#appasionato

[infinit8worlds]

appasionato asked: [ TXT ] : have you been drinking? / conrad fisher to belly conklin.

[ SMS / CONTACT: connie / SENT ]: why, are you going to take care of me, connie baby??? [ SMS / CONTACT: connie / SENT ]: if you were here right now, i'm pretty sure you wouldn't be able to keep your eyes off of me. 😉 [ SMS / CONTACT: connie / SENT ]: but..... since you aren't, i'll have to drink all by myself.

[infinit8worlds]

i don’t know what i thought i’d feel when i came back to this room — relief, maybe, or some kind of clarity after everything that happened outside — but the second the door shuts behind me, everything inside me tightens all at once. it’s like the air is heavier in here, thick with the ghost of last night, with all the things we said and all the things i shouldn’t have let myself hear. of course i still want you. of course i do. those words are still lodged somewhere deep inside me, echoing in the places i’ve been trying so hard to close off, the places i thought i’d finally learned to protect. but they’re just there, pulsing like a bruise i keep pressing on even though i know it hurts. and when i look up and see @appasionato awake — sitting exactly where i left him, eyes tired like he hasn’t slept, like he’s been replaying everything too — something sharp twists in my chest. because i know him. i know that look. he’s worried. he’s waiting. he’s bracing for whatever version of me walks through the door. and somehow that makes me feel even worse, even more pulled in directions i’m so tired of stretching toward. i hate that i still notice him first, that i register the tiny details — the way his hair’s a mess from running his hands through it all night, the faint red under his eyes, the way he sits like he’s holding himself together by a thread. i hate that seeing him like this makes me wish i hadn’t gone to see jeremiah, even though i had to, even though it was the right thing to do. or at least the necessary thing. my hands still feel cold from being outside, but the rest of me is burning with guilt and confusion and that awful, familiar longing i keep pretending i don’t feel anymore. and standing here now, with him looking at me like that — soft, wrecked, hopeful in the way he always is right before he ruins me — i feel like i’m back at the start. like i haven’t learned a single thing. like i’m still the girl who spins in circles around the boy who never tells me the truth until it’s too late. and i don’t know how to breathe around that. i don’t know how to walk any closer. i don’t know how to walk away either.

and for a second, i just stand there, trapped between the urge to run and the urge to sink to the floor and finally let myself cry. neither feels like a real option. neither fixes anything. because the truth is, i’m so tired of all of this — of feeling like i’m the only one who keeps getting caught in the crossfire of what he says and what he doesn’t say, what he feels and what he never admits until it’s already too late for it to matter. i’m tired of pretending that his words don’t still get inside me, curling around every bruise he left behind and making them ache all over again. and when his eyes meet mine — really meet mine — i feel it. that shift. that pull. the one i’ve been trying to outrun since last summer. it’s ridiculous how fast it happens, how fast everything in me reacts to him, like my heart recognizes him before my head has a chance to remember why i shouldn’t. i take a step forward because standing still hurts, but moving closer hurts too. he opens his mouth like he’s about to speak, like he’s about to apologize or explain or make excuses, and i can’t let him yet. i can’t let him say anything before i say what i came back here to say. because if he talks first, i know i’ll fold. i know i’ll believe him. i know i’ll break in the exact same shape i always do. so i force myself to breathe, to steady my voice, to pretend i’m not falling apart from the inside out. and then — finally, quietly — ❛❛ hey. ❜❜ the word comes out thin, like it had to squeeze its way through everything piled in my throat. he answers back — soft, gentle — and it makes something tremble in me that i wish didn’t still care. i shift my weight, fingers tightening around the strap of my bag because i need to hold onto something, anything, to keep from shaking. ❛❛ um… i think we should talk. ❜❜ the room seems to freeze, like even the air is waiting. ❛❛ about last night. ❜❜ my voice wavers, but i keep going. ❛❛ about what you said. ❜❜ i swallow hard, feeling my pulse everywhere. ❛❛ i need to know if any of it was real. ❜❜ the look on his face stings, but i don’t stop. i can’t. ❛❛ or if you said it because everything was falling apart. or because you knew it would mess with me. ❜❜ my chest tightens, my eyes burn, but the words come anyway. ❛❛ i just… i deserve to know which one it is, conrad. because i'm honestly so tired. and i need you to be honest with me for once in your life. can you do that? ❜❜

[infinit8worlds]

[txt] hey. things have been so crazy at the hospital but i think of you often. just wanted you to know that.

[SMS / CONTACT: my heart 💙 / SENT ]: hey stranger… so you’re just out here saving lives and forgetting about me? rude. [SMS / CONTACT: my heart 💙 / SENT ]: i’m kidding. kind of. [SMS / CONTACT: my heart 💙 / SENT ]: i’ve been thinking about you too. like… a lot. [SMS / CONTACT: my heart 💙 / SENT ]: i miss you, conrad fisher. just hearing from you makes my whole day better. [SMS / CONTACT: my heart 💙 / SENT ]: i hope you're taking care of yourself. call me when you can, okay? i just want to hear your voice.

[infinit8worlds]

appasionato asked: international women's day and there's no greater woman than you from conrad fisher to isabel conklin

my phone buzzed against the side of the bed, and i didn’t expect it. i wasn’t even thinking about texting anyone, not today, not now, and i almost ignored it, almost let it slide by like every other random notification, but something made me look, made me pick it up, and there it was — conrad. my chest tightened before i even opened it. international women’s day and there’s no greater woman than you. i stared at the words, my thumb hovering over the screen like if i moved too fast, the moment would shatter, and i’d break the spell or something. of course conrad would say something like that. so simple, so him, and yet it hit me like a punch i wanted to feel. my stomach twisted, my heart skipped, and my mind spun through a million different things at once, like maybe he meant it, maybe he was just being nice, maybe it was both, maybe it was nothing, but somehow it felt like everything. i tried to tell myself it was just a text. it was just words on a screen. but it wasn’t just words, not when it was him.

i stared at the screen, thumb hovering, heart doing that ridiculous flip-flop it always does around him. just reply, i told myself. just say something. but everything i could type sounded wrong. thanks? too casual. thank you, that’s sweet? too stiff. and of course, that tiny, stupid part of me that still hoped he was flirting just grinned at the thought of making me squirm over a text. i started typing again: you’re… so nice. that’s really sweet of you. and i stopped. my thumb hovered. too many words? not enough? did it sound like i cared too much? or like i didn’t care enough? i deleted it, took a deep breath, and tried again. wow, conrad… that actually made me smile. thank you. better. it sounded like me. sort of. and maybe that was enough. i hit send before i could overthink it again, and instantly my stomach tightened. what if he didn’t like it? what if i sounded stupid? what if i sounded like i was trying too hard? i shoved the phone onto the bed beside me and curled up, staring at the ceiling, and of course i checked my phone again five seconds later. and there it was — no reply yet, of course, because conrad takes his time, because everything with him is slow and teasing and somehow always perfect. and i couldn’t help imagining him grinning while he typed it, imagining the way he always makes it look effortless, while i sit here twisting myself into knots over a few words.

i let out a little laugh at myself. god, why does he have this power over me? even when he’s not looking, even when it’s just a text, he somehow controls the way i think, the way i feel, the way i overanalyze everything about him. i hugged my pillow to my chest and smiled, even though my heart was still doing that stupid flip-flop, and I knew i’d be thinking about this for the rest of the day, replaying it over and over in my head. but i didn’t mind. not really. because it was him. conrad. the boy i had loved since i was twelve years old. and somehow, just him noticing me, just him sending that little message, was enough to make my whole day feel like it mattered.

[infinit8worlds]

i should’ve known the parking lot would feel too ordinary for something this devastating. there wasn’t a sunset or an ocean breeze — just beige concrete and cars baking under the sun and the indifferent hum of students drifting between exams. conrad’s car sat angled near the curb, dark paint gleaming, exactly where he’d left it that morning. for a moment, it seemed safe — like a neutral place where secrets could be kept and nothing consequential would happen. but safety was an illusion. jeremiah stood beside me — not too close, but close enough that the warmth of him was impossible to ignore. we’d been talking for what felt like forever and also like no time at all — about college tours, about what came next, about feelings we’d both tried to bury because they were too messy, too real. he looked at me with eyes that were open and honest in a way that had been rare all season, and i felt my breath catch in that familiar, aching way. i was certain then — not confused, not hesitant, not unsure — i just was certain.

and then he kissed me. not slowly. not carefully. but with a clear sense of devotion, like he wanted this to be true just as much as i did. his lips were warm. his hands were gentle. and for the first time in such a long while, i let myself believe in something that wasn’t fear or memory or half‑spoken dreams. i kissed him back. i didn’t think about how it would look. i didn’t think about timing. i didn’t think about the sparks inside me that still belonged to someone else. i just let myself fall into the moment, because it felt right — because it felt honest — because it felt like the first time in forever that something wasn’t tangled up in grief or longing or loss. but then i heard footsteps. not loud. not dramatic. not the kind of entrance that comes with a yell or a shout. just… footsteps that pulled my eyes open. there @appasionato stood. conrad. he wasn’t yelling. he wasn’t storming toward us. he just looked — like he had walked into the exact thing he had been taught to fear. his eyes found mine, and in that instant everything stopped. the heat of the pavement. the warmth of jeremiah’s body. the way my heart had felt full just seconds ago. it all vanished. his expression was too still, too composed, too hollow — like someone who had rehearsed heartbreak but never expected to actually feel it. there was no fury, no accusation, no dramatic sweep of emotion. just that stillness, like a quiet echo of a truth i’d been trying to avoid. i couldn’t breathe. jeremiah froze — lips still brushing mine, hands tense against my back — but i didn’t think about any of him. not then. all i saw was conrad’s face.

and he turned away like the waves fading away. like something irrevocable had just passed through him. my heart dropped into a pit of ice. for a moment i stood paralyzed — stunned by the way he walked off without yelling, without accusing, without even looking betrayed. it was worse than drama. it was indifference disguised as heartbreak. then i heard jeremiah’s voice — quiet and steady behind me: go after him. it wasn’t a suggestion. it was a plea — a knowing that even if conrad refused to look at me, i couldn’t just let him walk away. and so i ran. ❝ conrad! ❞ i shouted, breath trembling in my throat. my shoes skidded across the hot asphalt as i chased after him, stomach twisting, heart hammering so loudly it felt like it would burst. i wanted to tell him it wasn’t about him. i wanted to tell him i hadn’t meant to hurt him. i wanted to say so many things i didn’t even understand yet. but all i could manage was his name — over and over — like a prayer and a confession and a question without an answer. he moved faster than i expected, shoulders tight, feet pounding, heading toward the far side of the lot like this was something he could outrun. but still i followed. the sun beat down. the world blurred. his back was a thing of light and shadow and distance that my heart kept chasing even when my lungs burned.

[infinit8worlds]

appasionato asked: can we always be this close? for valentines day bonrad

valentine’s day was never really about the flowers. or the candy. or the chalky little hearts that tasted like dust and promises. for me, it was always about him. and the way he gave me the moon and the stars.

it’s strange loving someone for so long that it stops feeling like falling and starts feeling like breathing. like something your body just does without asking permission. i’ve loved conrad fisher since i was ten years old and he wouldn’t let me beat him in the pool. since he rolled his eyes at me but still waited at the bottom of the stairs so we could walk to the beach together. since he gave me that infinity necklace and said it like it was nothing. infinity. like he didn’t understand what that word would do to me. there were summers where he felt so close i could hear the exact rhythm of his heartbeat. and there were summers where he felt oceans away, even when he was standing right in front of me. i’ve loved him in both versions. the quiet one who keeps everything buried under his ribs. the jealous one. the broken one. the one who said terrible things because he was scared. the one who drove all night for me. the one who stood in a motel room and looked at me like i was something he couldn’t afford to lose.

the night by the fireplace plays in my head sometimes, slow and golden. the way his hands trembled just a little. the way he whispered my name like it meant home. the truth is, we’ve never really been apart. even when we tried. even when i told myself i was done. even when he stepped back because he thought letting me go was the noble thing to do. loving conrad has never been easy. but it has always been real. and if love is choosing someone, over and over, even when it’s hard — then i’ve been choosing him my whole life. today, he’s in the kitchen pretending he doesn’t care that it’s valentine’s day. he didn’t plan anything. but i know him. i know the way he hides sweetness behind sarcasm. i know he probably has something tucked away somewhere, waiting for the right moment. he thinks i don’t notice. i always notice. i step closer to him slowly, like i’m approaching something fragile. ❝ don’t pretend you forgot what today is, ❞ i murmur. ❝ you always act like you don’t care… but you do. you care about everything. you just hide it. ❞ i reach for his hand and lace our fingers together, pressing them between us. ❝ i used to think loving you meant chasing you. or waiting. or proving something. ❞ i swallow, my voice softer now. ❝ but it doesn’t. It’s just… this. being here with you. ❞

he shifts closer — so close i can feel the warmth of him through my sweater. and then he says it, quiet, almost like he’s afraid to break it. can we always be this close? my heart stutters. because i know what he means. not just physically. not just tonight. i lift my hand and press it flat against his chest, right over his heart. ❝ we’ve always been this close, ❞ i whisper. ❝ even when we weren’t speaking. even when we were hurting each other. even when i tried to move on. ❞ i shake my head slightly. ❝ you’re it for me, conrad. you always have been. i don’t want almosts anymore. i don’t want maybes. i just want us. like this. honest. choosing each other. ❞ I lean up, brushing my nose against his. ❝ so yes, ❞ i breathe. ❝ we can always be this close. as long as you don’t run when it gets hard. as long as you let me in. ❞ my fingers tighten in his shirt. ❝ i’m not going anywhere. not this time. ❞ and then softer, like a promise i’ve been holding since i was ten years old —

❝ i love you, conrad fisher. you and i will always be infinite. ❞

[croftborn]

' we'll be home soon. '

the voice seems distant now, a whole ocean and an island away. she remembers the voices screaming over in static when their identities were confirmed, the endurance's crew had made it out of the dragon's triangle and were embraced by the calm open waters. she remembers watching a marble rolling across the floor with the toss of the freighter along the waves. lara watched it and watched it and watched it roll back and forth - and suddenly she opens her eyes and the steel walls are gone, replaced by a lifeless gray ceiling. lights turned down, a sharp beep that plays over and over near her head.

the world is suddenly loud and bright, lighting and thunder flash from outside and all she can see is trees, blood, and fire. no ! someone screams, lara doesn't realise she's the one screaming, when hands push her shoulders down into the hospital bad. she hears a grunt, someone pins her elbow, another her knees, her side screams as she feels the warmth spill from her wound, don't fucking touch me ! let go !

then she opens her eyes again, this time the blinds are shut, the beeping is gone. she tries to sit up but her wrists ae caught, stuck, just by her hips and lara's breath hitches as she looks down at herself in a drab hospital gown, at her wrists, bound by restraints to the bedrails, at the hand claiming hers immediately and pulling her attention. her eyes track the arm it belongs to and land on @appasionato's face, and she decides she must be dreaming. she opens her mouth to speak but her voice doesn't come out and she realises her throat is parched, it hurts to even drag the air through her lips and she shakes her hands again, as if she could somehow wiggle them out of the restraints, ❝ off .. get them off ..❞ she croaks through the fog and the ache.

conrad fisher sent : [ hospital ] receiver is in the hospital, and sender sits in a chair by their bedside all through the night and holds their hand.

[infinit8worlds]

i hear him before i see @appasionato — an uneven thump up the stairs, like something’s wrong but he’s trying not to admit it.

when i round the corner into the bathroom, he’s sitting on the edge of the tub, shirtless, trying to keep the towel wrapped around his leg. i can practically hear him telling me it’s fine before he even opens his mouth. he says he got cut. that he’s okay. that he can take care of it himself. i see the blood trail up the stairs, see the way he’s favoring that side — no, this isn’t fine. my chest tightens, my hands clench. i'm not going to let him pretend anymore. i kneel down and grab the towel tighter. then i say it — sharp, irritable, more exasperated than gentle: ❝ can you just let me help you, for fuck’s sake? ❞ it comes out sharper than i meant. i see him flinch, and a little of the tension between us loosens — but not enough. he still stiffens, jaw tight. i almost roll my eyes at him. almost.

i kneel down, tugging the towel closer. my fingers tremble slightly, but i pretend they don’t. i focus on the scrape, on the sting of the saltwater hitting it, on the small, careful movements that make me feel like i’m doing something right. he doesn’t say anything. he doesn’t need to. i can feel him there, breathing unevenly, shifting just enough to make me aware of how close he is. my chest tightens. i tell myself it’s just blood and salt, just him needing help, nothing else. but my hands linger a second too long. my eyes catch his without meaning to, and i look away immediately. i turn on the water, wash the blood off his leg, and suddenly every tiny shift he makes sends a little jolt through me. his skin is warm. his breath is uneven. when the rubbing alcohol stings the cut, he leans in — just barely — onto my shoulder. i don’t pull away, not fast enough. i freeze for a second, aware of how close he is, of how much his presence presses against me. my hands linger on his leg, even though i’ve already done what i came to do. my heart is racing, but i tell myself it’s just the adrenaline, just the scrape, just the salt stinging the wound.

but it’s not.

i can feel the warmth of his shoulder against mine, his steady, uneven breaths brushing over my arm, and i realize i’ve been holding my own. holding my hands, holding my thoughts, holding everything i’ve wanted to say all summer. i want to pull back. i want to step away and act like nothing happened. but a small, stubborn part of me doesn’t. part of me wants to stay exactly like this, to memorize the feel of him leaning in, even if only for a second. i bite the inside of my cheek, trying to focus on the task — on finishing the bandage, on the antiseptic, on anything that isn’t the heat of him so close to me. when i finally step back, pretending it’s nothing, the quiet is heavy. i tell myself i’ve done my job, that he’s safe, that’s all that matters. but my chest still feels tight, my hands still feel warm, and for the first time, i notice the small ache of wanting him to stay, even just a moment longer.

and i wonder… is it always going to feel like this with him?