carry with you, if you’ll let me.”
He doesn't see your sadness as fragile. He sees it as real, and real things are worth staying for.
When he says he’s staying, he means it
Gale’s love is intentional, lasting, and utterly faithful. If you break down, he doesn’t waver. He simply settles beside you, hands gentle, voice soft, waiting for you to find your breath again.
He will stay up with you at night. He will keep the silence warm.
“You don’t need to shine to be loved. Sometimes, existing is enough. You are enough.”
And when you’re ready to stand again, even shakily — he’s right there.
“Let’s take one step. Just one. Together.”
Lae’zel
Initial confusion, followed by frustration
Lae’zel is used to strength. She respects it. When you — someone she likely viewed as emotionally resilient — begin to fade into silence, she notices. And she doesn’t know what to do with it.
Her first response might be sharp. Defensive. Confused.
“You are not yourself. Why? What weakness has taken root in you?”
It’s not cruelty — it’s fear in disguise. You were a constant. Your unraveling threatens her idea of control.
“You do not cry. You fight. What has changed?”
She tries to snap you out of it because that’s what she would want
Lae’zel believes that pain is meant to be crushed, not carried. She doesn’t coddle. Her instinct is to provoke a reaction, to push you back into action.
She gives tough love before she even understands what gentle love looks like.
“Sitting in your sorrow will not serve you. You must move. You must act. That is how we survive.”
It’s not graceful but it’s her version of showing concern.
When you don’t react — that’s when she begins to understand
If you don’t fight back — if your silence lingers — Lae’zel’s armor begins to crack. She realizes this isn’t laziness or weakness. It’s something deeper. And she begins to see you.
That’s when she quiets down. Her tone shifts.
“You are not broken. Just… tired. Worn.”
She sits closer. Doesn’t touch but stays close, ready. Watchful. Protective.
Loyalty becomes her language of comfort
Lae’zel doesn’t know how to say “I love you” or “I’m here.” But she knows how to guard you, how to stand between you and the world while you regain your footing. And that’s what she offers.
She’ll position herself at your back in combat without being asked. Sharpen your blade while you sleep. Watch you out of the corner of her eye.
“Rest, if you must. I will not let anything touch you.”
And if someone else comments on your changed demeanor? She’ll shut them down instantly.
“Her strength has not left her. It is only… hidden. And it will return. You will not question it again.”
If you let her in — even a little — she becomes fiercely protective
If you choose to open up to her — say just a few words about what’s weighing you down — Lae’zel won’t say the perfect thing. But she’ll offer you something far rarer from her: trust.
She might look away while saying it, but it will land like an oath:
“You are strong. Even now. Especially now. You need not prove it to me.”
There's an EU initiative going on right now that essentially boils down to wanting to force videogame publishers with paid games and/or games with paid elements such as DLC, expansions and microtransactions to leave said games in a playable state after they end support, or in simpler terms, make them stop killing games.
A "playable state" would be something like an offline mode for previously always online titles, or the ability for people to host their own servers where reasonably possible just to name some examples.
I don't think I need to tell anyone that having something you paid for being taken from you is bad, which is a thing that routinely happens with live service and other always online games with a notable recent example being The Crew which is now permanently unplayable.
Any EU citizen is eligible to sign the initiative, but only once and if you mess up that's it. You can find it here. (https://citizens-initiative.europa.eu/initiatives/details/2024/000007_en)
Even if you're not European or you signed it already, you can share this initiative with anyone who is, even if they don't care about videogames specifically because this needs a million signatures and there is different thresholds that need to be met for each EU country for their votes to even count and could also be a precedent for other similar practices like when Sony removed a bunch of Discovery TV content people paid for.
the purpose of friends is to have people who unconditionally hate your shitty exes & relatives. like maybe YOU have a complex relationship with your father but i sure don't. i'm outside his house with a gun. he's not the unforgivable asshole who raised me he's just an unforgivable asshole
꒰ in which the boy you see every summer enrolls in the same university as you. again. ꒱ — modern!jacaerys velayron x reader
୨ ⎯ childhood-friends-to-lovers. someone said idiots in love, and yes! modern au. everyone lives au. liberal usage of the em-dash. foul language. pushing the rhaenicent agenda. an incredible amount of yearning and pining. mention of reader's hair. mentions of anxiety. reader has a breakdown in semi-public. subplot where reader is sick. reader is so down bad its crazy. targ-tower cameo! aemond bitter af and for no reason. wrote a bit of dialogue that is so foul but i only realized it after i typed it and its not being taken out. luke is so little brother coded. i directly quote a serial romance novel thats so cringe. part one here. ⎯ ୧
can be read stand-alone, but theres a lot of context in part one !! thank u all for being patient :3
“It's called Applications of Ancient Politics in Modern Literature.”
Looking up from your twelve-page study guide, you meet Jace’s bright gaze where he sits at the foot of your bed, “That sounds… complicated.”
He shrugs, long fingers brushing up through his thick curls, “I need to take it, it's cross-listed for literature and political science so I’ll get credit for both. I think it’ll be interesting, plus if you take it too…” He leans a little closer, grinning in your face.
“Send it to me,” You reply, highlighting a section in the packet about climate change and its impact on migratory birds in pretty pink ink.
You promise to look it up, to get back to him later, but it's hollow and you know it. He's already given you that pretty smile, flashed his dimples and stared down at you with his dark eyes — your grave has been dug. You will take Applications of Ancient Politics in Modern Literature and read pages of boring political theory because Jace asked and Jace has you wrapped around his finger.
He shifts on the mattress, lying down on his front and scooting decidedly closer to you. His laptop is open in front of him, eyes trained on the screen through his glasses, perusing the course catalogue for the spring semester.
“Isn’t it a bit late to pick classes?” You ask, stretching your legs out in front of you, “It's December, next semester is in, like, four weeks.”
Jace is a perfectionist, a pre-planning freak who has three calendars: a planner that he carries everywhere, a big desk calendar at his apartment for easy access while studying, and his digital calendar. Its colour coded — he has a browser extension that allows him to make events on his Google Calendar any colour. So, it's very unlike Jace, who does his schoolwork the night it's assigned, to pick classes two months after registration opened.
“I just like to look,” He replies, “This class is Wednesday and Friday, from ten to eleven o’clock. Does that work for you?”
You nod, because it will work. You’ll rearrange your schedule if need be. It's pathetic, really, how easily he gets you to do things.
It's quiet for a while, Jace scrolling on his computer while you fill in your study packet.
“When is your last final?” He asks.
“Next Friday.”
“So you’re leaving Friday?”
“No, my train ticket is for Saturday.”
“Damn, I’m leaving Tuesday,” A lull, “When do you come back.”
“The Sunday before classes start. You?”
“That Friday.”
The conversation continues like that, mindless and short but so very comfortable. It's often like that anymore, with little eye contact and no real attention paid to each other besides the brief words — and, not in the way that feels awkward or tense, but in the way that old married couples chat over morning coffee and the paper. Maybe it's the lifetime of friendship that does it, or that you spend more nights in his apartment than your dorm.
You see each other twice more before the holiday.
The Monday that exams start you meet at the coffee shop that became yours in the first two weeks of school. The middle table by the bay window is where you always sit, and the barista has Jace’s order memorised — because he gets the same drink every time you come, a caramel macchiato.
He groans into his hands, ignoring both his coffee and his half of the cheese danish that you’d split, “I feel like I did poorly.”
He’d suffered through days upon days of studying for the political science exam that had plagued him all semester, to be taken today at noon. It was a three-hour exam, mostly multiple choice with two essay questions. You’d been with him through the worst of the studying: in total, forty-seven pages of research papers and scholarly articles printed at the library, and six books varying from fifty to five-hundred pages. He had filled up a plethora of pages in his notebook, and at least three in a word document. There was no study guide, just a list of broad topics. He was facing the consequences of taking a 300-level class in his first semester.
“Jace, darling,” You reply, reaching out to press a reassuring hand to his arm, “You studied for that test more than I think anyone in the history of this school has studied for anything ever. If you didn’t do well, that's a reflection of the professor, not you.”
He doesn’t seem to want much to do with that rationale, sliding his hands down to rest his chin in them. He's pouting, glasses sliding down his nose as he looks at you through his lashes, “What if I failed?”
“Then… I don’t know,” You reach up to pull one of his hands down to the table, twining your fingers, “Then you failed, and that sucks. But you’re sporting a solid one-hundred in the class now, you could get a fifty on that exam and still end with…” Quick mental math. If the exam is weighted at twenty percent, then, “- a ninety percent.”
“An A-minus,” He whines.
“Jace,” You chastise sweetly.
He huffs, his pouty stare turning into a glare with no heat behind it. He wants to whine and mope about exams. What harm does it truly do?
You push his half of the danish towards him, “It's over now. You studied hard, you did your best. There's nothing you can do right now to change your grade. You can’t control it, so there is no point in trying to.”
Jace likes control, he likes to be in control. A psychological idiosyncrasy plaguing many eldest children and children of divorce. The quintessential therapist's advice about what you can control and what you can’t control had been revolutionary for him during one of his bi-weekly appointments — the whole family had them, Rhaenyra and Alicent were big proponents.
Regurgitating that to him, no matter how much it makes you feel like you’re giving unsolicited advice, always works wonders to ground him when he's disproportionately anxious over something out of his control.
He deposits you at your dorm with a kiss on the cheek that evening.
On the Friday you leave school, Jace drives you to the train station. He packs your bags into the backseat of his hoity-toity hybrid Porsche Panamera and lets you play with his radio all the way there.
You’re an hour early to the station — Jace is early everywhere. He sets his paper copy of I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings on his lap in the little lobby, slipping his finger into the book where it is dogeared. Yet, he makes no effort to read, his attention solely on you.
“A month is ages to be apart,” He says, voice soft and thoughtful.
You scoot a little closer, elbows knocking, “It won’t be so bad. We can talk.”
His watch glimmers in the overhead light of the train station when one of his hands settles safely on your knee. Small white face, silver hands and framing, thin black band — it's Gucci, something his mother wore in the nineties. His fingers trace the edge of your skirt, and in the silence begin to smooth down your kneecap to your shin.
“You must be cold,” He murmurs, thumbing the material of your nylons.
“I’m alright.”
Your train is called before he can shed his coat and drape it over your lap, as he so desperately wishes to do.
He hugs you, tightly, before you board. He's so warm, his black jumper is soft against your cheek, and you can smell his cologne where your nose lands in the crook of his neck — patchouli and something earthy and fresh, Brutus Oroto Parisi.
“God, I’ll miss you.”
One morning, a week into the holiday, a letter shows up. It’s written in the black pen he’s so fond of, and you admire his neat penmanship as you read the detailed account of his holiday celebration. You smell the expensive cologne he wears and recognize Helaena’s handmade stationery. He gives you a sheepish smile over a FaceTime call when you bring it up.
When you see him on campus again in January, not much has changed. You're both in your respective majors, he lives in the nicest building on campus, and he hates your roommate. She’s taken to referring to him as your boyfriend; you correct her the first two times and then give up.
Classes are harder with the emotional slump attached to winter. You talk to Jace often, but don’t see much of each other outside of class. And then you get sick.
Banging. Loud banging. It wakes you up from your fever-and-Doxylamine induced sleep. Per college dorms, your first assumption is that it's your loud-ass fucking neighbor! Again! Having bunk-bed-breaking sex like she does every Thursday night with her ugly ass boyfriend who radiates such a strong odor of weed and computer science that you can get a noseful of him a meter down the hall. Doxylamine tends to make people agitated.
Before you can weakly pound on the cinderblock wall, there's a muffled call of your name. It comes from the hallway, and it's followed by another bang — which you begin to realize is knocking.
Crawling out of bed, you blearily pad to the door. You don’t have to peer through the peephole to see who it is. The voice is soft, low, and endearingly posh. Clearly, it’s-
“Jace?” You grumble when you open the door, mind foggy from the cold medicine.
It's early January in London, and the beige cashmere jumper he wears isn’t warm enough — it's a woman’s cut, but it fits him like Loro Piana himself measured the fabric to Jace’s body. The cold weather is visible in the flush of his face, the snowflakes that linger in his hair.
“I’ve been calling you for hours, darling,” He speaks gently, voice heavy with concern.
You blink at him, not responding with anything more than a little, oh.
His hand finds your upper arm, leaning closer to hone your attention, “You look awful,” He guides the both of you back into your dorm room, “Are you unwell?”
You nod, “My roommate brought it back from holiday break.”
Jace huffs sharply, mumbling something to himself, no doubt about your roommate. He walks you back towards your bed, gently pushing you to sit.
“Have you been to the clinic?” He asks, one hand coming to cup your cheek.
“Twice.”
His hand slides up, finers gracing your temple to push some stray hair behind your ear, and then landing upon your brow bone, “You’re burning up.”
It's quiet for a few moments, hands retracing back down to cradle your face as he inspects you. He's focused, calculating and planning in his head — it's an energy you’ve seen him embody countless times, assessing the scraped knees, bruised foreheads, and aching tummies of his younger siblings.
“What time is it?” You ask, after watching him bustle about your room for about thirty minutes. He's such a mother hen: making tea, procuring medication you didn’t know you had, wetting flannels, adjusting your blankets.
“Ten,” He replies, settling into your twin-size bed next to you and pressing a mug of piping hot tea into your waiting hands, “It's peppermint. I wish you kept chamomile, or really anything herbal.”
You disregard his latter comment, resting your head on his shoulder. Soft. As an eighteen-hundred pound jumper should be, “You came here in the dead of night? In the snow?”
He slides his legs under the blankets, sinking down into your pile of pillows and stuffed animals and pulling you closer, “I took the bus part of the way. Plus-” His hand drags across your shoulders, “I needed to see you. You missed class today, and I haven’t heard from you since Monday. I had nearly driven myself to the brink of madness with worry.”
You groan, turning your head to bump your forehead into the jut of his shoulder, “I hadn’t thought about class,” Bump, bump, bump goes your head, “Did I miss anything important?”
He hums, looking down at you, “We had to turn in a paragraph detailing our preliminary ideas for that big Arthashastra comparison essay. Doctor Dunlavey loved your connections to the political system in The Silmarillion.”
What? You lift your head to look up at him, “I didn’t do the assignment.” You had been too sick to think about school-work.
“Well,” He shrugs, lightly enough that it doesn’t disturb you, “Who's to say? He doesn’t have your handwriting memorized, he has hundreds of students.”
You’re quiet for a long moment, “Thank you, Jace.”
He sleeps in your bed that night, insisting that you’re sick enough that someone needs to keep an eye on you. Dressed in a loose pair of your pajamas, he curls around you in the tiny bed. His body spills warmth through both of your sleepwear, and maybe it's the fever or the cold cinderblock of your dorm but there is no physical proximity that quantifies as close enough to him.
He's gone by the time you wake up, late into the morning. Naught of him but a text.
i had to go to class and i didn’t want to wake you up, sorry
be back later x
And true to his word, he arrives that evening with a travel mug of lavender chamomile tea and the cough medicine he makes Luke take when he’s sick. It’s so bad that you nearly choke at the taste, but he leaves the bottle and you’re better by the end of the week.
You’re both more diligent in seeing each other going forwards.
Your phone rings one day in mid-February — a silly picture of Jace in a bright red hat, one of Helaena’s, pops up on your screen, followed by the affectionate nickname he’s saved as in your phone.
You even get a chance to say hello, his voice immediately bursting through the speaker, “Do you have plans for the third weekend of February?”
You think through your mental calendar, “I don’t believe so, nothing that takes priority over you at least. Why do you ask?”
You can hear him fiddling with something on the other line, the clicking of a pen echoing from his bedroom to your ear. Every year his family hosts a gala, raising an ungodly amount of money for their charitable cause by selling high-priced tickets. And everyone comes, because the Targaryens are the royalty of the one percent.
“Come?” He asks, “Please, I think you’ll enjoy it. Plus, it’ll be like a little holiday for us.”
And again — you’re wrapped so tightly around Jace’s finger that you don’t even think before saying yes. You don’t think through many things regarding this, which lands you in a guest bedroom in Rhaenyra and Alicent’s massive London estate.
In truth, it's not a guest bedroom, but rather Daeron’s old room. It is decorated with posters of classical musicians and string instrument charts; vinyls line his bookshelf, alphabetized and all orchestral. Daeron stays with Alicent’s brother in Paris during the academic year, attending a private secondary school with a music-based curriculum. He had been practically a prodigy at the violin.
The room is sandwiched between Luke and Aemond, directly across the hall from Jace. There are a number of guest rooms in the house, but they’re all the next floor up and Jace had insisted that you stay across the hall from him. It does feel a bit odd to change into your pretty black dress while staring down a battalion of Daeron’s music awards and a very large framed photo of Otto Hightower.
“I don’t mean to be judgemental, but who keeps a photo like this of their grandfather in their bedroom?” You ask, adjusting the straps of the dress, “I would understand if he was dead, but Otto is… not.”
Jace laughs from where he lounges on the bed, scrolling through something on his phone. After nearly two decades of friendship, there's little that hasn’t been seen and very lax boundaries. He had watched you change innumerable times before, but today his eyes are decidedly diverted onto his phone.
“Good?” You ask, turning from the mirror, and giving him a spin.
Jace stares, uncharacteristically quiet. His eyes are trained on you, scanning the dress, mouth closed and brows drawn so slightly you wouldn’t notice if you didn’t know him so well. He's a bit rigid where he’s propped up on the bed, clearly contemplating.
After an unnerving amount of time, really only five seconds, he speaks, “You look nice.”
It's… odd. Measured and closed off, a complex thought that you don’t have the context from his internal monologue to understand. Did he not like it? Or was he stunned into silence by your sheer, Goddess-like beauty?
“We match,” You offer meekly, gesturing between your dress and his black suit jacket and slacks. A lame comparison. Nearly everyone at these events wore black.
But he smiles nonetheless, a genuine smile that shows off his pretty dimples, “We do.”
Jacaerys drives to the event, and you’re squished in the too-small backseat of his car, between Lucerys and Aemond. Aegon is in the passenger seat, talking incessantly, and Jace wishes he would shut up so he can think about the silky material of your dress in peace.
It's a precarious set-up, truly. Jace drives a four-door, but it isn’t meant for six adolescents in formal attire. Aemond is stiff as a rod next to you, pointedly staring out the window and only interacting to bite back at anything Aegon says. Occasionally his bony elbow will bump your side or his knee will knock into yours, and he’ll pull away as if you’re red hot, shooting you a glanced glare.
The radio is its own battle. Upon entering the car it had connected automatically to Jace’s phone, playing a few seconds of the theory podcast he had been listening to and earning a collective groan. Luke was quick to sync his phone instead, the Ramones brash drums blaring from the speakers. Aegon changed it to chav rap. It ensued like that for the whole car ride — punk rock to rap, volume up and down and up and down.
The ballroom is glorious. All high domed ceilings and white crown moulding and gold leaf details. There’s a massive chandelier in the centre of the room that drips with perfect crystals. An astonishing world it was that Jacaerys grew up in. Overwhelming
“Are you alright?” Jace murmurs, hooking his arm into yours as your shoes click against the marble floor. He can sense your unease, feel it in the way your forearm tenses at any particularly fast movement or loud aristocratic laugh.
“Fine,” You assure, shooting him a smile.
Of course, Jace doesn’t buy it. Your pretty smile doesn’t reach your eyes, it's tighter than normal. He knows things like that — he’ll never admit it, but every one of your microexpressions are programmed into his brain.
Arm-in-arm the pair of you reach a semi-circle near the bar. Rhaenyra, Corlys, Luke, and Helaena. The boring financial drivel meets your ears from several paces away, and it's mind-numbing up close.
‘I don’t think you can quantify the inherent need for biodegradable fuel in those metrics.’
‘Well, I would argue that you can. In such a high output industry you have to calculate the necessity for every pence.’
You nod along, putting up a convincing facade of business intellect while Jace adds in expertly to the dull conversation. Helaena, to Rhaenyra’s left, is about as interested as you.
It's only when Otto breaks into the group, and the conversation shifts from the most cost effective biofuel to is shipping on a mass scale a pertinent trade in post-Brexit England that you’re pulled away. Though not by Jace, who has become more engrossed in the conversation than he is in you, but by Luke.
“You seemed to be drowning,” He smiles up at you, offering his arm.
You take it gladly, “Thank you for saving me.”
“Don’t worry, I was drowning too.”
Activity on the balcony is scant; one lady sits in a metal chair sipping a glass of champagne, an elderly man stands at the far end of the railing peering at the London cityscape down below. Luke leans his elbows against the rail, propping his head up in one hand.
“How's college?” He asks, looking up at you.
You hum, leaning down to mimic his posture, “Oh, it's fine. It's a lot of work,” There's a lull in the conversation as the two of you bask in the lack of hustle and bustle, “Have you started thinking about college yet?”
He shrugs noncommittal, picking at the nails of his free hand. He's very quiet for a while, and you allow him that because every life decision feels massive and dire at fifteen. When he does speak, his voice is soft, “Grandfather said that he wanted me to inherit his business after my dad, but now mum is talking about me being her successor.”
“You’d be good at it.”
“Jace doesn’t want to inherit.”
“I know.”
“He wants to be a lawyer, like Alicent. And I don’t blame him, but that puts a lot of pressure on me. Because now it's like I have mum and grandpa expecting me to be great, and I stand in their conversations and I don’t understand half of what they’re saying-”
“Luke,” You softly interject in his rushed rant, running a careful hand down his arm, “No one expects you to be perfect. You’re still a child, you’ve not even taken your A-Levels yet.
He nods solemnly.
“I know that it feels like the weight of your family legacy rests on your shoulders, but if you also defer inheritance it will be just fine. You have, what — like, ten siblings?” He gives a little laugh at your reasoning, “Plus, Laena and Baela, and Rhaena who could take over after your father.”
Luke nods, “I suppose you’re right,” He elbows you gently in the ribs, “You’re pretty wise, you know?”
It's your turn to laugh, nudging him back, “So, what do you want to do after school?”
He traces mindless little stars into the railing, “I’d really like to study music. Some of my friends and I have been playing together, and we’re talking about starting a band.”
“That's really cool, Luke!” You beam.
He smiles sheepishly, “I mean, it's nothing grand yet. We haven’t decided a name, and we’re a bit at odds about a genre.”
“Well,” You smile, “When you lot play, let me know. I’ll be in the front row!”
The calm quiet is broken when the door to the balcony opens, “Luke, darling. Mummy needs you.”
You both turn to see Alicent peering out of the doorway, body still inside the ballroom. Her arm slips around your waist in an endearingly maternal way as the three of you make your way back towards Rhaenyra.
“How are you, lovely?” She asks, rubbing between your shoulder blades. Her pear and saffron perfume, Guidance Amouage, floods your olfactory senses.
“Well!” You reply, leaning into her warm touch, “This is all so wonderful. I’m very glad Jace invited me.”
She smiles back, “Me too.”
Being a guest of the host by extension, you’re required to stay for the duration. So, you watch people dissipate as your energy dwindles. By the end of the night, nearly eleven, your upright position relies heavily on the support of Jace’s arm around your waist as he chats with his grandmother, Rhaenys. Politics, environmentalism, blah blah, drivel, drivel. You might do more to participate if the five hours of nonstop interaction and three glasses of champagne weren’t pulling your body towards the ground, but you settle for little engaged nods.
The car is less crowded on the way back — much to everyone's chagrin, Aegon called an Uber halfway through the gala. You’re allowed the front seat, and spend most of the ride dozing off to the tune of The Velvet Underground & Nico, 1967.
You sleep in Jace’s bed that night, despite your own quarters being directly across the hall.
When Jacaerys realises he’s in love with you, you’re crying in the library stairwell.
“I’m fucked,” You sob into your hands, shoulders shaking with the force of your misery.
You had been studying together, preparing for the rest of your midterms when a notification came through your school email with an updated exam grade.
Sheer terror, cold unyielding panic that starts just below your throat and twists its way down your spine and back into your lower intestine. The grade was a forty-two, which brought your total grade down to a fifty-eight.
In the least melodramatic way possible you’d shut your laptop and told Jace you were going to the bathroom. But the bathroom was at the back of the room, and you had gone to the hallway — plus, he just knew better.
Gentle footsteps, you see his Sambas first and hear the crack of his knees as he sits next to you on the stair step.
“You’re not fucked,” He murmurs back, his voice low and soft. One arm comes around your stooped shoulders, the soft fabric of his cardigan brushing the back of your neck, “It's only midterms, angel. This is nothing that you can’t reverse.”
The first thought in your head is easy for perpetual straight-A student Jacaerys to say, the next thought is much more self-pitying. You don't voice either, head falling to your knees.
You aren’t allowed to stay like that for long, firm hands come to your arms and pull you up. From there, they run slowly up and down — from your scapula to your bicep, over and over. And his chest blooms with warmth when you respond well, calming down. He runs his thumb over the soft skin underneath your eyes — first the left eye, and then the right — brushing away tears.
Jace’s typical form of comfort plays on his lifelong role as eldest sibling; it's usually coddling, while he mothers you and tries to problem solve. This is not that. It's something deeper, more genuinely concerned. He isn’t trying to solve your ailment, he just wants to make you feel better.
“It's just a grade,” He soothes, “It's just an exam, a midterm. This makes up maybe ten percent of your overall grade, and I know that you do well on everything else,” His head is cocked, looking at you so sweetly, “I bet it only looks this bad because it's mid-semester, your score will go up in a few weeks.”
You nod, squeezing your eyes shut as the last stray tears fall.
“You’re alright,” He whispers, leaning in to press a soft kiss to the apple of your cheek, “Hm?”
Jace is alone that night, Montblanc pen held in perfect writing posture as he journals — an exercise recommended by his mother. The highlights include:
It was gutting. I just wanted to make it better & I didn’t know how.
Inappropriate time to kiss her face, I couldn’t think of anything else.
I’m usually so good at comfort and reassurance, I don’t know what's wrong with me.
Fuck, I’m hopeless.
Things feel different to me now. Not in a particularly bad sense, just different. Maybe it's the transition from childhood friendship to adult friendship.
I read that god awful serial romance novel last holiday because grandma left it sitting out – A Wallflower Christmas by Lisa Kelypas. And I remember this passage like ‘I want you under me. I know you deserve more respect than that.’
I found it, “I want you under me. On your back. / I’m sorry. You deserve more respect than that. But I can’t stop thinking of it. Your arms and legs around me. Your mouth, open for my kisses. I need too much of you. A lifetime of nights spent between your thighs wouldn't be enough. / I want to talk with you forever. I remember every word you’ve ever said to me. / If only I could visit you as a foreigner goes into a new country, learn the language of you, wander past all borders into every private and secret place. I would stay forever. I would become a citizen of you.”
I’ve been thinking of that passage, like it's playing aloud in my head. What does that mean?
I don’t particularly feel that for her.
I get some of it, like ‘I want to talk with you forever, I remember every word you say.’ Anything else though, the romantic bits, I don’t.
Though, the kissing her face was new. It was compulsive almost, like I had to do it.
Need to call mum.
“Is it fair to you?” Rhaenyra asks through the phone. It's late, past the time she puts the little kids to bed, but she's never not answered a phone call from one of her children.
Jace sighs, worrying one of the buttons on his cardigan, “What if it ruins everything?” He asks, “What if I tell her, and she never speaks to me again and then I lose my best friend?”
“But is that fair, Jace?” She reasons, “To go about a lifetime of friendship keeping this massive secret from her? It won’t go away, my love. It will fester and fester and eat at you for as long as you know her.”
He doesn’t have a good reply to that.
“Jacaerys, I spent twenty years pining after my best friend — so long that I had time to marry, have three children, and divorce. I spent years and years suffocating in regret, because I missed my chance to tell her and build a life. I got another chance, which is very rare, and it was no less scary that time. But, I knew that if I didn’t go for it then I would never have the opportunity to live the life I had spent my entire adolescence dreaming of,” Rhaenyra sighs, “My sweet boy, don’t let this slip away because you’re afraid.”
'Tis better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all, he thinks.
When you accompany him home for summer break, hand in hand, it's with a new depth to your relationship. ‘Tis better to have loved.
not normie enough to fit in but not fringe enough to lean into being a freak, worst of both worlds, pure liminality, just the weird coworker, and unrelatable classmate. and your mutual
Real quick, can we talk about how in the two instances where we see Natsu and Lucy interacting around a bed time, Natsu stays awake until Lucy falls asleep. And how quickly Natsu responds to her even when she just says his name out of habit.
He stays awake so he can hear her. Because he couldn't during the Alvarez arc, and he thought she had died a second time.
Because the last time he was unconscious around Lucy, this was what he woke up to.
He's always listening so he doesn't miss anything ever again. So that he never has to see her like that ever again.
He waits for her to fall asleep first and makes sure he's always as close as possible.
I'd even be willing to bet he's developed some sort of insomnia or became a very light sleeper so he can still hear her.
He hovers. He's alert. All because he thought he saw her dead twice.
Just like him constantly being around to protect her after not being able to save FLucy from FRogue, he stays awake and alert because he couldn't when she was attacked by Damaria and couldn't protect her again.
He's constantly changing and adjusting to what he thinks Lucy needs from him and that's honestly amazing and very sweet.
Every time Lucy has a near death experience, Natsu changes something about himself to ensure it never happens again.
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