An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Chapters: 1/1
Fandom: Transatlantic (TV)
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Relationships: Thomas Lovegrove/Varian Fry (Transatlantic)
Additional Tags: Pre-Canon, berlin meeting
Summary:
Varian and Thomas's first meeting following the knife incident at the Berlin bar.
(Just realized I never shared this on here like I do all my other fics, so in case someone’s in the mood for something angsty with the depth only achieved at 2 am when you are bound by no rules of reason, here you go)
Hi! If you haven't already written about them maybe I'd love to read a snippet of sow jikook's married life
Hi !! i haven't written anything (yet) but i did have in mind writing a small one-shot to show their proposal and wedding. This is a short version of how I think sow! jk proposed to jm <3:
Jeongguk proposes one random Sunday morning. He wakes up late and walks into the kitchen to find Jimin sitting on a stool, wrapped around a blanket and drinking from a steamy cup of coffee. Jeongguk hugs him from behind, kisses the crown of his head like every morning while he murmurs "good morning". Jimin's "morning, angel" comes out softly, almost as if they weren't allowed to speak any louder.
They make small talk while Jeongguk makes himself some coffee, and then he sits next to Jimin, knees touching. Jeongguk listens to him ramble about the trip Jimin has been planning-- rather stubbornly, may Jeongguk add; he hasn't let him help out in the slightest, arguing that it needs to be perfect-- for their anniversary, and his chest swells. Pure adoration, that's what he feels for the man in front of him.
"Do you have any idea of how much I love you?" he blurts out, interrupting Jimin mid-speech. He halts, words hanging from his lips, and then chuckles.
"Well, that was sudden." He takes Jeongguk's hand between his own and squeezes it. I love you, too, angel."
"I mean it." Jeongguk stares into his eyes intently, making sure he understands the weight behind his words. He needs to know. "I really, really love you."
"I know," Jimin gives him a smile that lifts his cheeks, now turned rosy after spending too much time under Jeongguk's attention. "Me too."
And it's then when, despite all the mornings he's spent with Jimin just like this, even before he knew the shade of their love, that something snaps in Jeongguk. The strings holding him back, the what if's.
He cups Jimin's face, holding him like water in his hands, and he presses his forehead against Jimin's. He doesn't dare close his eyes, though, not wanting to miss a single detail of his lover, all the intricate lines that have drawn him against the morning light.
"I would die for you," Jeongguk whispers, capturing Jimin's lips into a short, sweet kiss. "I love you, I love you, I love you."
Jimin laughs, high-pitched like every time he's so embarrassed he's left speechless, and Jeongguk loves him a little bit more. "What's gotten into you, huh?"
"I just love you." Another kiss. "I don't think you understand how much- I would literally marry you right here, right now."
"You're so dramatic. You wouldn't actually do that," Jimin says through a huff, trying to turn his head to the side to hide how flushed his face is, but Jeongguk doesn't let him.
Gently, he forces Jimin to look him in the eye again. "Jimin-ah."
Jimin hums. Jeongguk feels the warmth his smile radiates on the palms of his hands, and his heart constricts in his chest. He's shining gold, lavender under Jeongguk's fingertips.
"Marry me," Jeongguk says quietly. Nobody else needs to know. "I'm tired of waiting."
"Are you serious?" Jimin asks, breathless.
He nods. Jimin closes his eyes and takes a deep shuddering breath, and then he says, "Ask me again."
Jeongguk breaks into a smile. He clears his throat and lets go of Jimin's face to take his hand instead. Then, he lowers himself to the floor on one knee, and holding onto the love of his life, he repeats the only question he's never been scared to ask. Not after that spring under the cherry blossoms and that summer by the coast.
Like birds of a feather, they're made for each other.
--
Ironport Maximum Security Center is the biggest prison all across North America, notorious for holding the continents most dangerous supers. Arthur has found himself sentenced to life, for crimes he committed, and was chained to his cell. He could barely think, he couldn't move, and he couldn't hear. That was all okay though, because he only planned on staying there for a few weeks.
After all, what kind of mate would Alfred be if he didn't rescue him from this mess. Especially when they had a little one on the way.
Coolant smells like syrup when it gets hot. Elliot’s car had a leak, and, standing in NAPA’s parking lot, his hip warming on the hood, the smell made him hungry. He could picture it: a steady drip of blue liquid sizzling down the metal ribs of the radiator, burning off to leave behind a greasy stain that smelled like Monday mornings. Back when he was still a kid, he’d drowned his Eggos in brown stickiness. Not maple syrup. Pancake syrup—the cheap stuff that tasted like someone yelled the word “maple” near the bottles. No butter. Just eggy, freezer-burned toaster waffles and processed sugar. Christ, waffles would be fantastic. Monday, four AM, two hours of sleep, he waited with a stale cup of coffee for the weekly parts delivery. To Elliot’s left, hunched into her phone, Mom dug into whatever poor sap was working dispatch from the warehouse. Their driver was an hour late.
“Pretty damn sure he’s not here,” she said. “It’s me and my guy and one empty fucking parking lot.” Her breath huffed each syllable into the air as harsh clouds, their lazy dwindling giving way around each new word. “Can you see something I don’t? Cuz I’d love whatever magic you have there if that’s the case.”
“Still empty, boss,” Elliot said.
She wasn’t paying attention—or, if she was, she had no time for him. Better that way. Elliot and the other under-twenties might call her “Mom,” but they knew where lines were drawn. There was no joking with the boss when she got like this. When she’d started the call, she’d pulled her hair back and off her neck, tying it into a messy bun with the scrunchie she kept on her wrist. The universal in-store sign for “shit’s about to go down.” No one who worked the counter stuck around when the boss lady was set on a task. Not if they wanted to be part of the problem. If it weren’t for the cold, the early hour, the not knowing who was on the other end of the phone, Elliot might have bothered to feel sorry for whoever Mom was chewing out. Instead, he drank his coffee.
“Fuck your GPS,” Mom said. She snapped her fingers at Elliot without looking at him, pointing to the cup balanced on the roof of his car. Get coffee. Bring coffee. She didn’t look up when she took the cup from him either.
“You’re welcome,” Elliot said.
Mom had called last night after the newbie flaked, and he couldn’t say no to her. She’d shown up with McDonald’s coffee and a pocketful of sugar packets as a thank you for his reliability. Watching Mom, her phone pinned between her shoulder and ear, tearing first one packet of sugar, then another, with her teeth, he wondered if she’d called anyone before him. Eric was only part time. Yvette was in charge of the drivers and wouldn’t bother answering a call before her six AM clock-in. No one but Elliot trusted Wilder. No, Elliot was sure, he was the only one to call. There was pride in that knowledge, and, beneath that, a bitterness. He turned to the empty lot, the street, the squat, concrete buildings past that. The sky was still dark enough that morning felt like a suggestion more than a certainty. Past the golden haze of light pollution, the moon backlit a patch of clouds like a flashlight pressed against a quilt, the cotton guts picked out with softened light. Somewhere, a few blocks down, a train horn peeled back the quiet. They weren’t that far from the train station, logistically speaking. Past the abandoned La Michoacana market across the street, its painted, sombreroed mascot peeling off the front window, through the two neighborhoods it used to feed, down a half-paved road that ran parallel to the tracks, was the station with its two passenger lines. Those lines saw more freight than people. How many times had Elliot joked with Wilder about doing the hobo thing and hopping a train car? Stow away with some Fords and hitch a ride wherever they were going. To LA, The Bay, The Ocean, The End—whatever that was.
“You got somewhere to be, Major Tom?”
Mom was off her phone and staring at him over her paper cup, arms folded across her chest, waiting. Ever since he was little, Elliot had the tendency to drift, easily taken with a thought, a sound, a smell, until he had followed his fancy down a rabbit hole and came back to the world, unsure of where he was or how he’d gotten there. Distractible, America said. Always so distractible. But Mom didn’t look impatient or concerned, just amused.
“Tired,” Elliot said.
“Delivery will be here in thirty.”
They both turned to the parking lot, looking up the street, as if doing so would summon the blue semi that much sooner.
“Can I nap in my car?”
She cocked an eyebrow at him, her gaze on his cup, then him, his face. Could she see the dark circles behind his glasses? Did she care?
“Kid your age shouldn’t be tired,” Mom said.
Elliot shrugged and took a long pull from his coffee. It burned its way down his throat to his chest, settling, hot and molten in his stomach until he bent double with the pain.
“Kid your age should be smarter,” Mom said.
Elliot could hear the smile in her voice. “Thanks, boss,” he said, digging a fist into his gut to dislodge the lump of fire.
“You’re smart,” she said finally, glancing at him sideways. “Just not very intelligent.”
Then it was only them, the quiet awkwardness of having nothing to say and nowhere to go, the thrum of Elliot’s car, one of its belts whining soft and high. And, despite the way the back of his neck itched with the clawing need to fill the silence, Elliot was almost comfortable. There were four more days until he graduated. Him and all the rest on their way and off to college or jobs or burning out. Too much, too big, and when he pictured himself next week, next month, next year: there was nothing. But, standing in that parking lot, he didn’t have to be anything more than a body filling space. That. He focused on that. There was nothing past this moment, and the next, and the next.
summary: Sometimes the people that we fall in love with aren’t the right ones for us. Sometimes the people who teach us what love means are also the ones who teach us when it’s right to let go. And sometimes letting go means letting go when you’re both still helplessly in love.
word count: 6,685
warnings: break-up; implied sexual content; referenced homophobia; mental breakdowns
author’s note: dan here! i loved this concept but i kind of ruined it, yikes. i’m not too pleased with it or the ending but whatever is floating thy goat. hope you guys enjoy! also, this is unbeta’d so all mistakes are my own, oops!
tag list: @rememberingtozier ; can you believe i’m cool enough wowowow
”I’m sorry,” Bill said, his voice gentle and unwavering. His legs dangled over the edge of the cliff of the quarry as he casted his gaze down to the still water below. His feet pressed downwards as the heels of his worn sneakers grinded against the rough surface of the rocks. His heart hung heavy in his chest, the weight of the unspoken words crushing his shoulders. He took a drag of the cigarette glued into his right hand, letting the smoke slowly bleed out of his mouth before stating it again. “I’m sorry, Stan.”
“Don’t be,” Stan whispered. He sat within arm’s reach of Bill but they felt so far apart. Stan looked up to meet Bill’s own eyes but was met with the bowed head of shame. The curly-haired boy wasn’t sure of what to say or do. Everything, in this very moment, was being exposed and torn apart for what it truly was. The night silence hung between the two boys, vacant and open and ready for them to speak. After a few minutes had past, Stan ran his hands up and down his jean-clad thighs nervously before his voice broke out into a stutter. “D-Do you remember?”
Bill leaned against his own desk, arms folded over his chest as he took a deep breath inwards. Stan was sitting on the edge of his bed, fingers wound in the rich navy blue comforter. Stan was the perfect contrast to Bill’s dreary and dark room, lightly littered with crumbled balls of paper. The boy, with his iron-pressed beige shorts and pale polo shirt, gave Bill a sense of familiarity and home.
“W-Wuh-What’s up?” Bill asked after fifteen minutes of pure silence had passed. It was ticking onwards to twelve in the morning and Bill knew that Stan had a set schedule at a set time. He'd try to help the boy in order to get him out and into his system. Stan began to tap his index finger and his thumb together in a series of three's. Three rapid taps, a second of silence, followed by three slower taps. It was something that Bill had noticed the boy did whenever he got extremely nervous. Bill pursed his lips momentarily before taking a deep breath and pushing himself off of the desk and moving to sit next to Stan. The other quickly flinched, his hands covering his face before he inhaled shakily and let them fall.
‘Something's wrong,’ Bill noted as he gently placed his hand on Stan's thigh. ‘Something's really, really wrong.’ Stan drew in a shuddering breath before looking up at Bill and the elder noticed the tears that were forming in the corners of Stan's eyes. His hazel eyes were glassy and distant as if he was trapped replaying something over and over again in his head. Bill frowned, rubbing his thumb soothingly along the top of Stan's thigh, gentle yet steady enough. Stan let his eyes flutter shut and leaned towards Bill for a couple moments, the tension in his body dissipating.
"My parents kicked me out." His voice was barely above a whisper. "They kicked me out and I just... I came here." Bill stopped his movements and kept his eyes level with Stan's.
"W-W-Why did they k-kih-kick you out?"
"They found out I'm gay." Bill's breath hitched in his throat, letting out a vocal hiss. Stan shrunk his shoulders, folding himself inwards and he let out a soft whimper. A tear slipped down his cheek but he was quick to brush it away, fearing that Bill would say or do something. He was disgusting, that much Stan knew. Why else would they do that to their only son?
"That's it?"
"No.. They found out something else. They found out about this guy and they-" Stan's voice broke off with a whimper and Bill reached upwards to snake his arms around Stan's torso to pull him closer. They sat there with Bill's chin resting on top of Stan's head and Stan's trembling hands clutched into Bill's shirt. Quiet cries filled the nightly air, slowly faltering as soon as Stan took a deep breath. He pulled away from Bill and began tapping once again. Taptaptap.. tap-tap-tap. "Richie wrote me a note in AP History. It said something along the lines of 'damn Uris, stare the boy down any longer and you'll cream your pants' or something along those lines." Stan let out a soft chuckle at the memory of his best friend's wiggling eyebrows as he flushed a deep red. "I guess I forgot to toss it and Father found it when he went into my room. Then, uh, things happened." His voice cracked and let out a shaky sigh. "Things happened and I'm here now."
"There's some p-p-pajamas of yours in the clos-s-set. Change into t-them and we'll watch a mo-o-ov-vie." Bill changed the subject, nodding his head towards the closet in the far corner of his bedroom. He had clothes suited for every Loser packed away in some area of his bedroom. Richie, Eddie, and Mike all had a shared drawer in Bill's dresser. Ben and Beverly shared a tote that was tucked away beneath Bill's bed and Stan, meticulous about the state of his clothing, had it hung in Bill's closet. Bill watched as Stan moved out of the bedroom, probably aiming for the bathroom. He glanced over at the clock that blared a bright red '12:46 AM' and sighed deeply. He moved to pull his sheet and blanket downwards and slid into the right side of the bed, closest to the wall before plopping his head down on his pillow and staring up at the ceiling. His parents wouldn't bother him about Stan in the morning. They didn't really care about what he did in his free time - or any time, really. As long as he wasn't causing them stress or dead, they really couldn't care less about his state.
"Bill?" Stan whispered, startling Bill into looking into his direction. Stan looked nervous as Bill stared at him expectantly. Bill knew what Stan was referencing so he held his arms open and watched as his best friend relaxed. Stan slowly climbed into the bed, facing Bill with his hands folded beneath his head just like a pillow. Bill chuckled, turning fully onto his side with one arm folded over his torso and the other tucked beneath his pillow. The two boys sat there in silence, letting the emotions locked in their eyes speak for them.
“So… No m-mm-movies?” Bill asked as Stan's eyes began to glass over with exhaustion. He let out a soft huff of air, signaling a slight sound of laughter. Bill moved his arm from his torso to push a strand of Stan’s hair out of his face. “I'll take that as a no. Goodnight, S-St-S-Stan.” Stan let out a soft noise of content, his lips twitching at the light touches that Bill let linger on his skin and made no move to pull away. Bill smiled softly at his friend, his heart clenching at the idea of how much pain Stan was going through. The struggle of just merely having OCD was hard enough. Now, Stan didn't have the strength or energy or place to soothe the urge of his compulsions. He was accepting his sexuality but that meant the rejection and heartbreak of those who he thought would love him forever. Then there was the basic stress of friendships, of school, of everything. Bill let out a soft sigh and dropped his hand back down to land on the bed. He was truly aching for his friend.
When Stan woke up the next morning, he was tucked snugly into Bill’s torso, his leg slipping between Bill’s own. Stan attempted to pull away, ashamed, but Bill, with his feigned sleepiness, pulled him back in. Perhaps they could pretend, just for a moment, that things would be okay. Just for a moment.
"Remember what, ex-ex-eeh-exactly?" Bill asked, lifting his head to look at Stan. Stan was staring up at the sky, his eyes narrowed and face relaxed in a saddened frown. Raindrops began to trickle down from the skies, a few drops landing on Stan's flushed cheeks. Bill looked over the boy, staring as if this was going to be the last time he met with Stan and he didn't want to forget /anything/ about the boy he once loved. Stan's curls framed his face perfectly, clearly taking a strange form of leaning to the right from how often the boy ran his hand through his hair. His hands were resting behind him, supporting his weight as he remained in the same position. His knuckles were bruised and scabbed from a fight that no one suspected. No one suspected that Stan would throw the first punch. Or the last. Bill's frown deepened at the thought of Stan mirroring his own trait of jumping into a fight rather than acknowledging the feelings behind it. The sleeves of the hoodie that Bill gave him ended just before the knuckles, illuminating the boy's frail frame. The hoodie was a pure black one with the words 'Derry High Athletics' embroidered in large, white font on the front. On the back of the hoodie, the number 7 and Bill's last name were embroidered in thick white font. It was Bill's baseball hoodie that Stan had clung onto. A sense of pride and possession exploded in his chest at the sight followed quickly by sadness. Bill's eyes grew damp as he remembered that Stan wouldn't want to wear the hoodie anymore. Not when it branded him with something that he didn't want.
"Us." Stan finally said, his eyes open and now turning to look back at Bill. They maintained eye contact, blue getting lost in hazel, before Stan gave a smile. A smile filled with fond memories and an aching heart. "Y'know the us before all this. Before all the screaming and the fighting. Before the stress of moving, of graduating, of all this. The us that was so in love and so, so happy." A lump swelled at the lump of Bill’s throat as he nodded in agreement. His eyes flickered to Stan’s fingers drumming against the damp rocks and he felt a compulsion to hold his hand.
“I-”
“Don’t.” Stan pulled his feet from over the edge and folded them beneath himself, pushing his hands off the ground to rest against his thighs. He shook his head and let the curls fall into his face to cover his eyes before drawing a deep breath. “Don’t do that.” His voice wavered.
Bill watched Stan with admiration every single time that the boy wasn’t looking. All their friends teased Bill for being so fucking in love and refusing to admit it to Stan (who stared at him just the same). Stan was laughing loudly, his cheeks tinted pink from the sun’s rays. Richie was next to him, his fingers clutched in his other hands. He was dramatically reenacting a scenario from his earlier shift at the theatre. Bill was drowning out his friends voice, focusing on the way that Stan's face bore every emotion he was feeling.
“Billiam!” Richie shouted, throwing his shoe at the other boy. Bill, with startled red cheeks, looked up to his grumpy friend. Richie towered over Bill’s sitting frame, arms folded over his chest. “Stop watching him and pay attention to me!” Bill shifted his eyes to the side, his lips curled in a displeased smile. He turned his eyes back to his friend and began watching him, Stan's figure sitting in the corner of his eyes.
“I've got to go home,” Eddie whined, rolling his eyes as Richie pouted about being interrupted. It was obvious how much Eddie hated being home; it was almost as bad as Bill’s dislike. Richie turned on his heel and chirped at Eddie.
“We mustn't delay the venture any longer, my good maiden!” Richie extended his arm to Eddie who just shoved it out of the way and mumbled ‘shut up’. Richie turned to Mike with an over-exaggerated defeated look on his face, clearly trying to will the boy into tagging along. Mike sighed quietly and pushed himself to his feet, allowing Richie to pull him up. He swung an arm around Richie’s shoulders and walked towards Eddie, smiling at the small boy who was ranting about something. If anyone noticed the way Richie’s shoulders relaxed and he stopped needlessly chattering, no one said anything.
“I'm going to put get ice cream!” Stan suddenly spoke, pushing himself off the rocks of the quarry. He turned to Ben and Beverly, blushing at the wink Bev gave him. “Does anyone want to come along?”
“Mm, no.” Beverly glanced up at Stan before nodding her head towards Ben. “Mister Hanscom here promised me a sneak peek into his journals so I must hold him to that. You and Bill enjoy yourselves.”
Bill opened his mouth to argue with Beverly before Stan turned to him with hopeful eyes. “You wanna come?” The sound of Bill jumping off the rocks was answer enough for Stan. He waved goodbye to the couple before turning to Bill.
“You don't have to come. I know Bev made it seem like you do.” Stan's voice held a hint of sadness. Bill shook his head, knocking his shoulder against Stan’s with a wide grin.
“I'm coming,” he confirmed before picking his bike up off the ground. He turned to watch Stan climb on to his own bike before shouting, “Away we go, Silver!” Stan let out a quick burst of laughter before speeding past Bill, shouting something along the lines of ‘Last Loser pays!’ The two boys biked down to the Derry Waterside, a local restaurant that the Losers frequented. When they got there, the smile of familiarity grew on Bill’s face. Here he was, sitting in a place of good memories with the one person he loved most.
“Let's go,” Stan called, setting his bike against the side of the building as Bill dropped his own down onto the pavement of the parking lot. Bill scrunched his face at Stan's rolling eyes, wishing he clued make a witty comment in response. Nothing was coming to mind other than the fact than Stan was hanging out with him because he wanted to. “Bill, C’mon!” Bill snapped out of his trance before following Stan.
They were greeted by a shout of their names, the owner of the shop smiling fondly as he saw the two boys. “Where's the rest of ya’?” The owner Demetrius asked. “Thought ‘ere was seven.” The Waterside was frequently filled with small families and young teenagers on dates but Demetrius always got to know his frequent customers. He referred to Stan as the respectful one, Bill as the leader, Bev as the troublemaker, Ben as the kind one, Mike as the surprisingly patient one, and Richie as Hurricane Tozier. The nickname he used for Eddie, although often in private, was Drama Queen.
“The others are momentarily busy, sir. Bill and I were just hoping for some ice cream.” Bill nodded lamely at Stan’s words, admiring as the boy interacted with their older friend. Stan was flawless and impeccable, his maturity and respect for elders oozing through his very presence. He slapped a handful of quarters onto the counter before turning to Bill.
“Do you mind if we take our ice cream cones to go? I don’t really feel like staying here today.” Bill shook his head before walking towards the counter, giving Demetrius a gentle smile as he handed them their ice cream cones. A chocolate-strawberry mix for Bill and a french vanilla for Stan. Demetrius took the change with a gentle shake of his head and bidded the two boys a good day. They called out to the older man before leaving the restaurant, Bill already with ice cream on the tip of his nose.
“Whaddya wa-anna d-d-do?” Stan turned to Bill, reaching a finger out to swipe the small blob of ice cream off the boy’s nose. Stan looked ridiculously perfect in the moment. His tongue was swiping along the ice cream cone, keeping it a fair distance to not spill it over his clothing. His dumb, dumb ironed thigh shorts and his meticulously ironed button up. Bill stared in admiration, thoughts rolling over his mind on a constant run. When the shorter boy pulled his finger back to stare at it momentarily, Bill blurted his train of thoughts out.
“Date me.” Two simple words. Two simple words that made the world freeze. Stan looked up with melting ice cream on the tip of his tongue, eyes wide with Bill’s melted ice cream still coating his finger. He stared at Bill, mouth dropped in shock as the other boy’s cheeks flamed with red. Bill opened his mouth to counter his statement before Stan nodded.
“Yes-” Stan couldn’t finish his statement without blushing furiously so he turned his gaze to the ice cream cone he was currently eating. They stood there, Stan with red cheeks and Bill with a sudden urge to jump for joy. When Stan refused to look up at Bill calling his name, Bill couldn’t help but to frown.
“Am I s-so irres-si-sistibile that you can’t even l-l-look at me?” Bill joked and Stan swiped his finger across his face with a stifled laugh.
¤
“You didn’t le-let me f-f-finish,” Bill countered, his lips curling into a slight pout. He kicked his legs back repeatedly against the cliff, the feeling of his heels crashing painfully against the rocks distracting him from the pain that burrowed in his chest. Stan shook his head, a light chuckle slipping from between his lips.
“I don't have to, baby.” The pet name twisted in Bill’s chest but he blinked the growing tears away. Stan wasn't often keen on using sappy pet names except he knew how it always made Bill feel loved and feel safer - how everything always felt a little more bearable to him. The realization of everything was finally beginning to settle into his bones and everything in Bill screamed to run. He clenched his eyes shut before feeling Stan’s freezing hand against his flushed cheeks. He felt the fingers slowly turn his face to meet Stan’s eyes. The boy was a mere few centimetres away, reminding Bill of all the times they sat this way. “I know you, William. I know you'll apologize because you think this entire thing is your fault and I know you'll shut down on me.”
“Talk to me, Billy.” Stan’s voice was level and firm as he stared at the lump in the bed. Bill had his blanket pulled taut over his frame, leaving a small gap for fresh air. An empty bag of chocolate chips was on his night table along with a half empty bottle of cough syrup. Stan stood over Bill with a frown, his arms folded over his chest. They hadn't seen each other in days because Bill would refuse to let anyone in. He would avoid them in school, deliberately taking paths that he knew the Losers took. It just meant he had a few run-ins with a newer set of bullies.
“Bill.” Stan's voice was now growing impatient and Bill could almost see him tap against his forearm. After a few moments, Stan tucked his hands into the small opening and yanked it up. Bill was curled up in a ball, his arms curled around his torso, hugging himself. Stan winced at the scent of stale sweat but took a deep breath before slipping to lay next to Bill. He pulled the blanket over himself as well, leaving them nowhere to be except with each other.
“You're shutting me out,” Stan whispered, reaching over to run his thumb along Bill’s cheek. Bill turned his head to burrow into the sheets but Stan prevented him from rolling away. He grabbed Bill by his forearms and yanked him closer, rolling onto his back in the middle of doing so. After a few minutes of struggled grunts and unintentional smacks to the face, Stan had Bill completely on top of him and had his hands around the boy’s torso. Bill’s head was tucked into the crook of Stan’s neck, his chest pressed against Stan’s and his legs intertwined with Stan’s. Stan slipped a hand beneath Bill’s too-large shirt and began to draw small shapes on the small of the back, soothing the trembling boy. “Please don’t shut me out, Billy.”
Bill broke.
Tears began streaming down his cheeks as broken sobs slipped from his lips and he cried into Stan’s neck. Stan pressed his lips to his boyfriend’s head and whispered soft reassurances of love and happiness. They stayed there, Bill clinging onto Stan for dear life and Stan refusing to move.
“I-I-It hu-urts,” Bill whined, his throat hoarse and his stutter worse. He moved his hands to the base of Stan’s neck, twirling the stray strands between his fingertips. Stan wasn't one for having people touch hi s hair but judging from the sedated looking he gave Bill, it was okay this time around. Stan let out a gentle hum as Bill struggled around his words, cursing his stutter for getting worse when he was upset. “I h-h-heh-hate being s-s-so u-u-u-unwanted b-by t-t-t-them.”
“I know, Bill.” Stan sighed gently, sliding his hand up to the centre of Bill's back. He dug his nails into the flesh and began scratching lightly. “And I know it's not the same but we're here. Richie and Mike and Beverly and Ben and Eddie. And me. I'm here for as long as you want me to be here, baby.”
Bill's cheeks flared up a crimson red as he moved his hand blindly to jab Stan in the side. Stan squealed loudly, immediately jolting causing Bill to slide down to his left side. Bill laughed loudly, his eyes narrowing as a wide grin stretched across his face.
“Did you just stab me?” Stan shrieked, causing Bill to let out an effeminate giggle. He buried his face in Stan's shoulder, stretching his arms across the boy’s waist before mumbling.
“Stop c-ceh-calling m-m-me baby.” Stan angled his head awkwardly to look at Bill, noting the twitching smile and flushed cheeks before shaking his head.
“No, I don't think I will.” Bill let out a whine in protest but he failed to disguise the growing smile on his face. “I think my Billy likes being called baby. In fact, I think he likes pet names, don't you?” Bill's cheeks flushed darker as he nodded. Stan chuckled lightly before pulling himself away from Bill, wrinkling his nose.
“As much as I like cuddling you, you need to shower. C’mon, shower and I'll make you breakfast.” Bill nodded in defeat, letting Stan drag him out of the bed. Truth be told, he knew he looked and smelt terrible. His hair stuck up in wild directions and the right side of his face was still caked in dried blood from an altercation with a bully a few days ago. He hadn't showered or brushed his teeth in days - he just didn't have the energy or motivation to do so. Stan pulled him into the bathroom, pressed a kiss to his forehead and closed the door.
When Bill walked into the kitchen in fresh, clean clothes, he was greeted with the sight of Stan pouring him his favourite cereal. He smiled fondly before walking over to press a kiss to the curly-haired boy’s cheek.
“You're w-wearing my s-s-s-shirt,” Bill commented, smirking. Stan was wearing his faded black shirt and it hung down to the middle of this thighs, making Bill snort at the image it created out of context.
“Get your mind out of the gutter, Bill,” Stan scolded as he turned to hand Bill the bowl of cereal. “I knew I was going to have to drag you out so I had to wear something that could get damaged.”
“I know.” Bill took the bowl and before he could turn around, Stab pulled him into a sweet, gentle kiss. It was over as quickly as it started. Bill chased after Stan’s lips blindly, eyes still closed. Stan slipped two fingers over Bill’s lips, shaking his head.
“Eat your food, Denbrough. Then we need to talk.”
“Yeah yeah, princess.” Bill didn't miss the way Stan’s cheeks grew to match the colour of his shirt.
“It's not the right time,” Bill said after a few minutes of silence, his hand lifting to curl around Stan’s.
“Nor are we the right people.” Stan’s voice was cold and drained of emotions and both of them froze at the harshness of what he said. Bill’s eyes filled with shame and Stan slowly caressed his thumb along the redhead’s cheekbone. “At least, not right now. Not with my..” Stan’s voice cracked and he pulled himself away from Bill’s gaze to look down at the water of the quarry. After he had recollected himself, he looked at Bill and took a deep breath. “Not with my hyper fixations and your inability to just let yourself love.”
”This is bullshit!” Stan screamed, raising his hands to yank at the hair on the sides of his head. He was pacing in Bill’s living room, his throat raw. Bill was sitting on the counter adjacent adjacent to his living room. He stared at Stan, arms folded over his chest and face void of emotions.
“S-So it's t-t-true.”
“No, Bill, you don't get to say that.” Stan's hazel eyes were brimmed with tears and his normally kept hair was sticking out in wild directions. His shirt was untucked and unbuttoned to the third button, creating a mixed image for Bill to look at. Here was his boyfriend, normally kept together and calm, whining and looking he just walked out of a frat house. Bill pursed his lips, tilting his head before shaking it and tensing up even more. Stan stared at him expectantly, waiting for him to reply. They were fighting over Bill’s accusation of Stan finding better people to be with and Stan was defending his position of hanging out with Mike and Ben. Stan had stormed into Bill’s house, eyes dark as he demanded to know why his boyfriend was ignoring him.
“It's true.”
“You don't get to do that! Not when I've been trying to see you for days and you've been blowing me off and hanging out with Bev and Richie to get drunk, high - I don’t know! I'm sorry I didn't tell you but they're my friends too.” Stan was a few feet away from Bill, his chest rising and falling. He looked frantic, all of his pent up emotions finally spilling out. Stan wasn’t normally one to talk but he was working on it. Working on his biggest fear of being open just to be close to Bill. And Bill was just shutting down, ignoring everything that Stan was trying to say. To say at the very least, they were terrible at communication. Stan just wanted the confirmation of Bill loving him back and Bill just wanted the confirmation of Stan wanting him and not just using him for his own personal gain.
“Whatever.”
“This isn't fair, Bill! You don't get to do this! We all have issues and you're using yours to blame me!” Bill’s eyes grew dark as he moved towards Stan with balled up fists. His thoughts shut down and he bit down on his tongue, the bitter taste of blood quickly filling the insides of his mouth.
“I get it. It's hard to talk, I know. But I can't be the only one trying to talk. If that’s how things are going to be then we’re not going to work!”
The next few moments skipped by in a blur, ending with Stan pressed against the wall and Bill’s hands pressed against Stan’s chest. He didn’t say anything, his words burning at the tip of his tongue. Stan had fear flashing in his eyes and Bill let go, staggering backwards. A lump swelled up in his throat and he felt like a monster. He pulled himself back to reality and ran out of his front door, full sprint, ignoring Stan’s cries of his name. He was suffocating and he wasn’t sure what he was going to do. He was a terrible person and didn’t deserve Stan.
Not if he was willing to do something that could have come close to hurting him.
”You know I-”
“I know. You did and maybe you still do and I know I did, I do, and I will always-” Stan pulled his hand away from Bill’s cheek and sighed. A stray tear slipped down Stan’s cheeks as he took a deep breath. “I will always love you.” Bill glanced over with a scrunched face before Stan gave him a sad smile. After what felt like eternity, Stan stood up and began to nibble on the peeling skin on his lip.
“Staaann, “ Bill whined pathetically, clenching his eyes shut as he felt his boyfriend’s arms tuck around his waist. Bill was working on a painting while Stan was across the room, working on scholarship applications.
“I've missed you,” Stan mumbled, his face hidden by Bill’s overalls. “and I can't help it when you look so good.” For a sweaty, tired mess, Bill did look good. He had black overalls on, the strap of the left side slipping down his arm. His shirt was tattered, a once vibrant orange was now a pale red. His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, showing off the paint splatters over his forearms. He had paint smeared across his cheeks and his fingertips, both dried and wet. Bill turned around to look at Stan who was staring back up with a sympathetic smile.
“You're just s-s-saying that,” Bill commented, rolling his eyes as Stan shook his head. The shorter boy rocked up onto his tippy-toes to slide an arm around Bill’s neck while the other was left to curl into the front of the overalls. Stan shook his head once again, tilting his head and raising his eyebrows.
Bill dipped down, his paint-covered fingers curling around Stan’s waist. He slid his hands beneath the fabric of Stan’s t-shirt, greeted by a band of skin that was flaming hot. His lips hovered over his boyfriend's for a few moments before Stan let a whine out and pulled Bill down hastily. Their lips molded together perfectly, filled with desperation and sexual tension. Stan flicked his tongue along Bill’s lower lip, making the boy gasp out in shock. Their tongues slipped against each other and Bill moved backwards, stumbling towards the bed. The reminder of his parents not being home - god knows where they went - blared at the back of his mind and Bill grinned against Stan’s lips.
“Yes,” Stan breathed against Bill’s smile before pulling away. His knees hit the edge of the bed. “Please, just yes.” Bill guided his boyfriend down gently, pressing his lips to Stan’s exposed neck. The quiet whimper that slipped from Stan's lip was enough to give Bill the courage he needed.
“I've missed you.” There it was. Bill wasn’t referring to the sappy, in-love Stan that he had for the months they first started dating or the gentle, quiet Stan who encouraged him through the beginning of twelfth grade. He was referring to his friend, the one who taught him how to whistle and the one who showed Bill the hidden closet in their elementary school. As much as he fell in love with Stan, he missed what they used to have. He missed the friendship that was balanced perfectly, with Stan’s maturity and Bill’s slight attitude of recklessness. He missed the young childhood innocence that they pretended to have, indulging in the memories of the past.
”I've missed you too, baby. See you later?” Stan was standing above Bill, hands shoved into the pockets of the hoodie.
“Yeah.”
Bill’s loud laughter filled Stan’s bedroom, causing Stan to slip a hand over his redhead boyfriend’s mouth. He giggled in response, watching the way Bill’s blue eyes were filling with joy and Stan couldn’t feel more in love with him. They were standing in the middle of his bedroom, Bill with his shirt off and plaid pajama bottoms on and Stan with his matching striped blue pj’s on. The soft lull of Stan’s radio was flowing through the room, falling faintly on the boys’ ears.
“You’re quite s-s-so-something, Stanley Uris.” Bill reached up to grab his boyfriend’s waist, pulling him closer. Stan shook his head, a frown on his lips before he slipped his hands onto Bill’s shoulders. Stan dropped his head to rest in the crook of Bill’s neck, a smile growing on his face. He felt the blush begin to flare up his cheeks and the tip of his ears, making it harder for him to focus on the warmth of Bill’s arms around him.
“I could say the same, William Denbrough.” Stan pulled away from the crook of Bill’s neck and stared at the older boy with a gentle smile, amusement filling his eyes as Bill began to sway with the music. Stan shook his head but allowed to let himself follow Bill’s movements.
Here they were, eleven at night, swaying in Stan’s bedroom as the rest of the house stood in silence.
“You know I-I-I l-” Bill’s mouth clamped shut and he took a deep breath in, attempting to will himself into saying the words he truly wanted to say. Despite his issues with love and abandonment, he wanted to let Stan know how he truly felt. He took a deep breath and pushed himself to say the words.
“I l-l-love y-you,“ Bill managed to get out, startling Stan. Stan looked up with wide eyes, his hands slipping from Bill’s shoulders. Bill frantically searched his mind for an apology but the words refused to leave his throat. Stan’s face of shock twisted into one of pure glee as he leapt closer to Bill, pressing his lips against Bill’s as he moved to cup his cheeks.
The kiss was soft and sweet with a hint of desperation. Bill melted into Stan, letting the shorter boy take the lead. When Stan pulled away, lips swollen and wet, Bill couldn't help but to smile back.
“I love you too, Bill.”
The Losers haven’t seen each other in weeks. Richie was cooping himself up in his bedroom, driving his fingertips to bloody stumps as he awaited an acceptance letter. Eddie was locked in his house, grounded for walking into the house at three in the morning with the glassy look of a high. Mike was busy caring for a pregnant pig that was due any day, whining about wanting to be anywhere but. Bev and Ben were tucked away in the corners of the library, eyes scanning over “OPEN HOUSE” sections of the New York Times. Stan also locked himself in his bedroom, causing the Tozier parents to grow with worry over their two sons. And Bill was simply being Bill. He was trapped between the what-should’ve-beens and what-really-is, making himself barely existing in the present. It wasn’t until he got a frantic phone call from Richie saying that everyone needed to meet up. So, the date was planned for the following Sunday.
The Sunday that marked a month since Bill last saw Stan. A month since they had that conversation.
When the Sunday rolled around, Bill was sure to be the first one to show up at the Quarry. He situated himself against the rocks away from the cliff, maintaining a heavy gaze on the spot where he and Stan once sat. He glanced away at the sound of Mike walking towards him, eyes bright and voice loud. He had his shoulder bag thrown over his shoulder and a Biology 12 textbook clutched in his hands. Bill raised an eyebrow but didn’t bother to question him. Ben came by shortly after, three cups of slushies in his hands with Beverly hot on his trail with four cups in a tray. They sat in a small circle, laughter filling the air as Ben began telling a story about the little kids that he coached soccer too. Bill couldn’t help but to let his worries slip away, allowing himself to sink into a sense of deja vu. Eddie finally came running over, his cheeks flushed as he struggled to catch his breath. He explained that his mother was relentless about letting him out but he fought back and ran out when she wasn’t looking. Ben held up a slightly melted slushed drink with a sly smirk at the way Eddie rolled his eyes. Then, after ten minutes, Richie came barreling down the road with Stan close by. Richie was grinning cheek to cheek, two pieces of paper clutched in his fists with Stan coming by with a stifled grin on his face.
“Listen up, Losers!” Richie shouted, taking the slushie out of Eddie’s hands as he sat next to the boy. Stan moved to sit next to Mike and Beverly, quietly thanking her as she handed him his own drink before glancing up at Bill. He looked terrible with dark bags beneath his eyes but the smile he gave Bill was one of contentment and happiness. It told Bill that despite everything, they were okay. They were just fine.
“Billy!” Richie whined, throwing a rock in Bill’s direction. Bill flinched, his fists raising in defense before glaring at Richie who now had his own slushie. Richie rolled his eyes before looking over at Bill with a knowing look in his eyes. “Now, Big Bill, if you’d just listen instead of moping, Stanny and I have news to share!”
“Stan?” Bill questioned, looking at the other curly-haired boy who, with pink tinted cheeks, shrugged. Bill turned his gaze back to Richie who held up the two pieces of paper up in either hand; a letter from Richie’s dream school in one hand and one from Stan’s dream school in the other. “We got accepted!” The entire Losers Club exploded with joy, Eddie squealing and wrapping his arms tightly around Richie’s waist while Ben clapped him on the back. Bev and Mike wrapped their arms around Stan, startling the boy to freezing before clearing his throat. He finally relaxed into their touch before smiling and staring at Bill.
‘Ristken,’ Stan mouthed, referencing to the letter clutched in Richie’s hand. ‘Full scholarship.’ Bill’s face twisted into a wider smile, remembering all of the times that him and Stan talked about leaving Derry and moving to their dream schools. Bill nodded before moving towards Richie to wrap him up in a hug. They all exchanged their congratulations and hugs before situating themselves back into an attempted, listening to the different stories that they’ve all missed through the past few weeks. Beverly was sitting in front of Ben, her back flushed against Ben’s chest as her feet rested on Richie’s lap. Richie was fiddling with Eddie’s hair who in turn was throwing pieces of grass at Bill. Bill was pressed up against a rock, his arms folded over his chest as he remained away from the group and its copious amounts of physical affection. Mike tapped his foot against Bill’s knee, raising an eyebrow and twitched his head to get Bill to move closer. Bill let out a gentle sigh before sliding to the end of Mike, letting the boy rest his feet on his own lap. Mike resting his head on Stan’s lap and Stan was running his fingers along Mike’s scalp. Bill glanced over at Stan once more and Stan gave him a soft smile, tilting his head slightly. The redhead let his eyes drop to Stan’s currently unusual outfit; he was wearing Richie’s jean jacket covered in patches with a hoodie beneath it.
Bill’s hoodie, to be specific.
Bill’s eyes flashed back up to meet Stan’s eyes and suddenly, everything was okay. Bill felt it; everything was going to be okay.
Sure, they weren't Bill&Stan but they were still Bill and Stan.
They don’t call him Rocket because he moves fast. In fact, he’s slower than most. More methodical. When he walks--and that’s all he ever does is walk--he keeps his head tipped up, swiveling back and forth, and his toes catch on every crack and crevice. That’s why he walks so slow; so that he doesn’t fall from looking at the world.
No, he’s Rocket for a different reason, but near as anyone can guess he’s called that because he’s always reaching for the stars. Maybe he gave himself that name as inspiration, or as a prayer. A bit of hope that he might be propelled, if only he could find the energy. He’s going to be an astronaut, that much is certain. He’s read every book on the subject available and he knows more about physics than most adults; certainly he knows more than anyone else in town. He knows about it theoretically, but also practically. Force equals mass times acceleration. A heavy shuttle needs a lot of force. A fist? Not so much.
Space is big and empty but people can’t go there except in small boxes. Rocket loves small boxes. The smaller the better (the safer). Maybe that’s why he’s stayed small so long, so that he can fit in all the tiny places. He doesn’t need to so much anymore but that doesn’t change how safe it feels to be small. He knows how it feels to curl up in a suitcase and whisper his name to the teeth of the zipper.
Nokomis always had warm hands. That’s what he remembers. That and the shape of her voice. The way it felt to hold her words in his hands. Rocket is one of his names, Nokomis is one of hers. He used to like all the ways she would call to him. The different shapes her mouth would take. He remembers being three, or perhaps two, in the time when memory isn’t supposed to be there yet but it was for him. The suitcase was gone and he was under the sink instead, resting his forehead against the cool pipe. And he was hot. He thought that maybe he had caught Nokomis’ sickness.
Momma had said once that Nokomis got sick the morning after he was born and decided to stay that way. All Rocket knew was she shut the door to her room and didn’t come out except when he cried, and even then it made her so tired she would have to lie down for days. And then she couldn’t get up again no matter how much noise he made, so he started to ration the cries. He only used them when he needed to.
But today he was quiet. It was just him and Nokomis in the small house, and That Man was at the place called work that sounded very dull to Rocket, but which he appreciated nonetheless because it meant he could be quiet for a little while.
While he was being quiet he heard footsteps creaking. He heard rustling. A sigh. More footsteps. He heard a thump and then a zipper--ah, there was the suitcase. But he wasn’t in it.
Then the cupboard door creaked open and a beam of light fell on his nose.
“I have a secret for you and the world.”
He took her large hand in his small one and she pulled him out. She set him on the couch and he picked at the duct tape and she leaned in and whispered something in his ear.
“Can you remember that?”
He nodded. Of course he would remember. He remembered everything, always and ever, tiny pictures stored in boxes in his mind.
She stood in the center of the room and looked left, and said the word again. Then turned and said it again. Four times in total, and he remembers the way her feet looked on the carpet. She had been wearing one sock with a hole in it and her other foot was bare.
Then she pulled him into a hug and kissed the top of his head and said, “I’m sorry for trying to keep it from you,” and after that she wasn’t sick anymore.
These are the things Rocket remembers. That and the long cough that made his lungs constrict and panic dash through Momma’s eyes. He remembers the way Nokomis would curse That Man, her words so violent that Rocket knew without asking that he should never say them about anyone unless he wanted them deader than dead.
But he doesn’t remember leaving.
Now he’s sure that was because he was asleep when they left. But Momma told him that what happened was he started coughing one day and got a high fever. That Man went to get some medicine, but Nokomis said things would be alright if only he could get some fresh air. So Momma put all his winter clothes on him and they went and stood in the snowbank, but still he couldn’t breathe. So they got into the truck and drove three hours and fifty-six minutes to stand in a different snow bank, but still he couldn’t breathe. So they got back into the truck and closed the door and Momma set her foot to the floor and they drove longer. A lot longer. Just looking for fresh air. And they didn’t stop except for gas and once for potato chips and water, and this is where he must have woken up because he does remember that. They were the best chips he had ever eaten.
And he was awake when they stopped in Agate just to rest--with every intention, Momma said, of going back as soon as he could breathe again. Only they never turned back around to Minnesota.
tell us more about your harry potter aus please o:
Oh man get ready cause here’s a list of all the current ones (that I’ve written down), I’ll write up a short, one or two sentence description of what they are too so you know what they’re about: “I Punched a Snake Once” AU - “Harry Potter is the first to admit that he isn’t the best at forward-thinking, but deciding to tackle a snake in the middle of the dueling club was probably one of his worst ideas yet.”
Father’s Eyes AU - (Based this one off of a tumblr post I saw) “ “Didn’t think your parents could afford new robes, Weasley.” The blond boy sneered. “Sorry,” Harry replied, “But what did you just call me?” “
HiddenTome AU - “The last thought the child had, before he plummeted to what he assumed would be his demise, was that his aunt really should keep some of those flower seeds, the Ebbot Town Golden Flower really was the prettiest he’d ever seen.”King Of Wizards AU - (Another one from a tumblr post) “Harry could only stare at the sheer amount of names on the parchment. He was barely eleven for crying out loud, and now he was head of almost a hundred wizarding families?”
Lonely Hearts Club AU - “He’d been desperate for someone, anyone to talk to, for so very long, he’d forgotten why he put himself into the diary in the first place, and the moment he saw someone else’s words on his pages, he decided that, for ending his eternal solitude, he owed this “Harry Potter” his life.”
Magictech AU - “These all came to a head one sunny day on July 24th, 2191, when a rather upset-looking owl landed on Professor Dumbledore’s desk, a letter in it’s beak. When McGonagall retold the tale later that day to a rather confused Madame Pomphrey, she made sure to get the exact tone of the outburst that followed; “He’s on Mars?” “
Mama McGonnagall AU - “ “I suppose you’re right, Minerva.” He said with a sigh. “But who can we give him to instead? The blood wards - “ “Are inconsequential.” She cut him off. “I’ll look after Harry. Hogwarts should be easily safe enough for one little boy.” “
The Adventures of Violet Dursley - (Aka my mega au and love of my life) “Violet smiled, though internally she was frowning. What kind of child acts like that, especially one thought to have saved the wizarding world? She sighed, and, though she felt a little guilty, was incredibly happy she’d chosen not to keep her last name.”
And those are just the ones that have their own folders on google docs, I also have a drabble folder, but so far it only has one story in it, called “Nothing Beats A Club”, which is once again based on a tumblr post, and is about Vernon Dursley hitting Voldemort on the head with a golf club.
The gay bar was built in the hollowed out bones of an IHOP. That’s how Jacob pitched the spot to Rat. Midnight in Jacob’s bed, just a mattress on the floor, Jacob’s fingers twined into the chain of Rat’s dog tags. He brought it up in that way Jacob had, too casual not to be planned. He was always pushing an angle.
“You’ve seen it. Out back of the Plaza. Shares the parking lot with Staples,” Jacob said.
“Yeah I’ve seen it,” Rat said. “What about it?”
“We go Wednesdays,” Jacob’s head rested in the bend of Rat’s shoulder, but now he glanced up. Jacob’s face was roughened and boyish. Large blue eyes, nose bent crooked along the bridge from too many breaks. A fading black eye set off the freckles on his pale face. When he smiled his lips pulled back on the right side to flash his missing cuspid. He lost the tooth last year, when their buddy, America chucked a full water bottle at his face. Even covered in blood, Jacob had laughed so hard he got light headed. Right then, looking up at him in bed, Jacob reminded Rat of a kid on Christmas. All hopeful wonder before he sees the empty space beneath the tree, same as it was last year. “You should come. Homework, the crew, your very cute boyfriend,” Jacob said. There was the angle.
Rat took Jacob’s fingers and unwrapped the chain from around them. “You know what I’m gonna say,” Rat said.
“You could still come.”
Rat rubbed the heel of his palm against his eye, trailed his fingers back and up through his buzzed hair. “Dad’s back in town this week.” He wished they’d just gone to sleep instead of fucking. He never slept after sex and all Jacob ever wanted to do was push things that were better left alone. “There’s no doing it.”
“So you don’t tell him. What’s the fucking deal? You don’t tell him anything anyway.”
“He’s never finding out.”
“Exactly, so—.”
Rat shoved him off. Jacob didn’t make a sound when he hit the mattress. He just lay there, his messy, bottle-black hair fanned out against the sheets. Soft yellow light from the streetlamp outside cut through the blinds and spliced the bed, the two of them, in shades of gold and navy. They could have been two characters out of the detective movies Rat’s mom loved to watch. Old black and whites with PIs that drank and smoked and never got sloppy off of it. There was always that one shot, maybe the femme fatale had come on screen, and the PI said something particularly biting but charming to get her attention, and then it’d cut to the PI, real close on his face, with hard light through the blinds that cast him in stripes. That’s how you knew he was a man on the edge but in control. Light and dark all mixed together.
“It’s not happening,” Rat said.
“Then why’re you here?” Jacob said.
“What do you want me to say?” Rat gestured towards the ceiling. He wouldn’t look at Jacob. “Oh, it’s because I love you, Jay. Clearly. I just can’t live without you, so here I am.” He pressed the heels of his palms against his closed lids until colors bloomed across his vision. “You’re not usually this stupid.”
“Fuck you.” Jacob swung his legs over the mattress, folding them so he was cross-legged half-off the bed.
“Don’t threaten me with a good time,” Rat said.
“You’re such a prick.”
“Thought that’s why you love me, sweetheart.”
Jacob sighed, his whole body tightening around the whoosh of his breath. “I need a smoke,” he said.
Rat rolled onto his stomach and tugged his backpack over with one hand. He rummaged without looking, found his lighter and stash. Didn’t ask Jacob before he lit up. He took two drags and pinched it, held it out across the bed. “C’mon, then,” he said, wheezing around the smoke.
Jacob waited long enough that Rat’s arm started to burn, but he took the joint all the same. He didn’t bother holding the first draw, blowing it into Rat’s face. Rat wrapped an arm around Jacob’s shoulders and eased him back into bed. They lay like that for a while, sometimes kissing, blowing lazy smoke between their mouths to try and spark passion, until the moment was dead and the roach lay forgotten.
“So your dad’s back Wednesday,” Jacob said. His eyes were closed and so were Rat’s, and Rat considered ignoring the bait.
“Yeah,” Rat said. “Ma’s got the place cleaned up and everything.”
“They tell you why?”
“Guy on the phone told Ma they gave Dad a medal.”
“What kind?” Jacob said.
Rat opened his eyes and stared into the fuzzy grey of one AM. “The type they give someone that got blown up,” he said.
