i linger where you are (part 3) ; ryland grace x f!reader â age gap, co-workers, just lots of lingering and yearning
synopsis. you were supposed to be nothing more than a coworkerâyounger and definitely off-limits. but between late evenings, lingering glances, and a palpable tension neither of you want to name, resisting becomes really hard! (5.6k words)
note. ok now part 3 which might be the messiest and my head hurt while i was writing it and i am not the moooost proud of it but iâm letting it out into the world.
mdni !!! ryland masturbates and has lots of perverted thoughts !!!!
masterlist | part 1 | part 2 | part 3 | part 4
When Ryland gets home, instead of finishing the remainder of papers he needs to grade, he confronts himself (with the accompaniment of a glass of hard liquor). Hard and harsh and finally, truthful.
He stops telling himself the things heâs doing are harmless. Stops trying to reason. Because heâd looked at your lips. Heâd looked at your lips and had thought of something entirely unprofessional, something still very much off-limits.
Ryland had thought of what itâd feel like to close that distance, to feel your lips on his. Deep and ravenous, and holy fuck, he wants to kiss you. He thinks youâd be a good kisser, too, holding him by his shirt, and standing on your tip-toes because heâs taller than you. The thought makes his head hurt, and sends ripples of heat down to whereâwell, he definitely has a problem now.
Heâs going to hell. Ryland Grace is sure that he is going to hell.
Sure, he can keep hiding behind concern, behind habit, behind responsibility, but Someone from Above would know he is nothing but a liar, spewing big fat lies, under the most heinous excuses.
He buries his face in his hands, finally letting lets himself admit that he is in too deep. For a while, he just sits there, staring at nothing. Then he turns toward the window, looking up at the sky like thereâs an answer somewhere above him.
There isnât.
Thereâs just this ache sitting in his chest, something too deep to explain and too constant to ignore, not to mention his fucking hard on right now as he keeps sipping his drink.
He takes a breath, mulling every wrong thing over, and why they feel so wrong. And itâs because youâre his coworker, and youâre way younger than he is. He should be more professional, more like a role model to you. Not someone who remembers the sound of your laugh when the room goes quiet, or someone who looks at your lips and thinks about kissing you and fucking you, and doing everything to you.
Fuck. Ryland Grace is so fucked.
Heâs fucked now as he unzips his denim jeans, pulling it down just enough to let his cock spring out. God, itâs dirty to think about you in the way he is right now, bent over in that room against the table youâd both just used. He wants to unbutton your blouse one button by button, wants to pierce down at your tits through your cleavage.
Ryland strokes himself, all fucked out and tipsy with his head rolled back imagining what pretty sounds youâd make if he fucked you against it. Would you finally call him by his first name or keep calling him âMr. Graceâ?
He whimpers, fingers and hands and palms and every bit of his anatomy working to reach his climax, still thinking about how perfect your cunt must feel, how sweet you must taste. He tries not to, has been trying so hard the past few months.
But trying can only substitute for the feeling for so long, and this is the only way to relieve himself.
With heavier breathing, he tightens his grip around himself, picking the pace, and imagines instead your hand instead of his. And there is so much heat. Heat as he fucks himself with his own hand, heat as he curses under his breath, heat as his hips stutter forward and he finally cums with a gasp of your name.
Ryland Grace could not be any more fucked. Because aside from wanting mornings with you (bedheads, steaming mugs of coffee, sleepy smiles), and afternoons of endless conversations, heâs turned greedy, wants more from you. He wants your nights now, too. He wants to know how you feel if he was inside of you, his cock, his fingers, his mouth. He wants to know how youâd sound moaning his name, how youâd whimper, how youâd make pretty little noises. He wants to know how you taste, lips, cunt, neck, skin.
He wants nothing more than to take care of you after, to kiss all over your bodyâankles, thighs, stomach, breasts, chest, neck, chin, ear, cheeks, everywhere. He desires to hold you in his arms after, to take care of you, provide for you. Heâs selfish and greedy, and wants the entirety of you despite the big fat off-limits in bold peering at him every time he thinks of you.
Ryland Grace is fucked.
And heâs entirely more fucked a week later when he finds himself in a crowded hallway between classes, fucked when he sees you despite his best efforts at distance. Because where greed had been, guilt now currently sits.
For a moment, he lets his mind wander towards the images heâd conjured up of you a week before, lets himself picture pushing your panties aside, the roll of your eyes, the parting of your pink lips, the heat of your tongueâ
Ryland feels like heâs going to cry. Itâs almost as if every self-control heâd spent years practicing has decided to leave him, to abandon and jump ship and leave him to fend for himself alone with a lust heâs never quite felt before. A sort of sinful desire that he shouldnât even have in the first place because, again, you are everything sweet, yet everything forbidden.
Heâs so wrapped up in his mental scoldings that he doesnât realize youâre not exactly alone.
Youâre talking with the History teacher just outside your classroom, just a few years ahead of your age, and Ryland cannot do anything to prevent the burnt feeling on his sternum. His eyes dart back and forth between you and the boy, and Ryland really doesnât like how close you two are.
At that moment, he learns the meaning of the word jealousy. Or, he relearns it. Because itâs something he thought heâd felt before in his life, but now the past only seems like a weak and straggling imitation of what real jealousy is like. Which is exactly what heâs feeling right now.
And before he can decide whether to turn around and take another route to maintain professionalism and to shake off the taste of burnt sugar and the overwhelming wrath of jealousy and the pictures of you in his head, youâve already spotted him, and youâve spawned beside him faster than his feet could move.
âHi. Youâre also heading to the lounge?â
A torturous sliver of hope in the sickeningly sweet honey that drips down from your tongue as you ask him.
Ryland can only nod in response, and there is a small smile on his face when you had abandoned the man to go to him. Youâd willingly brought yourself beside him.
He is soooo going to hell. All feelings foreign have apparently decided to make themselves known at this very moment, the jealousy, the heat, the overwhelming tide of adoration, the fondness, how hornyâ
The bell rings, and suddenly, there are students everywhere, and voices are overlapping, and lockers are slamming, and there is quite literally movement everywhere all at once. And youâre stepping into the flow of students with him, and there is no space between the moving bodies and the narrow hallway.
And God, he really shouldnât have done it, but itâs almost instinct the way he reaches out. The way he has a hand at your back to guide you through the rush. He feels dirty doing this, touching with the same hand heâd used to pleasure himself at the thought of you. And you donât even know, completely unaware that heâd imagined the very same palm in helpful guidance as if it were yours wrapped around him.
Ryland is going to jump off a window. Heâs going to lunge forward, head for the nearest exit, because his heart is thumping so hard in his chest, and he thinks heâll remember the feel of your back against his hand for years to come. Has he touched you before this? Does the light feather-touches count? Does the brush of your fingers equate to this? He doesnât think so. Heâd remember if heâd touched you for this long without repercussions, with an actual reason to.
This is all in good nature, even as guilt overwhelms him. Itâs to keep you from getting pushed into the lockers, or against the tide of students, and it was really only for a few seconds, but the moment his palm makes contact, everything in his brain goes unhelpfully quiet.
He guides you forward without thinking, threading through the crowd, and then itâs finally over. Thank Fuck, and he drops his hand like heâs been burned. Like the contact had given him third-degree burns. Like heâs trying to correct yet another mistake.
Heâs feeling too much. Jealousy, relief, the touch of his hand on your back, and apparently horny which is definitely not an appropriate thing to feel at a fucking school. He canât keep up with the rushing emotions, with the way his heart is exploding, with the way his brain is melting, with the way his lungs are filling up. Heâs losing control.
Ryland is losing the composure heâd taken years to build. You are the prime example of how losing control feels like, unraveling him and unspooling every bit of sanity he has left, making him feel like a teenager in his grown fucking age.
He should feel embarrassed.
âThanks.â You say, adjusting your bag strap. âThat was kind of scary.â
âOf course.â He cuts his response shorter, trying real hard to keep his voice steady, and then he starts walking before he does something stupid like staying longer than necessary. Like thinking, and imagining, and feeling jealous again without warrant.
Ryland Grace had no right to be jealous. He had no right to think about guys younger than him. Guys who would hold your hand, who might kiss you and keep kissing you. He had no right for the gut-deep jealousy sitting and constricting his diaphragm. You were not his.
The thing he needed from the Faculty Lounge is forgotten, and heâs almost immediately making his way back to his classroom lest he wants to suffer more consequences. Lest he wants to drown in his thoughts any further.
But later, in the evening when itâs only the two of you in the empty hallways, there is nowhere else to hide or run off to when you come to his classroom to ask him for his help. To drop by when heâs free from whatever the hell heâs doing.
Youâre asking him. He has half a mind to tell that history teacher that here you were, asking Ryland, not him.
And God, he canât stop himself. Heâs exhausted all his restraint earlier, and now heâs found himself halfway into your classroom before he can regain any form of composure.
âI just need it on that top corner.â Youâre saying, standing on a chair with a piece of paper decoration in your hands, and heâs immediately by your side in case you might fall over.
âCareful.â
âIâm not that high up, Mr. Grace.â
He looks at you, and you look back, and God, he really needs to focus. âStill, itâs dangerous standing on a chair like this. Did you know, statistically speakingââ
âI am only two steps away from the floor. Please spare me the lecture.â
âYou could still hurt yourself. High chairs actually account for an average of roughly 40,000 department-treated injuries every year in the United States. Which, if you didnât know, is here. We are in the United States, and you are standing on a high chair.â
You roll your eyes, shaking your head playfully as you balance yourself to try and stick the decoration to the wall.
Ryland steps even closer when you wobble a little. âI said be careful.â
âI am being careful.â
He reaches up slightly, not touching you, just hovering near your elbow like that alone will somehow help. It doesnât, really, but itâs extra reassurance for him. Heâs vying for the benefit of the doubt just this once.
He rids his perverted thoughts, because they donât really want to make an appearance. There is genuine concern in place of his perversion from earlier in the day.
Tonight, he simply wants to make sure you donât fall off this fucking chair while you tip-toe and move about without a care in the world. He has half a mind to hold you in place, but he doesnât think himself capable of doing that.
And youâre leaning forward, and tipping the chair, and moving so carelessly, and heâs moving even closer than he should, and his heart is banging its fists against his ribs, andâ and the poster is finally where you need it to be.
Ryland lets out a sigh in relief that youâve come out of the task unhurt. Or well, something between relief and frustration. Or both, heâs not really sure anymore.
âSee?â You say, stepping down carefully from the chair after the minutes of carelessness youâd just displayed. âNo injuries.â
Ryland exhales, once more. âYeah, yeah.â
You laugh, brushing past him to check the decoration from a distance.
And Ryland stays where he was, trying not to think of how close youâd been. Trying not to think of the warmth that had emanated from you. Trying not to think that itâs the closest you two have ever been. Trying not to think of a future he keeps imagining. Trying not to think of tugging you towards him, wrapping his arms around you, laughing about something after a long day of work. Trying not to think of how easy it wouldâve been to grab ahold of you and bend you overâ
He clears his throat. Fuck, he really thought he had this one.
âAnything else you need help with?â He lifts his face from where he had buried it in shame, looking at you with a sort of hopefulness that there is nothing more, and that you will set him free for the night.
You glance around the room like youâre actually considering it for a second, before, âI think thatâs it for today. Unless you suddenly feel like alphabetizing my entire storage cabinet.â
Ryland lets out a short laugh, an amused but barely concealed fond smile. âThat sounds like a punishment, not a task.â
âDepends on how much you enjoy organization.â
âI enjoy it just fine.â
You raise an eyebrow, looking at him with mirrored amusement but before he can hold eye contact, heâs already looking away.
Heâs shifting his weight, adjusting the strap of his bag like heâs suddenly thought of something, and heâs checking the time on the clock, even though he already knows what it says.
Heâs just trying to find an excuse. Like he always does.
âRight.â He says finally. âI should probably get going.â
You nod, that same wave of disappointment washing over you. There is always some place to be with Ryland. âYeah. Me too.â
Ryland takes the first step back.
âIâll see you tomorrow.â
âSee you tomorrow, Mr. Grace.â
And heâs already forcing himself to leave before he does something as unnecessary as looking back. As unnecessary as letting out the whispered goodnight ghosting his lips. As unnecessary as the urge to press his lips to your forehead, and take your hand in his, and bring you home for a quiet night of grading papers together and laughing at the Bright and Creative minds that children have when making up answers.
That night, Ryland has the same recurring dream of a life with you. He dreams of the softness of your touch, of the plumpness of the lips he stares at when youâre alone, at how warm your hand must be against his. He dreams of the smoothness of your skin, of your thighs, and how sweet your lips must be like. How sweet you must taste.
He wakes up hot and guilty, as he resolves himself again with the thought of you.
Some days are harder than others.
For Ryland, the massive, ginormous lump of guilt in his throat for feeling something he hasnât felt in almost a decade. And, for you, succumbing to the exhaustion behind your eyes and the frustration of trying so hard to prove yourself.
It gets tiring. And mistakes, while normal, can be more reason to doubt yourself.
Itâs how you find yourself sitting on the bench outside the school building, where most students sit and wait for the bus or their parents. Theirs in hand-holding of warmth and love and familiarity at the carve of their parentsâ hands, and yours with cold, dead hands with your knees pulled to your chest and a tear-stricken face in companion.
Itâs late enough that you donât worry about anyone seeing you like this. Cue the quiver of knees pressed on your chest, tear stains that look like trembling contrite. Like youâre sorry to yourself for existing, unable to forgive yourself all the same.
Itâs melancholic, lonely, for almost an entire hour until you hear a set of footprints. Forward and forward and forward, faint, but unmistakably human.
You donât look up, though. You drown it out in favor of washing out your frustration over yourself. Itâll probably recede, probably keep walking towards the parking lot or wherever the direction was to their home. You certainly donât expect anyone to sit next to you.
Even more so, for that someone, the particular he, to look at you with an expression you donât quite recognize. You might have to blame the blur of tears in your eyes.
âMr. Grace?â You sniffle, laughing a little at how pathetic you must sound like. How you might look like. âIâm not reallyâ in the right⊠I canât - I donât want to talk.â
He only nods, simply sits there and says, like itâs the most obvious thing, âthatâs okay.â
Ryland doesnât push or ask you to explain. He just sits there, staring across. Heâd hate to be looked at while crying, so he mirrors what he thinks might bring you comfort. Trained eyes towards the dimming lights of the parking lot, the littering stars, the rough pavement.
You donât know how long the both of you stay quiet, half an hour or an hour. You can never quite figure out how time works when youâre with him.
Though, through that time, your voice starts to find its pacing. It starts begging to speak, asking you if it was okay to let the thoughts that had been running tirelessly to finally be set free of its place in the hamster-wheel of your mind,
âJust a bad day.â You admit quietly, after a silent debate with yourself.
âI figured.â He finally looks at you, after staring at anything but, and the obvious concern almost makes you vomit. Youâre not quite sure why. âYou okay? Wanna talk now?â
âYeah.â Itâs a laugh that sounds tired, but a laugh nevertheless. âI just had everything planned for today, and it didnât⊠it just didnât work.â
âMhm.â
âI just thinkâ I just feel like Iâm always running, always trying to catch up to everyone else here who knows exactly what theyâre doing. I mean, all of you are just⊠youâre experienced and Iâm⊠Iâm someone whoâs just pretending to be. I donât belong here.â
You look down at your hands, fingers twisting together, playing around itself on your lap to try and satiate the busyness, the scuffle inside your head. âI think thatâs why I wanted to come here in the first place.â
Ryland tilts his head slightly. âHere?â
You nod, a small, humorless laugh leaving you again. âSan Francisco. I mean⊠moving here.â
His expression softens when he realizes this is something you havenât really talked about before, something youâd briefly mentioned in the rain a few months ago when he hadnât known you like he did now.
âI spent so many years in New York.â You say, volume low. âStudying there, building my whole life, getting used to the fast pace and the competitiveness. And I think I convinced myself that if I just went somewhere completely different, Iâd finally feel like I knew what I was doing.â
You shrug, eyes still fixed on the hands on your lap. âLike a fresh start would make me feel more prepared. More like an actual teacher instead of someone trying to convince everyone I belong.â
Ryland stays quiet, letting you finish. Even though heâs fighting every urge to reach out and take your shaking hands in his, to tell you the opposite of your entire spiel, and that you do belong here.
âBut then I got here and realizedâŠâ You swallow. âA different place doesnât magically make you stop doubting yourself. The feeling follows you.â
âHey⊠I donât think youâre being fair on yourself.â His voice is quiet, gently coaxing you out of the little bubble of self-hatred in your head. âDo you know what I see every time I pass by your classroom?â
You look at him now, and the eye-contact pushes him to finish his thought.
âI see someone who always stays late because they care, because they want their students to really understand, because they have this great love and passion for this job. So no, youâre not just pretending. I donât think itâs fair to say that to yourself and the person you were to get here. You have to be nicer to yourself. Weâre all just trying our best, arenât we?â
Your eyes are starting to burn again, and you canât bring yourself to say anything again because youâre afraid itâll come out disassembled, in choked sobs. You donât want to trigger yourself to cry in front of him. So, you stay silent for a while to stabilize yourself.
And when you finally feel like you can talk without crying, you ask. You canât help but ask. âWhy are you always so nice to me?â
Ryland clears his throat. He looks like heâs trying real hard to think of an answer, wrestling over every option. Like heâs writing and erasing a response over and over, even though there is a very obvious answer sitting at the tip of his tongue.
âBecause I know what it feels like.â He settles. Itâs still a truth, though not in its entirety. There are many things he had chosen to omit from his answer.
You try to return what looks like the trial of a smile even though youâre still trying hard to blink away the tears that are still trying to form.
He still notices the effort. Of course he does. He always notices.
Ryland notices the way your fingers twist together, the way youâre trying to swallow down your disappointment, the way youâre trying to repeat his words in your head like a mantra.
And sitting beside you, watching you, triggers a sudden realization that sits heavily on his chest, that had been writing itself in his mind for a few months now. Because this isnât just him helping the new teacher adjust, or him simply finding you attractive. He cares, too goddamn much.
More than he should.
He cares about whether youâre okay. He cares about whether you go home still thinking youâre not good enough. He cares about the way youâd tried to smile for him. He cares about being able to alleviate your pain just a little.
And itâs scaring him.
Because this is different. This is sitting beside you in the quiet and realizing that he cares for you in a way he doesnât exactly mirror to his other coworkers. Sure, heâd have done the same. But there would be no ache in his heart at seeing you so dejected. There would be no intense feeling of wanting to make things better. There would be no urge to hold them in his arms and do anything he possibly could to make them smile.
This isnât good.
Itâs not good that his feelings are taking over. Ryland desperately needs to build a wall between his head and his heart immediately before he complicates anything. Heâd already overstepped his boundaries, stepped way beyond the line of whatever label you had. Heâd thought of you in ways he shouldnât, and he feels greatly for you in ways that had been foreign to him for a long time.
There has to be something he can do to lock himself in place, to cage his feelings, to repair the boundaries heâd overstepped.
After that night, Ryland makes⊠adjustments. Small ones, changes he can implement immediately because theyâre necessary.
He takes the longer route through the hallway if it means he doesnât pass your classroom twice in a row. He stops lingering in your doorway, stops initiating conversation before leaving. Itâs perfect in theory, but in practice, it only makes him more aware of when he does see you.
And fuck, he didnât know itâd be so hard to restrict himself from you.
You notice too. Youâd noticed when heâd lingered. And you notice, now, when routines suddenly change. Though, still imperfectly. You might have to thank faculty meetings for thatâthe worst kind of unavoidable.
As much effort as Ryland does to avoid you, there is nothing more he can do when the only empty chair left is beside yours.
(It had been an unspoken rule. Ryland had always sat next to you in previous faculty meetings. He curses his past self for that.)
He sits next to you, though very carefully. Like heâs afraid to break the menial improvements heâs been making. Like heâs frightened heâd undo his hard work.
âMr. Grace.â You murmur when he settles, acknowledging him and hoping heâd look at you. The way he hasnât in a while.
âHi, kid.â
He doesnât say more, the nickname burns, and the meeting finally starts.
Itâs something about deadlines, about forms, about accreditations. Ryland doesnât really hear anything properly. And heâs too much of a coward to admit itâs because your elbow is just slightly too close to his.
Theyâre not even touching. Theyâre just close, existing in the same narrow space between armrests, but heâs aware of it. Heâs aware that it wonât take much to move, wonât take much for your elbows to touch in the way heâs craving.
He ignores it at first. It canât be that hard.
But, it is. And he shifts his notebook an inch. Shifts his posture a little to move closer, and so do you. And itâs slow-burn inching before your elbows are finally brushing in the smallest contact.
Ryland stops writing. He has stopped for a while, looking down at your elbows. The contact sends electricity jolting inside of him, as if asking him how he could deprive his mind, his heart, his body of you.
The two of you sit there, unmoving, elbows still touching, and pretending not to notice something you are both very aware of.
And as if things couldnât get worse, the touch of your elbow is suddenly ripped from him when you stand to say something during the meeting.
He doesnât know what youâre talking about because all heâs been thinking about is his proximity to you, how he misses your skin on his, how heâd missed the smell of your perfume. Just like he had felt when heâd helped you decorate your room. When heâd thought about bending you overâ
Your voice cuts through the room and distracts him from progressing his thoughts.
Youâre explaining something about scheduling, and Ryland has finally reintegrated himself back into the meeting. Or, at least for a few seconds before his attention pulls down to your eyes and the way they had looked crying, and your mouth, to the way itâs moving as you speak. The way they had trembled that night. The way heâd wanted to kiss it to stop it from quivering.
Your lips are so soft, and so plump, and so inviting. And Fuck, Ryland straightens immediately, forces his gaze away from your lips, fixes it instead in the space between your eyes, or literally anywhere.
Because now heâs in his mind again, thinking about combing his hand through your hair, thinking about pressing his nose into your neck, thinking about breathing you in every single day, thinking about kissing you, thinking about what it would mean to be in a relationship with you. He canât have you, but fuck, he wants to.
He wants you.
You keep speaking anyway, like he isnât struggling in his head. Like he isnât fighting to know a minuteâs peace of mind or conscience that he knows he canât have until you are his.
He is sitting on that chair, one corner of his brain occupied with the thoughts of making you feel so good, making you chant his name like a prayer, and the other thinking, Iâm supposed to know better than this.
Itâs why Ryland tries to slip past you after the meeting, tries his best to get away because the thoughts that had transpired in his head in real time were not safe. He wasnât safe around you, but youâve already called for him and in practice, he stops in his tracks.
He always does, when you call him.
âMr. Grace.â You murmur, stopping him from leaving. He turns back to you and tries to push away whatever heâd been thinking about earlier, and there is a forced polite smile on his face like he wants to be anywhere but.
You wait until everyone else has exited the room (which feels like a lifetime to Ryland) before continuing, âI feel like I havenât seen you much recently.â
He looks at you like your sentence pulled him out of something .
âHavenât you?â He asks, then immediately regrets how that sounds. He canât really think straight right now. âSorry, Iâve just been⊠busy.â
You hum softly, not fully convinced, but not pressing.
Thereâs a pause before you tilt your head slightly. âYouâre not mad, are you?â
The question is so⊠careful. Almost like youâre testing something.
Ryland stills, repeating your words. âMad?â
Itâs comical how one word manages to push away his guilt-ridden thoughts in favor of soothing you away from the feeling that he was angry at you. Which, he never could be. How could you think heâd possibly feel that towards you?
âYes.â You say, a little softer now. âLike Iâve been bothering you or something. Is it because of⊠when I cried? Or⊠I donât know. I just feel like youâve been a bit distant lately.â
He forces a small, almost automatic shake of his head because how could you think that?
âWhat? No.â He says quickly, firm, hard, accusing. Then shifts his tone to something steadier, more gentle, in-love. âNo, Iâm notâ Iâm not mad, and youâre not bothering me. You never bother me.â
You seem to relax slightly at that, shoulders easing as you look back down at your fiddling hands. The same way youâd fiddled them that night youâd cried in front of him.
âOkay.â You say, like you believe him. Or, like you want to believe him.
Ryland nods, and thinks he should leave now. The opportunity has presented itself to him, but his feet donât follow immediately.
âIâve just had a lot of grading.â He adds after a moment, like the explanation needs reinforcing. Because he canât stand the look in your eyes that are accusing him of anger, of running away after having seen you cry. âEnd of term things.â
You glance up at him again. âRight.â
âHowâŠâ He suddenly stutters from the question heâd rehearsed in his head, almost hesitant as his fingers tighten slightly around the strap of his bag. âHow are you doing? I never got to ask afterâŠâ
âAfter I cried?â Ryland grimaces at the memory, but you just laugh a little in embarrassment. âIâm okay now.â
And he studies your face when you say it. He just wants to make sure you mean it.
âGood. Well then, I shouldâŠâ He starts again, but his breath hitches when you look at him like that, like leaving would be the wrong decision. Like you wanted him to stay.
There are thoughts in your head that are too many, too crowded, fighting for space. From earlier during the faculty meeting, from now and trying to soothe you, from trying to make sure youâre okay. Everything is fighting.
âI should head out.â Ryland finally finishes his sentence, firmly, and you nod immediately.
You can already feel a thought starting to form. âYeah. Of course. Sorry.â
âNo.â He interrupts before you can further the thought in your head. And then, just a little softer, he says, âDonât apologize.â
That earns him a small, hesitant smile from you.
He turns toward the door, with guilt-ridden steps (like he didnât want to leave either), and he gets about a few steps towards it when he hears your voice again.
âMr. Grace?â
He stops immediately, not because he wants to, but because he always does when you say his name like that. He turns slightly, just enough to look at you.
You hesitate. Like you want to tell him more. Like you want to tell him you miss him. And you hate that you almost do. Because missing him feels like admitting something that neither of you has ever said. That youâre refusing to say.
for the first time ever since getting my car 4 years ago iâm actually excited to pay my payment bc the end is actually in sight !!!! it is so close !!! give it to me rn Please
pairing. coltland twins au ; ryland x reader x colt
synopsis. you go on a second date with (real) ryland, and colt is devastated. his twin brother might be falling for the love of his life! (11.5k words)
note. part 2 is officially out! thanks so much to cas aka @yearningforsolitude for letting me talk on and on about this silly fic and running thru ideas w me, and to all my mutuals too who offered help. this is kind of a mess! so good luck! lmk what u thought!
part 1 is here
The first thing Coltâs conscious brain is able to discern is the faint sound of humming.
It echoes through the apartment, filling in for the persistent buzz of static. And it continues to pollute Coltâs hearing until heâs pushed himself out of his bed.
The clock reads 5:34pm. Itâs been 2 hours since the man collapsed for a nap. Ryland must be home, itâs the only way to account for the hum thatâs still whizzing and interrupting the what-would-have-been-silence. But, his brother doesnât hum. Uncharacteristic for him, even.
So, who was making all the noise this late in the afternoon in their apartment?
The responsible thing wouldâve been to grab a makeshift weapon just in case. Instead, Colt follows the sound. Itâs not entirely unfamiliar, so any form of fear would have to remain in its dormant state.
The humming leads him to Ryland, standing in front of their shared bathroom mirrorâfreshly showered, sporting a button-down shirt, and apparently fixing his hair.
âJesus, whatâs with the outfit?â
Colt is leaning against the bathroom frame now, a casual non-chalance as if he hadnât thought his brother an intruder just minutes ago. âYou look like youâre about to ask someone to marry you or, you know, explain why their insurance claim got denied.â
âIs it too much?â
Colt raises an eyebrow as his twin looks down to reassess what heâs wearing. Rylandâs never given a ratâs shit for his comments before. Itâs almost endearing, reminds Colt of high school prom and helping his brother fix himself up.
âDepends what for.â
âSecond date.â
That definitely paralyzes Colt, almost as if a deer in headlights. Thereâs a voice in his head trying to convince him he had misheard, but the way Ryland had mouthed the words had been so clear. He was going on a second date.
Despite hearing the boy, loud and clear in-fact, Colt asks him to repeat. âWhat?â
âIlyukhina said sheâd asked for a second date.â Ryland is grinning now, trying to adjust the collars of his dress shirt. âYou impersonated me so well that you got me a second date.â
Oh, no no no. Fuck. No no no.
This is the subject of Coltâs worst nightmares.
Because Colt hadnât been imitating. Because Colt, not even halfway through the date, had slipped past the pretense of being his brother and was simply being himself. And you had asked for a second date. You liked Colt enough that you wanted to see him again.
You thought he was the love of your life, too!
The words repeat like a broken record in Coltâs head.
Somehow, the consequences of his actions on that first date are only rolling in now, flooding him, and hitting him like a freight train with no warning bells.
Questions of jealousy are soaking in, waters reaching dangerous levels as he stares at his own twin brotherâDo you even know the path to her home? Do you know she laughs so unabashedly that it makes your heart twitch in a wholesome way? Do you even know how many times she had to change outfits for the first date?
(Five, by the way.)
And despite everything he wanted to ask, Colt could only manage to let out a one-word question out of the paragraphs he had been thinking of.
âWhat?â
Ryland laughs, completely unaware of the mental scuffle in his brotherâs mind. Though, Colt might have himself to blame for that. When Ryland had asked him how the first date went, he tried to answer as vaguely as he possibly could to not accidentally confess how completely and utterly fucked he was.
Now Colt is here, and still completely and utterly fucked.
(Maybe even more than he was that first date.)
âI know. I wasnât expecting it either.â
âAnd youâre going?â
Ryland turns to him, then. His eyebrows are lifted in that amused manner he does when Colt asks something questionable. One time heâd asked about snot-flavored chips and elicited the same lift of eyebrows before it turned to one of disgust.
âIâm dressed up and fixing my hair, Colt.â Deadpan. âYes Iâm going.â
âButâŠâ
Coltâs heart is beating so loudly that heâs convinced Ryland can hear it. And his mouth, clumsy and desperate, is pushing and pulling at words before his brain can process heâs even uttered them.
âYou told me she was nice, and that the conversation was easy.â
You are nice, and the conversation did come easy. But, it was with Colt! You were nice and talked easily with him. You asked him to walk you home. Colt Seavers, not Ryland!
He hopes the distress heâs feeling isnât written plainly on his face, because heâs pretty sure he currently looks constipated.
Ryland smiles to himself, smoothening out wrinkles that arenât there so heâd have something to do with his hands. âI figured Iâd be kind of stupid to not see where it goes. She has the stamp of approval from my brother.â
She has the stamp of approval because sheâs the love of my life, Colt thinks but doesnât say. He canât, because his face is still constipated, and his heart is beating out of his chest, and his stomach is twisting.
Instead, he settles for something equally controversial. âYou canât go.â
Itâs Rylandâs turn to ask what apparently is the most common question of the afternoon. âWhat?â
âI meanâŠâ Colt curses himself, almost slapping a hand on his mouth for being so rash. Heâs scrambling for something else to say, scrambles. âYou⊠shouldnât.â
âWhy not?â
Because sheâll end up liking you, Goddamnit! Someone kind, and smart, and who definitely hasnât committed identity theft.
Colt thinks itâs so obvious (as if being the love of his life wasnât reason enough), but his brother is standing there completely puzzled. Until something cuts through Coltâs head and reminds him that his brother doesnât know about his feelings, and it would be a great time to try and save yourself and your remaining dignity.
âI was kidding.â He blurts out with a painfully rehearsed laughter that he mightâve tried out a few times in his mind before committing to it, a dismissive hand waving to compensate. âThought itâd be funny if you actually started doubting yourself for a second.â
âYouâre being weird.â
âIâm not.â
âYou just tried to convince me not to go on my own date.â
âI just told you it was a test!â
Ryland is squinting his eyes suspiciously at his twin, but he doesnât choose to overthink it. With long strides to the living room, he grabs his wallet and slip it effortlessly into his back pocket. âI might be late, so just buy your own dinner.â
âYouâre not gonna give me money?â
Ryland has to. If he was going to steal the love of Coltâs life, he might as well slip in a couple bucks and pay for the victimâs dinner.
âYou have your own money. Bye, Colt!â
The front door clicks shut behind him, and Colt stands alone in their apartment like he had been earlier this afternoon. It was just that, then, he hadnât known of the dooming fact of Rylandâs second date. Now, his mental scuffle are yelling over one another.
âFuck.â
You choose the place this time.
Itâs an unbusy diner you used to frequent a lot when you were still in college, tucked away between a laundromat and another old store. Its decor is as a usual diner would be, tiles of alternating black-and-white, and a whole lot of redâwalls, couches, tables. Even the jukebox has hints of red, but that hasnât been working properly for nearly a decade now.
You think you love it because itâs a place to feel human in. Inside here, youâre never in a hurry, even back in college. At-your-own pace and smiling in front of Ryland who sits across from you in your usual corner booth.
For a few minutes, neither of you says anything. It isnât uncomfortable exactly, but it isnât easy either. Ryland smooths a thumb along the condensation gathering on his water glass before glancing at you, looking as though heâs rehearsing three different opening lines in his head and quietly discarding every single one of them. Not a single one makes the cut, apparently seeing as he still hasnât spoken a single word.
(Ryland, who usually blabbers anything and regrets it after saying it is also perplexed at how uncharacteristic heâs being.)
You offer him a small smile in encouragement, and he smiles back just as warmly, but the effortless rhythm youâd stumbled into on your first date seems to have been left somewhere outside the diner.
âThis place is really nice.â He finally says, looking around, eyes darting from one piece of decor to another. Safe. Itâs something safe to talk about.
And itâs endearing, his quiet curiosity, his want to be in a world you know, his attempt at making the moment less awkward.
âIt is.â You smile, and there is a feeling almost proud in your heart. âI used to come here all the time.â
âReally? Tell me all about it. If you uhâ if you want. If you feel comfortable with⊠sharing that with me. Yeah.â
Your smile grows even more at his innate curiosity to know you, and the way he stumbles over his words the way he hasnât ever before. And he watches you go on and on about the place, really, and the memories youâd built on this booth all drunk, or crying over an exam, or with friends after a long day. Sometimes the owner would give you fries for free. And he listens, all with his chin in the palm of his hand and eyes fixated on you.
The great awkwardness dissipates from the air in record time, leaving only remnants of it behind.
âAnd they have the best pancakes.â Youâre leaning forward, almost whisper-like, as if it was just a secret between the two of you.
âThey serve pancakes this late?â
âTheyâre an all-day breakfast place.â
âThatâs dangerous information for me.â
âI knew youâd like it. I guess itâs something about the teacher in you. I donât know why I associate teachers with breakfast.â
This time, itâs Ryland who laughs. Itâs different from when youâd been on your first date. Heâs a little more reserved with his laughter, and there is something self-depracating about him that he hides behind sheepish smiles and dry humour.
âIâll be sure to research the correlation between that and let you know if I find something. Itâs kind of like when, uhhhh, shark attacks increase when ice cream sales go up.â
âReally?â The way you maintain eye-contact is intimidating, wide eyes full of mirroring curiosity swimming in them. Ryland doesnât know how Colt had managed. Here you were, looking at him, listening genuinely, and smiling so beautifully.
âNo, Iâm sorry.â He laughs. âI mean, itâs honestly more just correlation. More people buy ice cream in the summer, more people swim in the summer, so thereâs more shark attacks. But, correlation doesnât necessarily mean causation.â
Your mouth drops, eyes now squinted with a betrayed voice to pair. âYou tricked me.â
âI technically didnât. Itâs called a spurious correlation. Okay, maybe partially trickedâŠâ
âStill tricked me.â
âIâm sorry.â
Where first-date Ryland wouldâve fought back, Ryland now just mutters an apology with a shut of his eyes in a sort of embarrassment.
âYou know, Ry. I notice youâre using pretty big words now. Itâs honestly a massive upgrade from telling me the mitochondria is the powerhouse of the cell.â
Oh my God, Colt. That idiot.
Ryland ducks his head into a laugh before he can stop it, the sound escaping him in little bursts. It catches him off guard just how vividly he can picture Colt saying exactly that, puffed up with misplaced confidence as though heâd personally discovered the fact himself.
âSo, youâre back to science teacher mode. Does that explain the change in look?â You smile at him a little intrigued, a hand reaching out to press against his cheek. Itâs hesitant, ghost-like.
You havenât been in each otherâs orbits long enough for prolonged moments that drift back and forth from the line of intimacy. âYou shaved.â
Ryland is trying hard to pay attention to what youâre saying, which proves to be a difficult task when he canât stop wondering what to do with the fact that he liked how your hand felt against his cheek. âAnd the glasses are cute.â
A faint flush creeps onto his cheeks, instinctively adjusting them at the mention even though he has a poor habit of peering over them which has only worsened the condition of his eyesight. (Colt had scolded him a few times.)
âMustâve been wearing contacts on our first date. Are these uh, good changes?â
âItâs cute. Youâre still cute, donât worry.â
Colt never mentioned how forward you were. Maybe if heâd known, he wouldâve practiced not getting flustered so easily.
A sort of silence falls between the two of you at the moment, but the background goes on to make their noises in complete disregard of the both of you. Thereâs silverware clattering from plates, a little kid asking if pancakes count as dinner, and the static of a jukebox that still insists on playing even though itâs been unsuccessful for a decade.
The waitress comes back balancing two mugs of coffee and a towering stack of pancakes a moment later. Ryland had ordered the same thing, courtesy of your suggestion.
Besides, he had a little sweet tooth anyway.
âThatâs enormous.â Ryland says, mouth agape at the tower of pancakes staring back at him. You glance up at his sudden comment, and it makes a smile tip over your lips.
âI told you. Iâve never actually finished it before.â
âAnd yet itâs still your go-to order?â
âIâm committed now. Itâd feel like cheating if I ordered something else.â
Youâre really blowing into his life now, sweet and warm and comfortable, and unexpected but not unwelcome. You had an endearing charm, and your smile reminds him of flowers. His bones are a-chatter as you smile more to yourself.
âEven though I always regret it around pancake number four.â
âThere are six.â
âI never really learn.â
He only smiles, albeit fond. But, he doesnât bite back longer than he should. And thereâs something else, something different about him, something you keep trying to ponder on as you both eat your pancakes.
You try to insert it between conversations, between each bite, thinking and pondering and staring as you shuffle through your few memories with him.
Heâs talking less, but when he does say something, itâs straight from his head in a subtype of clumsy he didnât have on your first date. He always looks like he regrets what heâs saying instead of laughing it off, noting a habit of closing his eyes or scrunching his nose a little when he does. Heâs less teasing, too. His level of playfulness seemed to have dialed down a little. Like heâs picking apart things about himself before letting you have it.
âYou knowâŠâ You start, and the immediate way you have Rylandâs attention makes you look down shyly at your plate, makes you fiddle absentmindedly at the sleeves of what youâre wearing. âYou seem calmer.â
âCalmer?â
âMhm. On our first dateâŠâ You smile at the memory. âEverything that came out of your mouth surprised even you.â
Ryland looks like heâs taking in the information, like he didnât live through it himself. He looks at you curiously. A little worried.
âCan I ask you something? Itâs kind of stupid, though.â
âThose are usually the best questions.â
You let out a small breath through your nose, your smile finding its back where they belong before you brave the courage to make eye contact. âYou still like me, right?â
Rylandâs face softens at a ridiculous pace, and he almost wants to reach out and ask you what prompted you to ask him, but it looks like you want to say more. He keeps his patience, and leans forward to let you know heâs listening to you.
âSorry.â Youâre laughing awkwardly now. Itâs compensation. âI know how that sounds. Itâs just⊠youâre really different today.â
âDifferent how?â
âI donât know.â You shrug, suddenly finding your empty coffee mug more interesting. âLike I said, calmer. Quieter. It seemed like you had more fun on our first date. It isnât bad, but when I have a point of comparison⊠I donât know. I guess I just got in my own head.â
âHey, no, no, thatâs not it. Iâm having a lot of fun right now.â
Ryland reaches out, and itâs hesitant. Heâs reaching a hand out, just enough to touch your fingertips. He wants you to look at him, to look at the softness in his features. And when you look at him, he offers you a sheepish smile. Gentle.
âI think I mightâve maybe put a lot of pressure on myself tonight.â He explains.
âYou did?â
âYeah.â His tone is low, abating the tempestuous anxieties that had been swelling in the pit of your stomach. âI kept thinking the first date went so well that I didnât want to accidentally ruin whatever that was.â
You lean in at that, fingers moving to touch just a little more of his hands until youâve slotted just your fingertips between his own on the table. âSo you were trying to impress me?â
âMaybe a little too hard.â
I had big shoes to fill in, Ryland thinks. And he thinks it with an embarrassed smile manifested physically on his face.
He cringes a little at his words, wants to drop his head on the table at how that mightâve come off, maybe even crawl under the diner booth. But he looks at you now, and you're looking at him with warmth, and a face thatâs trying very hard not to smile. âI canât take back what I just admitted to?â
You laugh, shaking your head. âNo can do, Ryland.â
Youâre staring at your semi-intertwined hands, at how your fingertips are holding onto each other. And Ryland canât help but let his eyes travel around your face, studying your features, and how you might feel about him.
âWeâre okay?â He chooses to ask, and from the smile that stretches on your face, he seems to already know your answer.
âWeâre okay.â
âGood.â
You reach across the table and steal one of his fries with your free hand, trying to lighten the sudden shift in the air. Your other hand remains on the table with his. âI was worried for no reason, then.â
âWere you just distracting me so you could eat my fries?â
âMaybe.â
Your laughter rings out the moment he asks, and he barely feels the twinge of your fingers against his because heâs too busy relishing in your crinkled eyes and how theyâre in sharp contrast to the anxious, uneasy way it had looked earlier.
And itâs all he can think about even after heâd paid the check, and was now walking you home.
You donât seem to mind his sudden amnesia at the path towards where you lived. You did spend the entire night on your first date bumping shoulders and trying really hard not to kiss each other, so the memory lapse would be warranted.
There is a certain beauty of the streets being reflected by the warmth of the streetlights and the glow of the moon, and every few steps your shoulders brush together. No longer accidental.
âI had fun.â You tell him, playfully leaning towards him before fixing your eyes straight ahead.
âEven if I was a little different?â Hopeful. Thereâs a certain tone Rylandâs been giving, like he was making up for something.
âDifferent isnât always bad. Just needs getting used to.â
He smiles at this, and he keeps smiling the walk back until you abruptly stop in your tracks. It isnât something he notices right away, too in his head about the entire night, but footsteps started sounding like two instead of four. It finally warrants him to return to the real world in search of you.
You look like youâre in the middle of a decision. âYou know, Iâve been trying very hard to behave myself.â
His brows knit together, tilting his head, but his smile never leaves. âShould I be worried?â
âMaybe. Itâs just that I've wanted to do something. I really wanted to do it after our first date.â
âYeah?â
Ryland thinks he knows where this is heading, and he canât help the butterflies in his stomach. He feels like a schoolboy again, in front of his crush, waiting.
âAnd Iâm usually good at behaving myself. But, itâs been really persistent.â
âI donât think Iâd mind if⊠if you misbehaved a little.â He whispers, and thatâs all confirmation you need to reach up and catch his dress shirt with your hands, bunching it up between your fingers and pulling him down to kiss you. Soft, warm, and brief. And so fucking exhilirating.
When you pull away, youâre immediately smiling into the pavement, your ears burning, but Ryland has better ideas when he laces his fingers with yours, tugging you beside him.
âIâve really wanted to do that since the first date.â
A smile slowly spreads across his face. âIâm really glad you did.â
âDid it feel nice, then?â You ask him, a little bashful as the two of you resume walking. You can see the way heâs smiling, and heâs already nodding his head before words can form in his mouth.
âBetter than nice.â
Ryland doesnât even make it past the front door before the apartment fills with him, though to a very unwilling participant.
âColtcoltcoltcoltâ-â
âIâm right here.â
Ryland barely acknowledges the response. Heâs halfway out of one shoe, hopping awkwardly as he tries to kick the other off without using his hands.
Thereâs a smile threatening every corner of his face, one that keeps slipping back no matter how much he tries to bite it down.
Heâs jittery and giddy, and it seems heâd implode if he wasnât moving in some way. âIt went well. Really well.â
âYeah?â
A strange relief settles over Colt. Not for himself, because inside he is still bitter and irritated. But, you (the love of his life) deserve a good second date. And heâs happy his twin brother could do that for you. Happy, yet irritated.
âI donât even know where to start.â Heâs rushing to the spot next to Colt on the couch, fingers mindlessly unbuttoning the top buttons of his shirt. He needs the room to breathe, especially after the exhilarating night he had.
âUsually the beginning would be a good start, but I donât know. Maybe thatâs just me.â
âDonât be mean.â Ryland nudges him with his elbow, smile suddenly elated at the memory of your date. He really canât stop thinking, canât stop the way his mind and heart is buzzing.
âShe took me to this diner sheâd been going to since college. The owners knew her by name, it was really sweet. Apparently, sheâs really committed to these pancakes that sheâs never actually ever finished.â
Colt hums, trying very hard not to look like a bitter man. But itâs so hard when heâs stuck in a kerfuffle. Ryland, unaware, is trying to catch his breath as the words tumble out of him.
âBut she keeps ordering them, anyway. And, we just talked a lot. Sheâs really easy to talk to.â
Thatâs what I told you, Colt thinks bitterly.
âYeah, I mentioned.â
He wants to react more positively, but his mouth is dry. Thereâs so much heâs supposed to say as a supportive brother. He canât, not when it feels like there are fingers being shoved down his throat.
Colt can picture it in his head, no matter how hard he tries not to. Itâs burning in his memory, etching and bonding itself to every bone until itâs all he can think aboutâyou, sitting in front of Ryland, elbows on the table and eating your Goddamn pancakes, and laughing over whatever the hell you were talking about.
Colt doesnât want to think about it, doesnât want to taint the memory of your laughter that he thought was reserved for him, but was now apparently overused in Rylandâs hearing, too.
And the way his brother is looking at him, narrating all about your night? It feels like his heart is being stomped on, grinded to the ground, until itâs nothing but unidentifiable powder because what was Colt even expecting.
Of course Ryland would fall for you. Itâs hard for anyone to spend an evening with you and not leave completely head over shoes.
âI really like her.â
Coltâs heart gives one slow, painful thud against his chest because the thought had just materialized. It had become realer than it was when it was just in his head.
âAndâŠâ Rylandâs ears turn pink at whatever thought he had conjured up. Colt doesnât really want to listen anymore, his brother was probably gonna say something about how he had walked you home, how youâd giggled at his jokes, how youâdâ
âShe kissed me, and God, Colt. It was perfect.â
Colt jolts awake, his self-pity sobering up a little. Maybe it was the rush of grief that suddenly surged through his bloodstream or maybe it was simply his brain telling him âI told you soâ, but with complete disregard for the moment, Colt stands up abruptly, and heâs running a hand through his face and saying stop-stop-stop, because his brain was already conjuring up the image and that was something he did not want to picture.
âColt?â
He wants to vomit. Thereâs heat behind his eyes that are threatening to leak if he doesnât run away. And while his face still has a smile plastered for his brother, he feels his facade cracking, and he tries to grin wider to mask it.
âThatâs good, buddy. Sorry, Iâm just⊠I feel⊠weirdly exhausted.â
Itâs a terrible excuse, completely lame. Paper-thin. But he canât think of anything else. Not when the love of his life has just kissed his brother. And said brother also apparently really likes her.
Ryland snorts. âItâs barely nine.â
âLong day.â
âYou took a nap before I leftâŠ?â
âWeird how the body works, huh. But maaaaaan, if I stand here another minute, I might fall asleep on you.â
âYouâre being really dramatic, Colt.â
âItâs one of my better qualities. Haha, but yeah, uh, your story deserves better than that. Tell me the rest tomorrow?â
âOkay. Goodnight!â
Itâs only when Colt is in the comfort of his bedroom, lonely and empty, does he lean his forehead against his wooden door and sigh out a breath he didnât know he was holding. The smile heâd been sporting finally slips off.
Itâs silent for a moment. A calm before the storm.
Until thereâs a burn in his heart, just under his chest and itâs squeezing so tightly. When he closes his eyes, all he sees is you, and it sends ugly tears streaming down his cheeks.
The reality of the situation is dawning on him, and it is so, so painful.
A spell of dizziness sends him tumbling towards his bed, heart racing and palms sweating and tears flowing.
He curls onto his side, one arm thrown over his eyes, or somewhere that can try to block you out. But he falls asleep at the thought of you, anyway.
The transition happens without warning.
Colt stands behind a glass door, something blooming before his eyes. One step then another, and then itâs suddenly so fast-paced. It started with Ryland being on his phone a lot more than usual, and then heâd be gone some evenings.
The man ponders over waiting it out, but there is no place for him to want to be absent in his brotherâs lovelife when heâs the only family member Colt has left.
It feels heavy, though. But Colt never allows himself the moment alone because heâs afraid he might think about it. Instead, he busies himself with work, with going to the gym, with teasing Ryland and apparently going over the top about it because he loves the pain he subjects himself to.
It does start small, though. He thinks he deserves at least some credit for that. Ryland would come home smiling at nothing, and Colt would tell him he looked insufferable.
And then it just escalates from there.
âHave fun kissing your girlfriend!â
âWeâre not kissing, and sheâs not myââ
Ryland never gets to finish his sentences.
âYou know itâs getting really lonely in this apartment. My brother has replaced me with a pretty girl.â
âI havenât replaced you with anyone!â
It gets to a point where itâs just blatantly ridiculous.
âOh, weâre hiding messages now?â
âIâm not hiding anything.â
âYou never used to hide your phone from me. Come on, let me read. I need good stories if Iâm gonna be your best man.â
Itâs sadistic, honestly, the things that Colt does to himself. He thinks itâll shield him from the pain, but every time Ryland goes out, heâs suffocated by the same bitter jealousy and the tears that always manage to spring to his eyes.
Mr. Number One Yearner over here.
And it might be ridiculous. You had only gone on one date, while you and Ryland were banking on four together. But, he really felt a genuine connection with you. He still thinks about how heâd walked you home, and how he almost kissed you. Itâs still embedded in his memory the way you smiled at him, and walked just a little closer so your hands would brush against each otherâs.
It exhausts Colt. He never has time to really think because heâs always rushing.
The watch on his wrist reads 00:04, and itâll only be a few minutes before the noise of his own mental scuffle overwhelms him. They always do. He does the only thing he can, plugs in his earphones to try and drown it out while listening to Sad Boy Playlist on Spotify.
This is what living with a brother whoâs dating the love of your life is like. He lives off of sadistically teasing his brother, jumping into stunts with a little less fear, and sleeping really late at night.
Itâs been like this for a few weeks. The same routine, over and over. Colt thinks he messed up somewhere. If only he had told you that nightâbut itâll be the same unsaid conversation in his head repeating. It always ended in you kissing him, and it would end there until his alarm would blare and heâs reminded of his bleak world.
He stares at the ceiling, as he does every night before falling asleep, and the only sounds that accompany him are the loud volume from his earphones and the echo of your laughter in the background.
Until, one day, he decides heâs been too cruel to himself. Apart from his heart breaking, he had lived on stale coffee on sets and the black coffee that Ryland makes.
A coffee shop would do him good.
The cafe is so busy that you almost miss him. Keyword: almost.
Heâs just by the pickup counter, a baseball cap pulled lower over his forehead, and a black face mask covering the lower half of his face. One of his hands is shoved effortlessly in the pocket of his pants, while the other is mindlessly tapping against his takeout cup.
But youâd recognize him anywhere.
âRyland!â
Colt freezes from where heâs sipping his coffee, his blood running cold at the familiar voice. He hasnât exactly seen you since youâd gone on that first date together.
âWhat a coincidence.â Thereâs that smile on your face, the exact same one he had fallen for. The one that had rearranged his life, his routines.
You just move, and the whole world moves with you. Including him, who has suddenly forgotten he knew how to speak, his feelings overwhelming him before he can process vocabulary.
He has half a mind to tell you just how much the sight of you smiling makes him feel, his stomach twisting, his heart begging to be let out.
âHi.â He chokes out a response after staying silent for too long, hoping it doesnât come out awkward. You donât seem to mind.
You stop in front of him, your own coffee balanced carefully between both hands.
âI didnât know you came here.â
âSometimes.â
Apparently, his feelings had also decided on one-word responses.
âIâm always here. Itâs disappointing we havenât bumped into each other sooner. Cool get up, by the way with the cap and the mask, and everything.â
He only laughs, throat stuttering over words he canât say, so he chooses to just shift his cup to his other hand. The sleeve of his jacket rides up in consequence.
Your eyes immediately catch on something just beneath his wrist.
âHey, is that new?â
Colt follows your gaze, eyes finding the familiar healing scrape from yesterdayâs stunt rehearsal. Heâs still forming another one-word response when you reach for his arm, settling feather-light against his wrist.
âThat looks like it hurt.â You frown, looking up at him.
Your hand is warm, almost too warm against his. And he notices the same callouses he did that night of your date. He assumes theyâre from hard work like his. There are questions at the tip of his tongue, a desire to know what kind of life put them there. Itâs the same questions echoing in his head before he falls asleep.
âIt didnât.â
âNot even a little?â
âMaybe a little.â
You give him a look, but itâs playful more than upset. âOkay, brave boy. Just, uh, one second.â
Before he can ask what youâre doing, youâre already rummaging through your tote bag. Thereâs clatter of pens, lip balms, a few receipts are pulled out with an accompanying grumble, untilâ
âGot it!â You triumphantly lift a little packet, showing it to him proudly.
âYou just carry around band-aids? Who are you, Dr. McStuffin?â
You laugh. âWell, yeah. My friends are kind of clumsy. One time, someone in my office cut themselves over opening a bag of chips.â
Colt laughs, too, despite himself. Itâs not so much the story, but the way you say it, the way your hands move. It reminds him of that night, that one fateful night, and the same animated way youâre telling him stories.
âA bag of chips?! That seems more your friendâs fault than the chips.â
âHey! Theyâre surprisingly dangerous. Iâm afraid Iâll have to file some sort of complaint. Needs more hazard warnings.â
You peel it open, staring down at his stubborn scab, before looking up at him. âMay I?â
Colt nods hesitantly. He canât not say yes, not when heâs hyperfixated on the way you hold his hand, resting it on the counter and working hard on applying the bandaid.
Youâre so gentle, settling it on the scrape before smoothing the edges down with your thumb. The action makes his face flush an embarrassing color. You donât seem to notice. Youâre too preoccupied to look at him in the face.
Itâs a small thing, barely lasting a minute, and yet it was a curiously intimate thing for you to attempt to take care of him through a band-aid. Thereâs that very identifiable feeling in his heart he doesnât want to think about right now, and thereâs a subtle change in the air that he needs to address.
(Not with himself, heâs had this conversation enough times already. He might just have to talk to his brother soon.)
âThere.â You smile proudly at your work, smoothening over it one last time. âGood as new.â
Your fingers remain curled loosely around his wrist, your thumb resting against the inside of it, even after a whole minute has passed. You only seem to notice when your eyes flick up to his, and back at his hand that youâd apparently refused to let go of.
âSorry.â You let go immediately after the realization, smiling sheepishly.
âNo.â Colt says, soothing you at a similar immediate pace. âI donât mind, really.â
âOkay then, Ryland.â
Colt shouldâve thought of the thrill your giggles always send him, but right now, he seems to cling to how strange it still sounds, the name of his brother, coming from your mouth when talking to him. Even until now.
âColtâ would be so much more comfortable to say, and itâs one-syllable instead of Rylandâs two thatâs a little more clumsy to fit in a sentence. With how he feels, sometimes he forgets heâs still âRylandâ to you.
He canât help but wonder if heâll always be just âRylandâ to you.
When he notices heâs been quiet for too long, he stands up a little straighter and finally tunes back into the present. The first thing he discerns is the little cartoon bear printed on the Band-Aid.
âThanks, though. The bear is cute. Nice touch.â
âIt was that or dinosaurs.â
âI wouldâve liked the dinosaurs.â
âGod, I knew I chose wrong. I spent like ten minutes mulling the decision over. Gee, thanks Ryland!â
He laughs. From being in his head a lot, heâd almost forgotten how easy this wasâtalking to you, and being around you. It feels like stepping back into a room he was forced out of too early.
The barista calls another name in the background, and someone gets up from a table by the window.
âOh, quick, quick! A table opened.â
Colt should leave. He should leave if he wants to make this easier for him. Instead, he lets you take his hand and guide him to the empty table. And conversation follows, like it always seems to with you.
None of you notice the untouched coffee on the table thatâs now cold, nor how forty full minutes have passed. Youâre so engrossed in conversation that none of it matters. Everything is just background as you talk about your coworkers and how the pigeons keep harassing the woman who works by the window, or how he had accidentally set off a smoke detector in their apartment while he was doing a science demonstration.
(He was actually helping Ryland when it happened. But, he canât mention that.)
And the both of you are laughing so hard that your ribs are starting to hurt, and your lungs are tired from the constant inhale and exhale of recovery right after.
âNo family emergency to fake today?â
âNope. Iâm stuck here with you, sadly.â
Your jaw drops in disbelief. âSadly? Iâd have you know Iâm quite good company. I won âMost Friendlyâ all throughout kindergarten.â
âThatâs a surprisingly low-stakes achievement to be bragging about.â
âIt was actually very competitive. I had like three people I was competing against. God, what about you? You mustâve been a nerd.â
âI was actually pretty cool back in the day. You wouldâve had a crush on me. I was as charming as I am now.â
âCharming? Is that what weâre calling it now?â
âWorked on you.â
A blush creeps up on your cheeks, but you donât let him win the moment. You canât let him, not with that smug look on his face. âSuuuure, Mr. âMitochondria is the powerhouse of the cellâ.â
Colt groans, dropping his face briefly into his hands.
âI was hoping enough time passed for you to forget that one. That wasnât very charming of me.â
âHow could I?â You smile teasingly. âI laughed so hard when you said that. I donât think Iâll ever forget that.â
âMight have to send a personal thank you to the mitochondria then.â
âYouâre ridiculous.â
âIâve been told.â
âBut I thinkâŠâ Your smile is less teasing now. Itâs softer. Fond. And a little nostalgic. âI missed ridiculous.â
The remnants of laughter settles warmly between the two of you, and you allow yourself the time while heâs chugging down his cold coffee to study him. He doesnât tell you itâs an excuse to hide the way his ears are tinging pink from what youâd just said. If heâs drinking, his face wouldnât smile so much. He wouldnât have to think of how you said you missed ridiculous. Missed him.
âCan I say something?â
He nods.
âYouâre reallyâŠâ You smile to yourself at the thought thatâs forming. âYou today. I donât know if that makes sense. Youâre justâŠâ
Youâre searching for the words, similar to him when heâd seen you that first second in the coffee shop almost an hour ago.
âYouâre a lot like our first date.â
His heartbeat quickens.
âI kept wondering if maybe our first date had just been⊠one really good night.â You toy with the sleeve around your coffee cup. âBut today, well, I donât know. Youâre looking at me like that again, and making me smile, and making my stomach hurt so much from laughing. It just feels like I got you back.â
Your smile turns impossibly fond. âI guess you do still like me.â
âI really do.â Coltâs response comes out quicker than intended, without the executive decision of his brain. It seems, his heart just went ahead and answered what itâs been shouting for a few weeks now.
You grin so brightly that it almost splits your face. âGood. Cause I really like you too. Show me this side of you more often, please?â
âOkay.â
Itâs in moments like these that have Colt reconsidering how forever would feel like, and how he wouldnât mind having this moment last for a little bit longer than it should. Sitting here with you, a mere spectator amongst the warm glow of the cafeâs lighting, makes Colt feel hopeless.
It makes him wish he could freeze time, keep this moment untouched, something that you break by glancing at your watch. Couldnât you have spared him a few more minutes?
âOh, wow. I didnât realize the time. I should really get going.â
Disappointment flashes across his face before he can hide it. âRight.â
You stand, gathering your bag and slinging the strap over your shoulder. âDonât look so upset. Iâll see you later, Ryland!â
The name lands in his chest like a bruise that he doesnât process what your parting statement had implied. And this time, it lingers a little longer.
He watches you disappear through the cafe doors. And only after youâre gone does he look down at the little bear band-aid on his wrist.
He doesnât take it off. At least, not for the rest of the day.
You meet Ryland again later in the day for a fifth date. And youâd think after meeting a while that the nerves would be worn off, but it never completely washes away. Not completely, at least.
There are still moments where your heart forgets what itâs doing whenever Ryland smiles at you a little too long, or brushes your hand without meaning to, or makes you laugh like he did all that afternoon. The thought of its repeat makes you a little nervous tonight.
But the constant reminder that this was your Fifth date has softened down the nerves a little, comforted them and asked them to keep down for a moment.
Tonight, he meets you outside the little independent bookstore youâd been insisting on taking him to for almost two weeks now. Heâd told you over text that from the number of times youâd talked about this place, it was about time that he actually saw it with his own two eyes.
So now he stands outside beneath the flickering storefront sign, hands buried in his coat pockets against the evening chill.
âYou made it.â
âIâm just finding out thereâs a little restaurant inside.â
âI was trying to save the best part as a surprise.â
âGood choice.â
You spend almost an hour wandering the aisles, going through book titles and synopsis, and on occasion, imitating the book covers. Ryland, on the other hand, picks up every science book he can find, reading blurbs aloud with the innocent enthusiasm of someone who genuinely forgets other people are around.
You have to physically steer him away from a shelf after he spends ten full minutes debating whether an author misunderstood a science concept you donât even remember.
âI donât think arguing with a book is a good look for you, Ryland.â
âIf I told you I was winning, would that change your mind?â
âNot quite, but I was swayed a little.â You laugh, and he pockets it as a victory on his own part, finally putting down the childrenâs book he had been criticizing for the misinformation on the science aspects.
Ryland is very passionate about teaching children correct information early on, even if that means arguing with a book meant for a five-year-old to read.
By the time the two of you settle into the bookstoreâs restaurant, thereâs already two steaming mugs waiting for you at your table, and youâve laughed enough that your cheeks are starting to feel a bit sore. Though, not as much as your ribs had stung earlier in the afternoon.
You watch him stir his hot chocolate, and he catches you looking. Youâre never really subtle with the staring, youâve noticed.
On the first date, you had told him he was really pretty.
âWhat?â
You smile, shaking your head. âJust that⊠there are so many versions to you, did you know? Itâs always a surprise to know which Ryland Iâm going to get.â
Tonight, Ryland had felt like a friend. You pondered over it over your own cup of hot chocolate. Youâd been feeling weird for quite a while. The past few weeks, that was how Ryland felt to you. But meeting him this afternoon had sent a surge of romance through your bones that you almost forgot how giddy you had felt that first date.
Rylandâs spoon pauses halfway around the mug. âI donât think I get what you mean.â
âItâs not anything bad.â You say, elbows propped on the table and palms resting on your cheeks. âItâs kind of interesting. I mean, thereâs first-date Ryland. And there was second-date Ryland. And really, who could forget Science-teacher Ryland who just argued with a bunch of childrenâs books.â
âI like that Ryland.â He mumbles, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose once he feels it start to slip.
âOf course you do.â You laugh, and then you think of the last Ryland, the one that had made your heart flutter earlier. âAnd then thereâs coffee-shop Ryland.â
Rylandâs smile falters. He doesnât have any memories with you in a coffee shop. And heâd consider his memory quite good, remembering pieces of information that he needs to as a teacher. There is always information locked behind his mind, and this, this was not one of them.
âCoffee shop?â
âThe cafe this afternoon. He was cute. You looked like you never wanted the conversation to end. It was funny, really, because we already had plans tonight.â Your smile softens at the memory of sitting with him by the window and laughing at God-knows-what.
âYou just kept finding new things to talk about. You even let me put that stupid bear band-aid on you. And, even after all that, you still looked disappointed when I had to leave.â
That⊠wasnât him. He wasnât in a coffee shop that afternoon. He had been in his classroom, teaching his kids. Andâ
Horror dawns on Ryland immediately when he realizes. His brother had come home wearing that bear band-aid. He remembers because heâd made fun of it. The same brother who had barely looked him in the eye when heâd asked how the afternoon went. Kept repeating the same words, ânothing interestingâ.
That canât be it. No, Colt would tell him.
Wouldnât he?
Something flashes in Rylandâs mind, just in that split second of questioningâhis brother persuading him not to go on the second date, the look on his face that morning, the redness in his eyes he said was from lack of sleep.
Ryland feels something cold settle in his stomach, freezing his bones, his lungs, his heart, until it seeps into every part of him. It spreads slowly, water seeping and searching for every crack, and by the time the realization reaches his head, he thinks he might actually be sick.
âRyland? Are you alright?â
Your voice pulls him back. Youâre looking at him with concerned eyes, but he canât seem to brave eye contact.
âYouâve gone somewhere else.â
Every memory from that first date belongs to someone else. Every detail you mention always seemed to hold a semblance of his brother in there. There was always more fondness when youâd talked about your first date, and when you were talking about the coffee shop heâd never been to before.
That was all Colt. Colt who had been the one on your first date, who had walked you home that night, who you had thought about kissing, who stayed at that coffee shop because he couldnât bear to leave you.
âCan I ask you something?â
Youâve asked that question so many times that it feels weird being redirected back at you. Odd, but not unwelcome. âSure.â
âWhen you saidâŠâ He clears his throat, trying to find the right words to get his point across. âAbout coffee-shop Ryland. Did you like that version of me better?â
There is no mistaking the confusion that morphs into your face, trickling into every feature of yours that it almost isnât necessary to say what you ask next. âWhat?â
âWere you happier with me then?â
âWhat does that have to do with anything?â Now, thereâs a hint of frustration in your voice you canât hide. Youâre confused, and a little frustrated because why is it that the question is necessary. Had you been conflicting with your feelings?
At the end of the day, he was all entirely one Ryland. Everything was him, so what did it matter which version of him you liked more?
âIt doesnât matter. I liked who you were on our first date, and the second, and even today when youâre arguing with books. I liked you this afternoon, too. I just like you.â You spread your hands helplessly. âAll of those people are you.â
Ryland feels his chest tighten, averting his gaze elsewhere in the habit of being scolded. And, in a softer voice, he says, âNot entirely.â
âI donât understand what you mean.â
âJust answer the question, please. Did you like me more then?â
You sigh, eyes shutting in that same frustration youâd been branding since he asked it in the first place. âYou looked like you liked me more then. And I couldnât stop smiling. So, maybe, yeah. I like when youâre that version of you. I never have to think about whatâs in your mind, because in those moments, it feels like I already know.â
Ryland goes quiet.
His eyes drift somewhere just beyond you, unfocused, as though heâs trying to solve a problem that keeps changing every time he thinks heâs reached the answer. He never quite gets to the right answer.
His chest tightens with a dull, unfamiliar ache. It isnât jealousy. It isnât even heartbreak. Itâs the sort of realization that all this time, he had been trying to compete with someone who heâd never be. You had always imagined that he was Colt.
âI see.â
Ryland rubs both hands over his face. Heâs unsure of what to do, and youâre not sure how to perceive this conversation anymore. There are many things you understand with ease, but this is asking far and beyond for you.
Why was he reacting so greatly to this?
âCan youâŠâ Ryland laughs, he actually laughs, but thereâs no humor in it. âThis is going to sound completely insane. I justâŠâ
He looks at his phone on the table. There is only one thing to do.
âCan you give me five minutes?â
âYouâre leaving? I donât think weâve finished our conversation.â
âJust five minutes. I just⊠I need to talk to someone.â
âRight now? It canât wait til later?â
âPlease.â
The laughter that leaves your lips is dry, almost incredulous. âIâve been trying to understand your absurd questions and your vague responses for the past few minutes, and you suddenly want to make a phone call right now?â
âI promise itâll make sense. Iâm sorry. Please.â
You pinch the bridge of your nose, eyes shut for a moment as you try and breathe out the things youâre not understanding to give him the benefit of the doubt. âOkay.â
âOkay. Thank you. I just⊠I shouldâve realized sooner. Will you please wait?â He tries to smile gratefully, and he hopes you saw it from how heâs already reaching for his phone and stumbling out the bookstore with Coltâs contact in hand.
The phone rings. Under his breath, Ryland mutters, âPick up, you idiot.â
The apartment is loud now that Ryland has left and gone on another date with you.
Ever since Coltâs recent new heartbreak, he had invested in buying his own speakers. Sometimes, the plugs in his ears arenât enough anymore. He needs the songs blasting and echoing around his walls. Itâs not like Rylandâs home to complain anyway.
Thatâs how Justin Bieber ends up in his apartment.
If I was your boyfriendâ
âNo.â Colt points accusingly at his phone, rushing to pick it up and switch it to the song heâs intending. Because he wasnât your boyfriend. It was an evil, sick joke his phone was playing on him to remind him exactly that. âWrong song.â
Everybodyâs laughing in my mind, rumours spreading âbout this other guyâ
âThere it is.â
He throws himself dramatically across the couch, laughing at his pathetic state as the tears keep streaming from his eyes down to his cheeks. He doesnât even try to hide it anymore.
âThis is a healthy way to cope.â He says into the air, voice congested from all the crying. He doesnât know who heâs defending himself to, but he felt it necessary to be said out loud. As if Whoever The Fuck was judging him in this moment.
He buries his face into one of Rylandâs throw pillows, leaving behind wet patches of his tear strains. Heâs sure theyâll dry by the time Ryland comes home. This is fine.
The song continues as he sobs pathetically.
That should be me⊠This is so sadâŠ
âExactly.â He points at the ceiling this time. âThis really is so sad. That should be me feeling your kiss!â
His phone buzzes, but Justin Bieberâs making some pretty good points through the speakers. Ryland can wait.
He silences the call, letting Bieber preach his truth.
Rylandâs probably just calling to geek out over you anywayâhow youâre so incredible, how another date is set for tomorrow, how beautiful you are. But that should be him! So for now, Colt has the right to ignore him.
The song ends, music switching to another Taylor Swift song, and Colt can only groan louder at the pillow.
âI am not the kind of girl who should be rudely barging in on a white veil occasionâŠâ
âAnd you are not the type of girl who should be marrying the wrong boy!â Colt finishes for Taylor, purposely switching out the pronouns so he can feel his misery more. As if, in some way, he was directly talking to you.
Because it is You. Youâre going to get married to Ryland, and he will be forced to watch. Youâre probably planning your wedding dress right now, the type of cake youâll want, the flowers, and Rylandâs going to make him best man, and oh God, he thinks he might vomitâ
Buzz. Buzz. Buzz.
The phone keeps buzzing. Because who is Ryland if not persistent? (Despite Coltâs misery.)
Taylor barely has time to belt out her bridge when the buzzing was starting to kill the mood. Colt groans loudly into the pillow, kicking his legs around in a mini tantrum. Canât he have this one moment to yell along the lyrics, to vicariously live through Taylor as she finally âspeaks nowâ.
After his tantrum, and a few more frustrated tears, he finally picks up.
âWhat.â He sniffles right after, and he can only hope that wherever Ryland is is full of noise to mask the pathetic way he had sniffled.
âWhere the hell are you?â
âHome? Where else would I be?â
âIâm sending you an address.â Ryland sounds extremely panicked. He only sounded like this when he was missing a deadline. âI need you here.â
Colt sits upright at that, Rylandâs throw pillow still clutched tightly in one of his arms. Another sniffle. âWhy?â
âWhy didnât you just tell me, Colt?â
âIâm afraid youâre not really making sense right now, broââ
Rylandâs voice climbs. âThat you like her!â
Colt finds that multiple words are stuck at his throat, it dries and thickens, and itâs getting a little hot in this room, and is the airconditioning still on? Itâs impossibly hot and sweaty right now.
âBuddy, I donât know what youâre talking about.â He tries to deflect. A palm wipes at tears? sweat? whatever was gathering on his cheeks.
âCut it, Colt. I know youâre in love with (Name). I, just, since when, Colt?â
He coughs as a response.
âAnswer me, Colt.â
âSince the first date.â
âJesus.â If Ryland didnât sound stressed before, he definitely was now. Colt can almost picture him tugging at his hair, eyebrows furrowed in the way it does when he worries. âYou didnât think Iâd want to know?â
âI didnât think it mattered.â
âIt mattered! It definitely mattered! If youâd told meââ Ryland almost shouts, but heâs quick to calm himself. Itâs like a switch, really. Like heâd somehow remembered the years of teaching himself patience.
Instead, he starts speaking in a smaller voice. Quiet. Almost guilty. âI wouldâve never gotten in the way. I wouldnât have gone on that second date if youâd told me.â
âIâm sorryââ
âNo time. Look, Iâm outside of this bookstore trying very hard not to accidentally ruin her entire week. So, get your ass here, Colt. Or I swear to God.â
Panic suddenly settles in Colt. He stares at his phone for a second too long. His thoughts are suddenly everywhere at once, tripping over each other before any of them can fully form.
âWhat am I supposed to do when I get there?â
Iâm sorry for pretending to be my brother? Sorry that I ended up falling for you? Sorry that I was just crying to Justin Bieber a few minutes ago?
âJust get over here and fix this.â
Rylandâs right, and Taylorâs right. He has to speak now. This is his last chance.
âI have to speak now or forever hold my peace.â
âWhat the hell are you talking about?â
Ryland stands outside the bookstore for a full minute after the phone call before he gathers up enough courage to go back in.
There are multiple things heâs going to say to you to stall for some time. Itâs not like the bookstore was far from his apartment, so heâd only need to say the words he had practiced and are in his head at that moment. A few apologies, a heartbreaking parting line, anything.
Unfortunately, none of his rehearsed words ever survive long enough to reach your table because when he walks in, youâre already putting on your coat.
His heart drops at the sight.
You look up at the exact same moment, lips in trial of a smile. âI think I should go. I just suddenly feel a little embarrassed. I think I got a little ahead of myself tonight.â
âYou didnât.â
You sling your bag over your shoulder, and it makes Ryland even more frantic. Heâs fumbling over getting you to stay, all while trying not to touch you disrespectfully. If it had been anyone else, heâd have just grabbed onto your arm, but he canât do that to you. Anyone but you.
He glances toward the door, then back at you, and then at his phone like an answer would suddenly present itself. âJust a few more minutes, please.â
âRyland.â
â(Name).â
He really is persistent, following you all the way to the front door all while pleading you to stay for another minute without exactly explaining why, just that âitâll all make senseâ.
The second the door opens, cold air slams into both of you. Itâs raining, hard and nasty and harsh, sheets of water swallowing the street until it almost disappears behind the downpour. Wind rushes into the bookstore, tugging loose strands of your hair across your face and sending the little bell above the door into a frantic fit.
You instinctively step back.
Ryland, on the other hand, almost laughs.
Of course it starts raining now.
Heâd finally worked up the courage to tell Colt to get over here, finally accepted that you were never his in the first place, your heart had always belonged to the boy on that first date with you. Of course, the universe had apparently decided to make getting here as difficult as humanly possible.
âYouâve got to be kidding meâŠâ
A crack of thunder answers him.
Ryland tips his head back for half a second, eyes falling shut. At least it got you to stay a little bit, despite the sudden awkwardness growing.
Right when heâs about to give up, he spots movement in the corner of his eye. It looks a lot like someone running across the street, sprinting through the harsh heavy-hits of the rain.
Your eyes narrow at the figure that is very much running towards the direction of you and Ryland. Itâs almost uncanny, a little bit creepy.
The man reaches where youâre sheltered, bent over with his hands on his knees trying to catch his breath the moment heâs finally escaped the rain.
Youâre about to step away from the stranger, trying not to get yourself wet, when he suddenly looks up. Your breath hitches at the sight. Absolutely fucking not. There is no way.
âHi.â
You look at him, and back at the person beside you. And you start laughing. Actually laughing with a serene smile to the absolutely fuckery that was your life right now. Like youâre almost sorry for yourself for existing in this exact moment.
âI think Iâm hallucinating.â
If one more thing fucks your head up today, you swear youâll start crying.
You look between them again, still shaking your head in a bewildered laughter. Like you canât quite believe it. This must be the peak of your satirical life.
âThere are two of you. Iâm gonna need someone to start talking or Iâm actually going to pass out.â
Rylandâthe dry oneâlets out a sigh. âThat would be my cue. Just know Iâm really sorry, (Name). But uh, heâs got this one.â
He pats your back gently, and then heâs pulling at his exact replica, whispering a harsh, âDude, were you crying before coming here?"
âOf course not, what am I? A fucking loser? Go, go. Go away.â The wet one is shooing him away, and you really are about to pass out. This must be a simulation, a mockery of your life for believing someone as attractive as Ryland could hold feelings for you.
Heâs looking at you now, with eyes red and puffy, and easy to discern trembling lips. His hair is plastered to his forehead, rainwater rolling down the bridge of his nose and off the sleeves of his sweater.
And despite the tear strains that look like trembling contrite, youâd be able to make out that face in a crowd of thousands. Itâs the same face youâd stared at for a long time that nightâthat first night youâd gone on a date with himâtrying desperately to behave yourself and not kiss him.
He had the same stubble, the same scar just beneath his jaw from an injury that probably never healed.
âRyland?â
The guilt on his face is immediate, and there is a lonely, melancholic chuckle that leaves his lips at the name. âNo. That⊠would be the guy who just left. Iâm Colt.â
You stare, with furrowed eyebrows, like you still donât understand.
âWeâre twins.â
âI donâtâ I donât understand. The first date, and a while ago, that wasââ
âThat was me.â His shoulders droop just a little.
âAnd tonight, thatââ
âMy brother.â
Rain drums loudly against the awning above you. Colt, you now know, is dipping his head, hand linked behind his back, and his expression schooled into a smile that doesnât quite reach his eyes. He looks like heâs trying hard not to start crying again.
âThen that meansâ I donâtâŠâ Youâre stumbling over your words, stepping back a little from him. You donât understand, even with the facts laid out. You donât understand how this couldâve happened.
âRyland was busy that first date, so he asked me to go for him.â
âOh.â
âIt was only meant to be for an hour.â
âThatâs supposed to make me feel better? Now, I just feel like a victim of some awful prank. I feel like Iâve been⊠played with.â You frown at the thought.
âNoââ
âWas it fun, then? Switching between the two of you and laughing cause I never found out? Was this all some sort of sick joke youâre playing as twin brothers?â
Thereâs a strain in your voice now, and fuck, Colt doesnât think he can bear the sight of your tear-strained eyes, doesnât think he can handle the quiver in tour lips.
âNo, no, no. You have usâme all wrong. It wasnât like that at all.â
âWhat was it like then?â Your voice wavers, and he can see you sucking in a deep breath. Your eyes shine in a way they hadnât before. Itâs confused, and hurt, and betrayed enough that Colt almost has to look away. But it also breaks his heart that youâd ever imply that.
The accusation hits him harder than the rain had earlier. He would never play with your feelings like that.
âEverything was real.â
âI donât think thatâs fair to say.â Tears are slipping past your eyes, and you move to wipe them on instinct. âYou introduced yourself as someone else.â
âI know.â
âAnd you kept pretending to be someone else, even this afternoon.â
âI know.â
âYou shouldâve told me.â Backed up by feeling like everything had been one-sided, your fingers tighten around the sleeves of the top youâre wearing, and youâre shaking your head at his mere audacity.
âI shouldâve, and it was my mistake. I shouldâve told you after that first date, at the coffee shop, at any point. I shouldâve told you.â Colt drags a hand over his soaked face. âBut I was afraid. I was afraid you liked my brother more, I was afraid I was only a placeholder, a hostel until a house in the form of Ryland came.â
âYou donât get to decide that for me.â The words taste bitter in your mouth.
âI wanted to tell you, I really did. But then youâd smile at me, and youâd talk, and youâd make me laugh, and youâd put that bear band-aid on my arm.â Coltâs having difficulty speaking, especially with the lump in his threat, and the tears that had been spilling for a while. His thumb brushes over the cartoon bear still stuck beneath his sleeve. âBut I kept thinking of Ryland, too. What was I going to tell him? By the way, I met with the girl you were supposed to go on a date with, and now Iâm in love with her.ââ
The words leave him in one breath. They flow, through strings and untangled spools, and he says it straight that it makes you wonder how long theyâve been rehearsed in his head.
âI didnât know what to do. I wanted the best for my brother, but Iâm so in love with you. So, I didnâtâ I couldnât tell you. Iâd rather my feelings hurt than his.â
He sounds ashamed, and the break in his voice does nothing to disguise his guilt.
Itâs silent for a moment, like youâre thinking real hard about his words. Thereâs still a frown on your lips that slowly morphs into a sort of heartbreak he doesnât know could manifest on the mouth. There is chewing of your bottom lip, trying hard to keep it from trembling, and there is the hesitation in your eyes as you look up at him after staring at the wet floor for a long time.
âWas any of it really real?â
He doesnât allow a second to pass before he replies, âAll of it.â
âThe first date?â
âMy favorite night Iâve had in years.â
âAnd the coffee shop?â
âYou left me, and I spent way too much money on coffee that I let turn cold. I was basically heartbroken twice.â
Your lips twitch, barely.
âYouâre ridiculous.â
âYou said you missed ridiculous.â
You look back down at the puddles collecting around your shoes, letting out a breath. âI do⊠Iâ I just donât know what Iâm supposed to do. What about Ryland?â
There is softness in your voices now, a sort of gentle compared to the frustration it had held.
âHe didnât know until now that I like you. Heâs a good person, heâd never do anything to intentionally hurt you. Heâd never do anything to hurt me.â
You remember the look on Rylandâs face before he left, when youâd told him you liked the version of him in the coffee shop better, and every single time you referenced your first date. âAnd the dates?â
âThey were real, too. He liked you. How could he not?â
But Ryland was never the one you kept asking about, now that you know Colt. Youâd kept asking and asking him if he still liked you, but you didnât know he didnât have the answer for that. Youâd been asking Colt, and he wasnât Colt.
âBut I just kept thinking he was you. I feel⊠God, I feel so guilty. I kept talking to him about you. I thought he was you.â
âI know, Iâm sorry. I really shouldâve just told you.â He sighs, and with a more tentative voice, a question follows. âWould it be wrong of me to ask if I totally fucked up my chances with you?â
You think about it, and Colt spends the entire silence of your thinking with the same constipated face, albeit a bit hopeful.
âYou pretended to be someone else. And you lied to me. And you made me cry just now.â
âAll fair points.â His voice is thick and heavy, looking at your eyes for a second before looking down on the pavement. Like he doesnât deserve to look at you yet.
Colt looks dejected at the reminders, eyes still puffy, and there is a pathetic voice in him telling him to smile even though he feels like heâd just lost.
âI donât know. But IâŠâ Your eyes trail to the rest of him â wet hair, slumped shoulders, slightly trembling hands. âIâd still like to get to know Colt despite it all.â
He looks up at you suddenly, like he hadnât heard you properly. âReally?â
Colt blinks, frozen in front of you. Suddenly, he feels lightheaded, like he didnât think that answer couldâve been possible. He might even be on cloud nine, he canât tell from the blood rushing to his ears and making it ring. You couldâve answered with anything, and he wouldâve thanked you and apologized at the same time. He just didnât expect that. That youâd say something about wanting to know him.
You nod your head. âThis time, maybe you could⊠introduce yourself properly.â
âOkay. Yeah, of course.â The relief that washes over his face is almost comical, his shoulders straightening after being hunched the entire evening. And heâs offering his hand, outstretched and patient.
âHi. Iâm Colt.â
âA bit late.â
âI know. Iâm sorry.â He smiles sheepishly. A last sniffle. âBut I figured I still owe the girl Iâve been in love with since our first date an honest introduction.â
Your heart melts, and you find yourself mirroring his smile.
âHi, Colt.â You take his hand in yours, shaking it once. His name from your mouth couldâve made him faint, heartbeat thumping and thudding impossibly at finally hearing it. âIâve known you for quite a while, but itâs nice to finally meet you.â
âCan I take you out of here, (Name)?â
âDepends, Colt. Will there be a family emergency to fake this time?â
i had sooo much fun talking about this fic & hearing all the ideas!!!! this is so much better than i ever could have even imagined and itâs all bc of sueâs great big beautiful brain!!! iâm in love, everything about this is so so good !!!
