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themalhambird · 5 months

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There, in black and white, is photographic proof of Alfred Hillinghead’s damnation.

It doesn’t matter if the photograph is staged. There’s no way that he can prove that, not quickly enough- and even if he could, it wouldn’t matter. To whom could Hillinghead take hypothetical proof of this fraud- this deep rooted corruption? The Chief Inspector is squarely in Harker’s pocket. Doubtless a large number of London’s judiciary are as well- they all run in the same sort of circles, the Sirs, the My Lords, the Your Honours of the world. And even if he could persuade one of them to believe him- there’s a couple of judges and a handful of magistrates that he considers friends, in a professional capacity at least, and he’s

certain that any of them would at least hear him out…but what then? So this photograph is a set up, eh? Why yes, my lord. So you’re not a homosexual? Well actually, my lord…

Hillinghead clenches his fist, digging his nails into the palm of his hand so hard that it hurts. The pain is good, because it blocks out the distractions from the matter at hand- it stops him from giving in to the urge to either swing round and throw a punch straight at Harker’s face, or to fall to his knees and blubber like-

A queer? the nasty little voice inside his head whispers.

-like a child, Hillinghead thinks loudly, stamping down on that voice with a mental foot. Now is not the time to break into pieces- he can do that after he has found a way to keep everyone safe- Polly and Charlotte, and Henry alike. Harker may still be talking, or he may not- Hillinghead doesn’t care to hear another word he says anyway. His own face stares up at him accusingly, and the image of himself in the arms of a dead man is burning itself into Hillinghead’s brain.

***

If he didn’t feel— a deep regard and friendship for Henry, if Ashe were instead some faceless stranger— Hillinghead would still refuse to frame him. The law is the law: if they cannot find, or they cannot find the evidence needed to convict, the real killer the police do not get to pluck out some other unfortunate, inconvenient soul to swing for the offence. If Harker wants to fabricate evidence- fabricate a respectable reason for lurking in a segment of the city famous for its sodomites and its prostitutes, buy a jury, and be found innocent of any involvement. Write The Star off as a rabble-rousing rag fit only for kindling, which anybody who’s opinion might impact on Sir Julian Harker probably believes already. And in the meantime he, Hillinghead would despise every second of watching it happen- would smoulder with a white hot rage that he can’t prove that it’s happening- but he would be helpless to prevent it and it would at least leave him out of the perversion. Moreover, it has a better chance of clearing Harker in the public eye than framing Ashe ever does. A journalist accuses a wealthy man of colluding with the police force to shield him murder charges, and that same police force turns around and charges the journalist with the crime? It's an insultingly obvious attempt at framing someone, and Hillinghead would wonder why Harker, who’s allegedly clever, cannot see the flaws in this scheme of his. But deep down he knows: mighty men cannot resist the chance their power gives them to punish lesser men for catching glimpses of their sin. This isn’t meant to clear Sir Julian’s good name so much as it’s meant to punish Henry and Alfred both for tracking mud on it in the first place. It’s a crime so severe in Harker’s eyes that Henry has to die for it and he, Hillinghead, must live either with killing his lover, or with seeing his wife and daughter dragged down into ignominy and disgrace by his weakness. Those are the only two futures, in Sir Julian Harker’s world, and the world would probably bend Sir Julian’s way, except the bastard drugged him, laid him out in a dead man’s embrace, and then let him keep a copy of the photos.

He needs to get Henry out of town. Hillinghead’s plan- the plan teetering on the very edges of his mind, the plan that he’s too afraid to properly acknowledge until he absolutely has to- does not work if there’s a brash, idealistic hothead armed with a printing press getting under foot and tripping it up. Besides, Hillinghead framing Ashe might satisfy whatever poetic notions Harker indulges in, but a stitch up would work just as well if another officer held the needle, and either Harker or the Chief Inspector might refuse to…….

It all came down to which of them was considered the greater threat. Hillinghead’s money would be on Henry every time. The man is braver, and more tenacious, and more honest than Alfred in every way- Hillinghead dropping his pursuit of Harker in no way guaranteed that Ashe would roll over, and go away. So Hillinghead needs to get Henry out of town, give him no option but to flee London and lie down low somewhere until everything is over, and there’s an obvious way of doing that. It will make the man hate him, but better Henry hate him and live than love him and die. The walk between the station and Henry’s apartment is exactly long enough to irrevocably fix Hillinghead’s resolve and when he knocks at the door, he savours these last few seconds of Henry Ashe believing that Alfred Hillinghead is worth something.

***

He returns to the station to write out a confession, and gives it to the chief inspector. Then he heads home, for what he is painfully aware will be the last time in his life.

The problem with blackmail is that there’s no such thing as a one off payment. Hillinghead has seen it happen before: once becomes twice, twice becomes thrice, and thrice becomes an adulterous husband pawning family jewels - then accusing the servants of theft when his wife notices her favourite earrings are missing. It becomes a governess stabbing a footman for holding knowledge of her bastard over her head until the money dries up and desperation takes control. “They’ll never stop fucking you”, Henry had said- but Hillinghead already knew that: it is the only thing allowing him to make a little piece with how badly he was about to hurt Charlotte. If he had been willing to turn on Henry, he might’ve spared her some more immediate pain- but what then? He could do everything that Harker asked of him from now until the second coming of Christ, and if it becomes more expedient to him than having an easily replaceable, dirty Detective Inspector on the books, Harker would still be able to “expose” those photographs- only by that time, there would be a whole litany of other, real offences that could be used to drag Hillinghead down and how many other Henrys- how many other innocents- would have been harmed in the meantime? Better that the pain should come sooner, and so be over sooner- although perhaps that’s his own cowardice talking. After all, if Harker is appeased by what he’s done (he wonders if the Chief Inspector has gone to Harker already; he wonders how little time he has left to make his apologies) he’ll only have to face the world’s derision for as long as it takes him to end up on the gallows.

If Hillinghead had done as Harker wanted, then in ten-twenty-maybe even thirty years time, Charlotte would find herself to be the wife of a crooked, corrupt officer sentenced- to jail, to death, it hardly mattered which. The outcome would be the same: Charlotte would be shunned from society and, for those ten-twenty-thirty years, Alfred very much doubted that their marriage would continue to be as amicable as it had been. Guilt- about Harker, about Henry- would, he knew, make him withdraw in ever growing shame. He wouldn’t be able to help himself. She’d become a widow long before she had to put him in a grave. On the other hand, if Hillinghead had done nothing and Harker made good on his threat, then Charlotte became publicly scorned as the wife of a sodomite and an alleged murderer, subject to all sorts of scrutiny from the broadsheets and speculation from the gutter press as a trial fed public interest in the scandal. If she stood by him, she would be tainted by suspicion: how much did she know, when did she know it, how was it possible for a wife not to know that she’s sharing a bed with a killer? If she denounced him, she would be branded as unfeeling- heartless, even. A good wife was loyal to her husband no matter the circumstances, no matter how bad his prospects looked…and if she believes in his guilt, then why wait until it all became public to come forward? Why not voice her suspicions to the proper authorities herself?

But Alfred has signed a written confession. There will be no trial. He will be arrested, and he will be executed, and Charlotte will be allowed to be horrified and heartbroken and innocent of any prior inkling of his crime because his confession specifically states that he committed the murder in panic because his victim threatened to inform his wife of a brief affair, long over. Most importantly, she will be free of him with as little notoriety attached to having been his wife as possible under the circumstances.

She’s a beautiful woman, Charlotte. She is beautiful, she is kind, and she is strong. Someone out there will fall in love with her: Alfred hopes that, within the limited set of choices he could have made, he has done enough to preserve her respectability, to engender compassion, even, for her situation- to leave her, once widowed, in a place where she is able to marry again if she wants to. She still has a whole lifetime ahead of her, and the best amends that he can make to her for the mess that he’s made is to maximise her chances for happiness once the dust has had a chance to settle. As for Polly…she will have her mother. And he hopes that she’ll still have some fond memories of her father- that she won’t despise him, not entirely. He loves them both- he loves Henry too-and he does not regret, in the end, trying to uncover the truth. He loved being Detective Inspector Hillinghead. And for the last time, he opens his front door and is embraced by the music that his daughter is playing.

#Bodies (netflix)#alfred hillinghead #period-typical homophobia #alfred hillinghead's internalised homophobia #suicidal intention i guess?#just to cover my bases #Henry Ashe #Charlotte Hillinghead

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lothiriel84 · 10 months

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A Man Who Had Felt Less

In the first weeks of their marriage, Mr Darcy could not bear to be parted from his wife for more than a few hours at a time.

A Pride and Prejudice ficlet. Bisexual!Darcy/biromantic!Elizabeth.

In the first weeks of their marriage, Mr Darcy could not bear to be parted from his wife for more than a few hours at a time. Elizabeth was by then so familiar with his habitual reserve that she could scarcely reconcile her view of his character with his newfound boldness, as he bothered not to conceal the tenderness of his regard for her from the eyes of the servants and their acquaintances alike. And while she repeatedly told herself that there could be no gross impropriety in a married couple sharing such innocent displays of affection, she was more than a little surprised to discover that out of the two of them, he would be the one to welcome such openness of feelings, rather than the other way round.

In all honesty, she did not mind being the object of his attentions so much as she felt like she ought to, if she was to live up to the standards of respectability required of a Mrs Darcy of Pemberley; how a man who could scarcely prevail upon his own reluctance when conversing with strangers, be at such an ease when it came to exposing his own sentiments – albeit completely natural and just – to the world, it was a mystery she couldn’t seem to unravel.

No sooner had she determined to give him time to adjust to their newly entered state before confronting him on the reasons for such unprecedented behaviour, that he startled her out of her resolve by planting a chaste, yet most affectionate kiss on her brow as he passed her by in the hall where she had been discussing household matters with Mrs Reynolds. Deeply conscious of being closely watched by such a dignified figure as the venerable housekeeper, Elizabeth stiffened, coloured, and without a conscious decision on her part, stepped away from his touch.

The effect such an ill-timed reaction had on her husband was immediate and striking; gone was his relaxed, playful countenance, as he quickly withdrew behind his mask of cold indifference. Formally, he begged her pardon for interrupting her conference with Mrs Reynolds, gave her a short bow, and retreated to his private study, which he did not appear to be inclined to leave for the remainder of the day. The afternoon tea had long been cleared away when a footman appeared bearing a note from his master to the mistress of the house, in which Mr Darcy again begged her pardon for embarrassing her in front of the servants, and expressed his wish to retire to separate chambers for the night. Elizabeth stared at the missive for a good two minutes before crumpling it between her fingers, and quitting the room with such an haste that sorely tested the impeccable training of the poor footman, as well as that of two chambermaids she passed along on the staircase.

“Fitzwilliam Darcy, let me in this instant,” she demanded almost before she had finished knocking. “I may not boast an illustrious lineage such as your aunt’s, but you will find I am not to be trifled with, either.”

The silence stretched on uncomfortably for several minutes, and she was starting to consider the merits of causing a scene in front of all the servants, when the key finally turned into the lock and her husband emerged, pale, but with all the appearance of perfect calm and manners. “Mrs Darcy,” he acknowledged her with the slightest nod of his head, and immediately averted his eyes. “How may I be of service?”

Such an abrupt reversal to the aloof manner he had assumed at the beginning of their acquaintance was too much for Elizabeth’s nerves, and she surprised them both by bursting into tears. In short order, her husband had gathered her into his arms, shut the door firmly behind them, and was peppering her face with gentle kisses, all the while begging her forgiveness for being such an ass as to make her cry. “I don’t know what came over me,” she shook her head at length, allowing herself a reproachful little smile. “It would appear I am turning into my own mother, and rather sooner than anyone might have expected.”

“Were you a man, I might call you out for daring to spout such nonsense about my dearest wife,” he jested in a half-hearted manner, his arms tightening their hold around her. “I am very sorry for the way I overreacted; I promise I shall be more considerate of your own sensibilities in the future.”

She had by then calmed sufficiently to be able to turn her mind to more pressing matters. “I fear it is I who ought to apologise for my earlier misstep; I believe I hurt you deeply, and while it was most unconsciously done, I feel no less ashamed of it.”

“Elizabeth, it is no matter. I had not realised I was making you uncomfortable; otherwise, I would have strived to correct my behaviour sooner.”

“I would not say uncomfortable, so much as – confused, I suppose. Fitzwilliam, I never knew you to be one for such open displays of affection, and though I will admit I may require a little time to get used to the notion, it is by no means unpleasant nor unwelcome.” She paused, bit her lip, then purposely met his gaze. “I know this is asking a lot, but if you could possibly assist in my understanding of your own feelings, it would help me considerably in settling any remaining uneasiness on my part.”

Darcy was silent for a very long time, looking as embarrassed as he ever was. “Elizabeth, I don’t suppose – I know you told me about your friend Charlotte, but I cannot help but feel – do you have any idea how hard it is, being forced to suppress an integral part of yourself, day after day, for the entirety of your life? Constantly guarding your every action, word, or look, lest the world might guess the object of your affections, and condemn you for it? And were you to find yourself the recipient of a regard as acceptable to society as you had never dared to allow yourself to hope, what would you do, then?”

“Oh,” was all Elizabeth could utter, deeply moved by such a confession. Enforced discretion had never been an integral part of her prior acquaintance to her dear friend, as it was naturally surmised their mutual affection to be born of friendship and familiarity rather than a more tender feeling. She knew from his letter that the peculiar nature of his affections for his own childhood friend was both similar yet quite substantially different from her own experience, and her heart ached at the thought of what he might have being made to suffer at the hands of his relations, had a single careless misstep caused his secret to come out in the open. What he had suffered regardless, she could scarcely imagine; it was heartbreaking enough to think he had once been forced to choose between his own respectability and the person he loved most dearly, and at that moment, she vowed she would do everything within her power to make up for the unfairness of his past.

“I am well aware I ought to have consulted your own feelings on the matter,” Fitzwilliam continued, breaking her out of her reverie. “I do apologise for failing to do so in a more prompt fashion. Your comfort is of the utmost importance to me, and I am prepared to behave in a manner more suited to your own expectations, should you wish it.”

On a sudden impulse, Elizabeth grabbed him by the hand and tugged him towards the door, which she then proceeded to unlock and throw open. “You may kiss me now,” she announced with a somewhat impish grin, her eyes dancing merrily at the sight of her bewildered husband glancing nervously over his shoulder for any passing servant. “I am waiting,” she added, pouting in such a way as never failed to entice him into the most passionate of displays.

“Are you now satisfied, wife?” he ventured to enquire at length, touching his brow to hers as they both struggled to regain their composure.

“Most satisfied, husband mine,” she grinned brightly, eliciting such a delighted smile from him she thought she might not mind making a spectacle of themselves right in the middle of the marketplace, should he find himself thus inclined.

If the elderly butler who had been serving at Pemberley under the old Mr Darcy happened to walk down the corridor at that very moment, he knew better than to spare a single glance towards his master’s study, let alone notice the familiar manner said master was sporting with his beautiful wife. Young love was a wondrous thing, and so he would tell Mrs Reynolds as soon as he passed her by on his way to the servants’ quarters.

And the young master deserved his own share of happiness, he was certain of it.

#Pride and Prejudice #Elizabeth Bennet #Mr Darcy #Elizabeth/Darcy #bisexual character #biromantic character #period-typical homophobia #internalised homophobia #post-canon #I wrote a thing #Pride (In the Name of Love) [collection]

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faithfulcat111 · 8 months

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Stonathan Sundays

No Six Sentence Sunday today, sorry. I've had a lot of personal stuff going on and actually had no time to write this week. But I still wanted to hit one of my weekly things, so have another Stonathan Sunday, fulfilling the prompt: "Why do you care?"

This also fulfills a few other bingo prompts:

@anyfandomangstbingo Any Fandom Angst Bingo

Title: Stonathan Sundays Chapter 7

Pairings: Jonathan Byers/Steve Harrington

Word Count: 740

Warnings: Period-typical homophobia, brief injury description, vague mentions to canon-typical violence and past canon fight

Square filled: Wrongful Imprisonment

@julybreakbingo Post-July Break Bingo

Fandom: Stranger Things

Square Filled: Feelings Realization

"Why do you care?"

Steve winced at the other boy's hoarse voice as he looked through the bars at him. Jonathan looked way too small in the cell, black eye and split lip accompying his bloody knuckles and making it clear that whatever fight he landed himself in had been much more evenly matched than the one they had nearly two years ago. But still, "You were the one who called me, remember? Not the kind of call I like to get in the middle of the night." Thankfully, it happened to be one that Robin wasn't there with him. She and Steve had been nearly living in each other's pockets since Starcourt, but band camp was apparently a type of hell that had Robin crashing at her parents instead.

Jonathan blinked, clearly confused by that. Steve really needed to get him to the hospital or something. There was no way Jonathan had recovered enough from July for another fight not to rattle his brains. Steve sighed as it became clear that Jonathan wasn't going to explain himself without prompting, "Look, you didn't tell me anything on the phone except that you were being held all the way in Indianapolis. And the bozos up there told me you were being held for attempted hijacking of a car and attacking a police officer. Which I told them was a load of horseshit because pretty sure you wouldn't hijack anything outside of Upside-Downy reasons and if that is back already, I'd like to know cause I'd rather just join you in there than go back to Hawkins and deal with that shit again so soon."

Jonathan blinked at him, silent for just long enough for the awkwardness to start creeping in, before bursting into laughter. He wrapped an arm around himself, the sound just slightly too wheeze-like for Steve's comfort, but he was smiling. Genuinely. Steve was terrified.

"No, it was a fight," Jonathan finally contained himself long enough to explain. "A stupid fight is all."

"A fight? Why would they lie?" Steve turned slightly to look back through the door to the main room. No one was hovering, but it wouldn't be long before they came back to ask if Steve was really posting the bail.

"Because they're homophobic bastards is why," Jonathan growled, mouth clearly running faster than his brain. He went extremely pale the moment he appeared to realize what he said, hunching over on himself even more. That could not be comfortable.

Steve blinked at the absurdness of that last thought before shaking his head to fully take in the weight of the moment. He took in Jonathan and how small he was making himself, the way he and Nancy had fallen apart so spectacularly in the aftermath of Starcourt. Steve thought of Robin looking so scared on that bathroom floor, making herself as small as possible as well in that moment before Steve reached out to her. He thought of how pissed his dad would be at Steve using the money he still sent for something like this, even if he never found out. And Steve thought of the last three years, even before everything began that connected them. How he was partnered with the strange quiet boy in his math class and how it pissed him off back then in a way he couldn't quite reason out other than there was something strangely appealing about someone who refused to fit themselves in past-Steve's worldview but also was genuinely helpful in a bizarre sort of backwards way. How he then always orbited on the outskirts of his vision before being forced to confront each other once again. And again. And again. And... Oh.

"Well," Steve tried after failing the first time and having to clear his throat. "Those bastards are the real idiots. Seriously hijacking your own car? Couldn't even come up with something more creative. Losers."

Jonathan jerked his head up, eyes wide with something Steve couldn't quite parse out but the warmth filling him gave him a clue. He opened and closed his mouth a couple of times before Steve took pity and said, "Seriously, give me a few. We'll get that bail paid and get you on your way back home. We can work out how to get your car back later, I promise."

Jonathan blinked again before his face softened even as he winced at his smile pulling at his lip, "Thank you."

#Post July Break Bingo 2023 #Fandom: Stranger Things #Ship: Jonathan x Steve #afangstbingo #anyfandomangstbingo #stonathan #faith writes #stonathan sundays #jonathan byers #steve harrington #wrongful imprisonment #description of canon events #canon-typical violence #period-typical homophobia #bad cops

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snarkleharkle · 8 months

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Hi fanfiction writers. If you write for a show that takes place in the 1920s, where there is one canonical gay character, and you tag it with period-typical homophobia...

Could you try to remember the homophobia? And I'm not looking for beatings and death, but at least after the amazing 10 chapter build-up, don't have every character break their back reassuing every other character and us the readers that they have no problem with it, and it's a shame that love isn't respected, and that they hope the poofs can get married soon.

It's ok that your 1920's character, even the more progressive ones, have opinions that would be seen as homophobic today.

#fanfiction #Period-Typical Homophobia #that was a lie

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just-late-roman-republic-things · 10 months

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Did Mark Anthony really make jokes about Octavian's sexuality?

I mean he did supposedly sold his ass to a guy for 300k sesteritii, but I didn't know Mark Anthony joked about it! Like... Out of all the people you're the last one to talk, Mark.

Yep. Mostly in a demeaning way. Among other things, he accused Octavian of trading sexual favors to Julius Caesar in exchange for his inheritance (Suetonius, 68).

He and Octavian also sent each other nasty letters. Antony's Latin here is X-rated, so sprinkle f-words and d-words for a more accurate translation:

Now, Suetonius isn't the most reliable source, and Antony definitely isn't, so I wouldn't take any of that seriously. We do know Octavian had several affairs with women. But if he had been with a man too, he would have been extremely guarded about it for the sake of his public image.

#period-typical homophobia #mark antony #incest mention #ancient rome #jlrrt speaks #octavian

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edwardpinestar · 1 year

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heyheyhey, I'm back on my bullshit, starting another multichapter fic within hours of the last one. This one is a murder mystery with vampires and werewolves, tho. So.

#sonic the hedgehog #shadow the hedgehog #sonic au #murder mystery #19th century au #period-typical homophobia #unrequited love #sonadow #detective #vampire #why am i posting another multichapter #why cant i just finish one already #fanfic #writing #ao3

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larkfeather1153 · 2 years

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Here’s my Day One submission for Whumptober 2022! I used the prompt “This wasn’t supposed to happen.” Please heed the warnings in the tags/author’s note. Happy reading!

#whumptober2022 #no.1 #this wasn't supposed to happen #planes #fic #crying #coming out #argument #period-typical homophobia #implied/referenced (past) child abuse #cabbie/cody #cabbie mchale #cody roberts #cabbie/oc

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sp0o0kylights · 4 months

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Steve’s mother was the black sheep of her family.

Stella hated the snow, and the isolation of the small town she grew up in. Hated the bright colors, and sheer friendliness of the neighbors. How everyone was always involved in each other’s business, at all times--and how getting involved meant sharing.

Giving up your time for the greater good.

‘We’re one big family!’ Her father had told her, and hadn’t understood why she found the concept utterly revolting.

Just like she couldn’t understand why they never agreed with her ideas. Things would run so much more smoothly with more rules, better regulations. They didn’t need to rely on magic when they had spreadsheets.

Who cared if some people were upset? If some of the workers where put out of jobs, or “hurt” by her changes?

That was how evolution worked.

The strongest survived, and the business world demanded only the strongest of leaders.

She didn’t regret leaving.

Didn’t look behind her for a second, all too happy to go to college and find herself a rich man to make miserable.

Even had a child, though they were never her favorite things. Her Steven of course, would be so much different from the children she’d grown up among or the ones she helped oversee for her father's work.

He wouldn’t cry. He wouldn’t shriek or scream or make demands of busy adults. Steven would know his place, and he would stay in it until he had grown into a reasonable adult.

No unrealistic expectations, not from her son.

And absolutely, 100%, no magic.

(Unfortunately for Stella Harrington and her relationship with her son, magic does not obey the whims of one person.

Particularly not that kind of magic, one far older than Stella could comprehend.)

See: Steve knew where he came from. Would never say it of course, outright refused to put a name to it.

Knew better, even when he was young, than to speak it aloud.

Though his mother had long abandoned any powers given to her, Steve was still born with his. When lonely, he often found he could wander into a different kind of woods.

One absolutely covered in snow.

Steve should have been cold in those woods, but he never was, not even the first time he stumbled into them at the tender age of seven.

These trees never scared him. Not like the ones in his backyard sometimes did.

The whole place felt rather welcoming in a way his own house had never been, and as Steve had stumbled along following the faint glow of lights, he found himself feeling more relaxed.

Happy.

Even at seven, Steve was smart enough to know he needed to turn back, after a while. That his mother would be furious with him if he caused her to miss the meeting she needed to go to.

That he had a responsibility to be where she put him.

He hadn’t crested the hill yet. Hadn’t quite figured out where the glow was coming from, when he realized he needed to go home--but his trip wasn’t wasted.

A baby reindeer distracted him.

It peeked around a tree, and upon seeing him, came dashing his way.

Steve should be scared, would have been scared, but something in him told him this creature was his friend. He held out his hands and greeted it as such.

He was right.

A few more little reindeer came up over the hill, running around him, and together he played what felt like a game as he walked back in the direction he thought his house lay.

Said his goodbyes when the snow started to wane and made promises to return.

Found, sadly, that he wouldn’t get another chance too for almost a full year. He was too busy, signed up for multiple sports, handed over to tutors and taught life skills by a parade of nannies, none of whom ever stayed for long.

He dreamed of the snow.

The gentle way the woods felt.

It was what made him tell the lie that let him go back.

Steve was eight by then, and smart to how his parents and nannies worked. That some of them overlapped their stays when his parents went away.

So it was easy to tell Mary that she could go.

That it was okay, really. Carla had just called, she was on her way.

Just like it was easy to tell Carla that his parents' plans had changed. Let her know she wasn’t needed after all.

What harm would it do if he was alone for a night? His father kept telling him he was a big boy. Soon he’d be on his own anyway.

The snow found him faster this time, when he went for his walk in the woods.

Delighted, Steve kept an eye out for the reindeer, fingers skittering across tree bark as he looked around, once again tracking the soft glow that came up over the hill.

It was a long walk to that light, but Steve didn’t mind.

Not until he heard the crying.

“Hello?” Steve called, voice prim and proper as always. It was a little high--Tommy teased him endlessly about it, but he had been assured it would deepen.

The crying didn’t stop, but things got quiet for a moment, in the way that happens when someone was trying hard not to be found.

(Steve knew exactly how that felt, not wanting to be found. Wanting to cry for a moment, without someone telling you to toughen up, be a man, ‘God Steven you’re too old for all this--’)

“It’s okay!” Steve rushed out, trying to locate where the muffled sounds were coming from before they ran away. “I won’t tell anyone, I promise!”

Which is right about when he almost tripped over the other kid.

He was hunched against a tree, knees drawn into his chest with brown hair hanging into his eyes. His clothes were a odd--a little like how his teacher had made Steve dress when they’d done a play about the middle ages.

“Who’re you?” The boy asked defensively, wiping his nose with his sleeve.

“I’m Steve.” He said, before kneeling down himself. “Did you get hurt?”

“No.” The boy sniffled. After a moment he added; “M’ Eddie.”

His eyes were large, and reminded Steve of a puppy he once saw. All cute and round and shiny.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you before.” The boy said and it wasn’t an accusation, but it wasn’t friendly.

“I’m not from around here.” Steve told him. “At least, I don’t think I am.”

It was kind of hard to know, given Steve wasn’t sure where here was, exactly--and absolutely knew better than to ask his parents.

“Well then you should go home.” The boy sniffled again.

Steve wasn't put off by it. Tommy had been a lot meaner than this after all, when they'd first met.

Given their parents made them play together anyways, Steve felt he he could get this kid to like him too.

"I'm gonna, later. I'm looking for something right now though--you wanna come?"

Which he felt was a pretty nice offer. Might distract Eddie from whatever was bothering him.

(Steve liked distractions, when he was upset. It made it a lot easier to swallow down the bad feelings.)

“You shouldn’t hang around me.” Eddie said suddenly. His nose was as red as his eyes, and he refused to look Steve in the eye as he hunched further into himself. “I’m bad.”

“You’re not bad.” Steve told him.

He got a glare for it.

“How would you know?”

“I dunno.” Steve stopped, brows furrowing in thought. “I just--kinda do. I always have.”

Which was true. Steve was awfully good at identifying who was good and who was bad, from adults to his fellow classmates. It had gotten him in trouble before his mother had sat him down, and told him he just had a good business sense.

That he needed to keep to himself who was good and who was bad, especially the adults, because it wasn’t his place to say such things.

(‘But it’ll serve you well in the future.’ His mother told him, tucking an errant strand of hair back behind his ear. ‘Particularly for business deals.’)

“Well you’re wrong then, because I was born bad.” Eddie scoffed, arms crossing over his chest. “Everyone says so!”

It was dramatic as hell, and Steve couldn’t help the giggle that escaped him.

“I’m sorry!” He said immediately, when Eddie’s face flushed angrily. “I’m sorry it’s just--you look kinda silly.”

He mimed Eddie’s stance for a moment, including a dramatic little huff of breath. It unbalanced him, and Steve ended up dropping on his butt, which made him to laugh even louder.

“No one who does that can be bad.” He said finally, through the giggles.

“That’s--stupid. You’re stupid.” Eddie said, except he was clearly trying to hide his own laugh at Steve’s antics.

“I’m not stupid--and you’re not bad. I promise.” Steve said, before reaching out a hand, one pinkie extended. “I’ll swear on it.”

“What’re you doing?” Eddie asked him, but he didn’t sound sad now. More curious.

Curious Steve knew, was a lot better than sad.

“You wrap your pinkie finger with mine. Then it’s a pinkie swear, which is like--unbreakable!”

That’s what Carol had told him at least, and so far it had held true. Steve figured it must work doubly so, in a place like this.

Cautiously, Eddie reached out, entwining his pinkie with Steve’s. Like any minute Steve would snatch his hand back, and tell him it was all a joke.

Instead, Steve bobbed their hands up and down once, before letting go and asking; “Do you wanna go find that light with me? I wanna see what it is.”

He pointed up the hill, toward the glow that had haunted his dreams.”

“Oh that’s boring.“ Eddie told him, but he had a grin on his face that felt infectious. “It’s just the town. I’ll show you something way better!”

“Yeah?” Steve asked, and let Eddie snatch his wrist, launching to his feet and bringing Steve with him.

In doing so his hair blew, revealing that he had pointed ears.

Steve stared at them in awe as Eddie tugged him further into the trees, until they burst into a clearing filled with gingerbread houses. They ranged from teeny tiny, to large enough that Steve and Eddie could walk in them, and it wasn’t long before the two started a game of tag, broken only by laughter.

In retrospect, this was his downfall.

Because the little gingerbread houses were really cool, and Eddie was a lot of fun. It was easy to play with him--like the two of them had been made for each other.

Steve had never connected like this with a person before. Never had so much fun with someone before.

Not even with Tommy and Carol, his very best friends.

Eddie seemed to feel the same way, and not even an hour into meeting him, Steve knew he would remember this for the rest of his life.

Remember Eddie.

Steve ended up losing track of time. Stayed so long that his lie was discovered.

The person who came looking for him wasn’t his parents, but looked weirdly like his mom--if his mom were a boy.

He introduced himself as Steve’s Uncle Nick after he called the two boys to him, hands on his hips in a way Steve kind of wanted to mimic.

Steve knew it to be true, in the same way he knew how to find the forest, and if someone was good or bad. A feeling inside him he could tap into, warm and fuzzy in a way that, should he ever be pressed, he might admit to feeling like magic.

“Now how did you get here?” Uncle Nick asked him, like Steve's presence was a surprising little puzzle.

Knowing better than to lie, sensing that his Uncle would be able to tell if he did anyways, Steve told him the truth.

It got him exactly what he expected, which was an upset adult.

Unlike his mom or dad however, his Uncle didn’t yell at him, or grab Steve’s hand in a punishing grip. No nails dug into his skin, no harsh words were hissed. Uncle Nick simply pinched the tip of his nose, before giving a sigh that shook his massive frame.

“Your mom is going to be very upset.” He said finally.

Like Steve didn't know.

“I just wanted to see the lights.”

“The lights--oh.” Uncle Nick glanced over his shoulder. “Could you see them from your house?”

Steve shook his head.

“No but I could feel them.”

Like a pulse in his chest. A compass, or--a guide.

“He says he can tell who's naughty or nice.” Eddie chimed in, oddly quiet for how loud he had been. “He says I’m good.”

This was said as a challenge, and Steve eyed his new friend out of the corner of his eye. He’d never dared speak to an adult like that, and was both a little in awe of Eddie doing it, and afraid for him.

Something his Uncle seemed to sense.

“Edward, go home.” He said, firm but kind. Not like how Steve's mom was when she was mad, or his dad when he had a bad day at work.“I’ll come talk to you later. Come on Steve, let me walk you back. I best explain this in person.”

Then he took Steve’s hand in his, while Steve called out a goodbye to Eddie over his shoulder.

“You’ll come back and visit, right!?” Eddie yelled back.

Steve shouted an affirmative, even knowing it wasn’t likely he’d be allowed.

(Wished with all his heart, that he'd be allowed.)

“Eddie is really good, you know.” Steve said once he no longer could see his new friend, because it felt important to tell his Uncle that. Necessary, for some reason.

“I know.” Uncle Nick replied gently. “But let’s not worry about him right now, okay?”

“Okay.”

Then they were back in Steve’s woods, the ones that were sometimes unfriendly. In his backyard, and up to the door, and even from here Steve could hear his mother and father screaming at each other, in a tone that made his stomach curl.

“Come on kiddo. Time to face the music.” Uncle Nick told him, and Steve found he really didn’t want to let go of his Uncle’s hand.

He did though.

He was a big boy, and well trained. He didn’t flinch from his parents. Didn’t disobey when his mother demanded he tell her exactly how he got to the fun place, with all the snow--and listened further still when she demanded Uncle Nick take it out of him.

Take what Steve didn’t know--not until his Uncle lost the argument.

Reached into Steve’s chest and did something to him, something that killed that warm and fuzzy thing that had always lived inside Steve.

He cried harder than he ever had before that night. Cried and begged for Uncle Nick to put it back, that he was sorry and he wouldn’t ever use it again if they just let him keep it.

(He promised, he promised, he promised-!)

Sank to his knees and told his parents that it hurt.

They didn't listen, and they didn't put it back.

His father told him to get up off the floor, and then pulled him up when Steve found he couldn’t.

Hauled him to his room, even as his Uncle warned his mother that he couldn’t get rid of it. That he could only suppress it, the same way she suppressed hers, but those words didn’t really matter to Steve just then.

Not when he was hurting, and tired, and found himself wishing for his new friend.

(His mother told him he’d feel better in time.

Steve never did.)

xXx

The hole in Steve’s chest had never filled.

It kept him up at night. The yearning for something just out of reach, tormenting him with a feeling of being hollow.

He didn’t know how his mother could stand it.

Steve stopped fussing about it though--or rather, he stopped the first time his father had slapped him over his complaining.

“Enough, Steven! You’re perfectly fine. Now start acting like it, for fucks sake!” He’d roared, and shocked as he was, Steve had still done what he’d been taught to do.

Toughed it out. Sucked it up. Got over it.

Dumped his entire life into basketball and swimming and other parent-approved activities, even if he felt empty.

He was eight, then ten, then fourteen and soon Steve wasn’t healed, but he'd adjusted.

Got aloof to the pain as his popularity skyrocketed, and his parents left him on his own while they chased the almighty dollar.

(Secretly, Steve tried to fill the void in his heart with parties and people, alcohol and even the occasional drug, though most just left him feeling worse than before.

It was perhaps how he ended up acting as he did.

Turning from the sweet boy who was always helping others, to someone who was fast with their insults. Popularity was a sharks game, and though he refused to participate in the bullying his friends enjoyed, he made sure everyone knew who the biggest fish in the pond was.

Because the hole was always there, in the back of his mind. The thing inside him that was missing, that made him crave the snow, and the lights, and the boy with pointy ears.

He might be able to force himself to forget about all of that, if only the hole in his heart would allow him.)

xXx

Five days before his fifteenth birthday, some random guy showed up in Steve’s yard.

This wasn’t unusual--Steve invited a lot of people over.

Tommy and Carol both had a standing invitation to use his pool and Steve often used it to curry favor with the upperclassmen--but even underwater, Steve didn’t recognize the teenager leaning over to watch him swim.

Plus it was a little weird for someone to pop up on a Sunday.

Refusing to be intimidated, Steve surfaced right under the guy, head whipping up to make sure he splashed him in the face.

Laughed as the other guy sputtered.

“Can I help you man?” Steve drawled, hooking his arms on the lip of the pool.

“I’m looking for someone. Steve Harrington?” The guy told him, glaring as he wiped water off his face.

His hair just touched his shoulders, in that awkward stage of growing out that made him look like a pageboy.

Steve tucked that little observation away for later, in case he needed it.

“Congratulations, you found me.” He said, eyeing him over.

Black jeans with holes in the knees, wallet chain and a black shirt with a faded logo of some band Steve had never heard of proudly displayed. A checkered plaid shirt topped the whole outfit, with a red guitar pick dangling around his neck from a chain.

Like the guy thought he was some kind of rockstar, and not in bumfuck Indiana.

Steve raised an eyebrow.

“Though I think you’re in the wrong place. The audition for the new town jester is being held at the high school.”

He got a frown, like the guy knew he was being insulted but didn’t quite want to believe it. “I’m not here for an audition.”

“You sure? Cause you’re definitely dressed the part.”

“Okay, you are definitely not Steve.” He said, arms crossing his chest. He had a ring on each hand, catching the light as he clutched at his arms. “Steve wasn’t this much of a dick.”

Which wasn’t the first time Steve had been called out for his behavior--but it had never been by the people he was supposed to care about.

Those people, the people his parents liked?

They loved it.

“Times change.” Steve told the stranger. Kept his tone light and playful, the way that always made girls giggle at him and guy’s listen.

Well the ones he wasn’t making fun of, anyways.

“People do too.”

He rearranged himself, planting both palms flat against the concrete, bouncing once to build energy before rocketing out of the water.

Stood, and watched with interest as the new guy’s eyes raked over his naked torso, before his whole face flushed red.

How he looked away, like he suddenly couldn’t bare to look at Steve.

“You shouldn't have changed that much.” He muttered, but Steve already had his number.

"Why were you looking for me anyway?” Steve asked as he went and grabbed a towel. Wrapped it around his waist, but kept his upper body shirtless.

Idly scratched at his hip and watched as the guy acted like Steve had practically stripped naked in front of him.

Weirdly enjoyed the little spark it gave him, to watch this guy appear so affected by his bare chest.

Defensive, the stranger bit out; “We were friends. I haven’t seen him in a long time, I was just checking up on him.”

That made Steve pause.

Really look over the guy standing before him.

The fidgeting, the blushing, the way he avoided Steve’s gaze.

He opened his mouth, an odd urge to draw this out guiding him when the hole in his chest pulsed.

Like a convulsion, a miniature seizure that took Steve entirely by surprise.

It had been a long time since it had done that, long enough to throw Steve off his game.

Make him feel unsafe, unmoored.

Abandoned.

“Yeah?” He wheezed, before covering himself and the flood of wrong/want/need with a harsh cough. “Well now I know you’re definitely barking up the wrong tree. I’d never be friends with a fucking queer.”

At that, the guy’s mouth dropped open, head whipping around to stare at Steve in shock.

"Don’t deny it, I can tell. You’re practically drooling over there.” Steve smiled with all his teeth, even as he struggled to keep his breath even. “It’s disgusting.”

“You know what, fuck you. I thought you were different and you’re not.” The stranger spat, with far more venom than Steve was prepared for. “You’re the same as all the rest.”

He scoffed, before whirling on his heel, middle finger high in the air as he stormed off into the woods.

“Have fun with your sad, beige fucking life!” He yelled, voice a little choked up.

“I will!” Steve yelled back at him, oddly heated.

Rubbed his chest when he was gone, before sitting down to try and figure out what the hell just happened--and why the hell his chest hurt so much.

xXx

Steve’s life remained completely and painfully normal--until Nancy Wheeler.

Nancy and her smile, Nancy and her reminder of what it felt like to be loved.

She didn’t fill the void inside him, but what she did came close.

Felt similar.

Steve found he’d do anything for her, looking at life once again through the lens he had back when he was seven.

It was great.

Better than great--it was the best he’d ever been.

Then Barb went missing.

Shit hit the fan so fast that in retrospect, Steve still doesn’t understand it. There was Jonathan and his camera, with the background of his missing little brother. Tommy and his insults, grabbing Steve up by the collar. Nancy being weird, Nancy ducking him to hang out with the guy who took photographs of them having sex.

Steve's brain tracks it all in little snapshots. The way he realized that maybe Nancy was right--he was way more of an asshole than he thought. How he decided to clean the theater, and then apologize to Jonathan.

(Creepy shit or not, Jonathan’s brother was gone. Steve had never had a brother, but he understood how it felt when something important was taken from you.

How it made you act after.)

There was a shift inside him. Not coming from the void, but from how Steve dealt with it.

And then there was a fucking monster coming out of the ceiling.

This is how Steve learns the magic he once had wasn’t special. That it’s not the only supernatural thing that exists in the world.

Only unlike the snow and gingerbread house and boy with pointed ears and an Uncle that looked a hell of a lot like Santa Clause, this version came with evil government laboratories, the Upside Down and his girlfriend holding a gun.

It was kind of a lot, really.

Particularly because his parents weren’t home.

(They still came home of course, but it wasn’t with the same frequency as it used to be.

The business trips went from once a month, to every other week, to long stretches of away periods. Long enough that Steve spoke to them over the phone more than he did in person, and knew more about business mergers than he ever cared too.

Also his fathers love life, courtesy of his drunk mother.)

Steve didn’t exactly handle it well.

Doesn’t think any of them handled it well, really, even if Nancy blamed him for trying to pretend he was okay. But right as their relationship blew up in Steve’s face, shit started happening again.

Flickering lights and freaky monsters. A group of kids Steve found himself in charge of, who were doing their level best to commit suicide.

(“We’re helping El and Will, idiot!” Mike Wheeler protested in the back of Billy Hargrove’s Camaro when Steve brought up that this was not what being benched meant, and Steve let him have that one given the way the world was spinning.

God that asshole hit like a train.)

Another snapshot, full of fear and fury, and things were over once again.

Steve was telling Nancy it was okay. She could go with Jonathan, that he could tell it was what she wanted.

It hurt him to do it, but he wasn’t going to be like his own parents.

Realized with a weird amount of clarity, that he wanted to be the very opposite of his parents.

Late in the night, feeling every ache and pain in his body but knowing everyone was safe, Steve finally started the long trek home.

He didn’t have his car (he hoped that was still at the Byers place) and he didn’t have his keys (no clue where those went but he was praying it wasn’t in the freaky tunnels) and was well into the middle of his walk when his chest started acting weird. Really weird.

Steve ignored it.

He kept ignoring it, focused on getting back to his bed, and his bed alone.

(Maybe he had been thinking more than that. About how the last time he had truly been happy wasn’t with Nancy, but with Eddie. That he’d give anything to go play in the gingerbread houses again.

Maybe he was even thinking of how warm his Uncle had been, the way he was so gentle when he held Steve’s hand.

How he’d argued against Steve’s parents, when no one else ever did.

It was probably just the head injury.)

Unfortunately--or fortunately, depending on who you asked later--the weird feeling didn't stop.

It grew and grew, until it felt like something was breaking out of him.

Like a cough you’d long suppressed that crawled forcefully up and out of your throat, it both hurt and felt amazing, a pang echoing out through his very core--

Then suddenly there was snow on the trees and Steve was stumbling into a teenager with fluffy hair.

“Sorry.” He muttered, right before he went down on his knees.

“What the hell---” Fluffy haired guy said, spinning around and looking at Steve like he was a ghost. “Oh shit, are you okay!?”

“I’m fine.” Steve lied, even as he gave in and laid down.

Man, this snow was nice.

Comfy and soft, and cold on his face.

There was a string of curses coming from above him, and Steve made the effort to twist his head so he could watch fluffy hair kneel frantically next to him.

“ What happened!? How did you get here!?”

“S’long story man.” Steve slurred, feeling bad and looking worse. His head fucking hurt.

“Don’t suppose there’s a guy named Eddie around? He has uh,” Steve fumbled, hands trying to point to his ears. “Pointed. You know.”

He gestured to his own ear again.

(Figured he might as well ask, given all the snow.)

The Fluffy Hair pulled said hair back at that, revealing his very own pointy ear. “Dude you’re in the North Pole, all us elves have pointy ears.”

The North Pole.

The words Steve had only ever dared to think, and never said out loud.

“Cool.” He said instead, not really feeling like he was inside his own body.

“Just--stay there, okay? My name's Gareth I’m gonna go get someone.” Gareth the elf (an elf, wasn’t that a trip. Did that mean Eddie was also an elf?) said, hands hovering awkwardly in the air, before he darted off, out of Steve’s sight.

“Can you get Eddie?” The question came out in a whine, the hurt in Steve’s chest overtaken by the pain in his head.

He didn’t get an answer.

Which was okay, he thought.

He didn’t really need one.

He had the snow, and the woods that weren’t straight out of a fucking nightmare, and, he could just sleep right here…

“Steve!”

He blinked, and found he must have passed out.

“There you are. Stay with me.” A blurry face was saying. A couple more blinks brought it into focus, and Steve knew this person, even if he couldn't put a name to a face.

The hair was longer, and there were more rings on his fingers, ones Steve could both see and feel as a hand ran along the back of his head.

Worried doe eyes met Steve's own, and just through the curtain of curls, he caught the outline of a pointed ear.

“Ed--ie?” He croaked, unsure.

“Yeah Stevie, it's me. You're okay, we brought you back to my place. Gareth is getting help.”

He was trying to sound reassuring but he mostly just sounded worried.

Not that Steve cared, because he finally figured out why older Eddie was familiar.

“Oh.” He managed, the words feeling like he had to push out. “It was you. By the--pool.”

“What?”

It felt like eons ago. The weird guy, asking after him. Back when Steve had been doing anything he could to fill the void his magic had left behind, and turned into a raging shithead as a result.

“M sorry.” Steve slurred, voice cracking in its honesty. “I was--asshole. M'sorry.”

The look Eddie gave him was wild. Like he couldn’t believe Steve was here, and definitely couldn’t believe Steve was apologizing.

Which was fair. Until last year Steve wouldn’t have ever apologized, to anyone, ever.

“Yeah you were, but we can talk about it later. Right now I just need you to stay awake.” Eddie said instead. It was gentle, a lot more gentle than Steve felt he deserved.

It made him want to explain, more than anything, what had happened.

“I was tryin to fix…the hole. Inside.” Steve needed Eddie to understand. Needed it more than breathing, just then.

“I know, big boy.” Eddie soothed, and his hands were back in Steve’s hair.

It felt nice.

“S’not an excuse, promise it's not. I was hurt--hurting, and--I was mean.” Steve continued. It was getting harder to think, the world swimming in and out of focus, but this was important.

Perhaps the most important thing he’d done in a long time, sans saving the kids from the demodogs.

“It’s okay, Stevie. I didn’t get it back then but I understand better now and…”

He might have said something more. Steve thinks he was, but then Eddie was shaking him harshly, and Steve realized he might have tried to pass back out.

“Come on Stevie, sweetheart, you can’t sleep right now. You have to stay awake for me, okay? Steve?”

Steve tried to shake his head and hissed when he found out how much that hurt. Breathed in and out through the pain, before his brain connected back to what he’d been trying to say.

“Not jus’ to you.” He panted. “Wasn’t mean just to you.”

That was important too. That Eddie knew he hadn't been targeted. That Steve was a dick to pretty much anyone he came across.

“I know. I've uh, been watching you, from here."

“Yeah?”

“We have this giant globe. Like a crystal ball, but it’s set deep into the floor so you can only really see half of it. It can also connect to snow globes, and it can let you see places. Watch people.”

Eddie’s voice was soothing, the deep timber of it echoing through Steve’s chest. Belatedly he realized his head was in Eddie’s lap.

That felt nice too.

“I was real mad at you but the Bossman--uh, your Uncle, he kinda showed me you once or twice and then I started watching you myself. Sorry I know that’s weird--”

“Least you didn’t take pictures.” Steve wheezed and then tried to grin because that was very much supposed to be a joke.

(He definitely had felt more put together when he dropped the kids off in Billy's Camaro--so what the hell was happening? Had the shock worn off? Adrenaline?

Fuck maybe he should have just driven Billy’s stupid car back to his house, instead of leaving it at Max's house.

Asshole deserved to not know where his car was anyway.)

Then suddenly there was a lot of noise and light and fuck did that all make his head hurt. Hands went all over him, people barking orders, and a girl Steve was pretty sure was his age was peering at him.

“Steve?” She asked, but it sounded distant. Echoey and unclear.

“I can’t keep him awake!”

That from Eddie, who sounded much clearer, if not utterly panicked.

“It’s okay, I’ve got him.” The girl said, tight but professional in a way that typically belonged to someone used to medical emergencies. “You can let him go now.”

“Are you kidding me, Buckley you’re an apprentice medmage-!”

Steve frowned at that, but found something was drifting over him. A weight, like an invisible blanket pressed down gently, and he had a second to recognize that this too, was some kind of magic before sleep tried to take him.

He fought it for a moment as a thought occurred.

One last thing he needed to say.

“You’re still good. Eddie. You’ve always been--”

The magic took him away.

xXx

It smelled like cinnamon.

Cinnamon and sharp hints of peppermint, the kind that tickled at Steve’s nose as he slowly rose back into consciousness.

Steve winced as he sat up, head itching like ants were crawling all over it. Idly he tried to scratch at his forehead and found himself touching a thick bandage, at about the same time his body seemed to catch on that he was awake.

It reminded him that he had had a hell of a night in the form of an onslaught of aches and pains.

His fingers traced the edge of the bandage as he took in the cheerful red walls surrounding him. The room was the exact kind of kitschy his mom hated, little twirls of white here and there making the place look like the inside of a candy cane.

The center piece was the full size window, taller than Steve was and twice as wide. Fat, fluffy flakes of snow drifted lazily outside it, some sticking to the window panes as they floated on by.

It was a little like being knocked out and waking up in the Wonka factory, but given all the shit that he had been through the past twenty four hours, Steve didn’t mind it.

Snow was infinitely preferable to the weird ash that came out of the Upside Down.

As if sensing he was awake, the door opposite the window swung open. A tray came through, positively stacked with a stupid amount of pancakes and oozing with maple syrup, the type Steve could smell.

“I,” Eddie announced, head just visible above the good, “had a very embarrassing meltdown when they tried to take you away from me. So suck it up Harrington, because you’re stuck with me now.”

Steve stared at him, mildly concerned he was a hallucination.

“I brought you pancakes.” Eddie added, pausing as he approached the bed like he hadn’t actually thought through to this point.

“I see that.” Steve said, just to fill the sudden, awkward silence. “There’s…kinda a lot there, man.”

So much so it was threatening to escape the confines of the tray and drip down onto the carpet.

“You play sports things don’t you?” Eddie defended, making the executive decision to put the tray down on the bed. “Kinda thought you’d need like, a lot, especially if you're healing."

Steve snorted, but didn’t bother to hide the smile that crept onto his face.

Even if it hurt.

Dragged his gaze from the pile of pancakes now laid before him, to the man fidgeting awkwardly by his bedside.

Realized belatedly, that Eddie hadn’t changed much.

Not since Steve had last seen him, though he never in his life would have thought one of Santa’s elves would wear so much black.

(Frankly Eddie looked just like every other teenage metalhead Steve had ever met, sans the pointed ears. One of which was now pierced and had little metal hoops threaded through it.)

Eddie realized Steve was looking, and bashfully twist a strand of his hair in front of his face.

It was cute.

It made him look cute.

“You might as well sit and help me with this, it’s way too much.” Steve told him.

Which was the truth--Eddie had brought him a shit load of pancakes and Steve wasn’t exactly sure he could chew all that well right now, considering his left cheek was so puffed out it felt like a chipmunks.

Didn’t want to turn down a gift though--or rather, turn down a gift from Eddie.

Who he absolutely still needed to apologize properly too.

“I guess I should start off with a thank you.” Steve began, as Eddie dropped onto the bed. “I think you might have saved my life, though I swear I wasn’t doing that bad off before I got here.”

“Robin said the shock wore off.” Eddie told him. He didn’t wait for Steve to dig in, grabbing a pancake and rolling it up like a sausage before stabbing one end in syrup. “She also said you had a hell of a concussion, two cracked ribs and a literal boatload of scratches,”

Which sounded about right, considering.

“Still though.” Steve frowned, looking at his hands. “I mostly just fought off Billy, the demodogs never got me.”

Something he was incredibly thankful for, given the sheer amount of teeth.

“I think you’re downplaying your injuries here, handsome, you gave Robin a hell of a fright. She cursed in four languages." Eddie talked fast, just like the little boy Steve remembered him as.

It made him grin.

“Handsome, huh?” Steve teased, and regretted it the second it slipped out of his mouth.

He hadn’t meant to call attention to it. Not just yet anyway. Wanted to work his way up to his apology and then the things he had kind of realized on his walk home (and possibly before that, though he thinks he might have…repressed it.)

Given the way Eddie froze, Steve figures he’s got about two seconds to talk himself out of it, before Eddie rightfully shut him out.

“I like it. The nicknames.” He said, which is also not what he intended to come out of his mouth and God he was really blowing this, wasn’t he?

“Steve,” Eddie started, sounding a little strangled and nope, no, he was going to fix this dammit!

“I’m sorry.” He said honestly. “I know I was an ass when you came to check up on me, and I know I said some terrible things to you. I regret it. I regret it a lot, and I shouldn’t have treated you like that.”

“You weren't wrong.” Eddie cut in, twirling a ring on his finger, eyes firmly on it. “I am gay. I am flamingly gay. And I understand if after today, you don't want me here.”

Which apparently answered the question about whether or not elves gave a shit about such things.

(Or maybe they did, and it was humans who cared, and Eddie was giving him an out for it.

Steve figured he’d ask later.

After he had finished groveling.)

“I want you here.” He said, as seriously as he’d ever said anything. “I think the real question is why you would want to help me?”

It was the one thing that didn’t add up. Why Eddie had been so nice, when he’d shown up.

Sure it was one thing to be a good citizen or whatever, help out a guy who was passed out on the ground, but Eddie hadn’t just gotten help.

He’d stroked Steve’s hair. He’d kept him awake.

Hell he called Steve sweetheart.

And now he was here again, right by Steve's bedside, checking up on him.

You didn’t do that for the guy who was a downright douchebag too you, even if it had been a few years.

Eddie bit his lip, before he chanced a look back at Steve, up through his bangs. “Because you said I was good Steve. You were the first person who ever said I was good.”

Quieter he added “And because we were friends once.”

“I'd like to still be friends.”

“Even if I'm gay?”

Steve took a deep breath, and let out a truth that he’d maybe been ignoring for almost as long as he’d tried to forget about the hole in his heart.

“Cards on the table Eddie, I’m not sure I’m not gay Or whatever both is."

He'd heard the word once from Chrissy, but hadn't cared to remember it.

(Regretted that a little bit.)

He got a mighty frown in response.

“Don’t do that. Don’t--joke, like that.”

“It’s not a joke.” Steve said slowly, feeling the words as he spoke them. “I think this is part of the stuff I always just--ignored. Didn’t want to deal with it, because my--”

Steve couldn’t bring himself to say magic, and so, aborted the sentence entirely. “I couldn’t deal. So everything connected to this place, to the rest of my family, to you, I just pushed aside. Pretended it didn’t exist.”

Pretended that he was normal.

Just like his parents wanted.

Then he’d met Nancy.

Realized what he felt about her, he’d always felt about Eddie. That the way she looked at Jonathan wasn’t the way she looked at him--and even then, in the love he had for her, Steve hadn’t looked at her like that either.

Steve had been attracted to her for her yes--but initially, maybe, because she’d looked a little like someone else.

Admitted to himself that he the reason he could clock Eddie so fast back when he was fourteen, wasn't because he was that good at reading people, but because he recognized what it looked like to get caught checking out a guy.

“But I could never forget about you.” Steve added because well. “I’ve never been able to forget about you.”

He’d already said cards on the table, hadn’t he?

Might as well reveal his whole hand.

“You were the last thing I thought of, when I was trying to get home. I wasn’t thinking about my house, or my parents. I was thinking about you. I’ve never been able to come back here, not after Uncle Nick,” He cut himself off again, frustrated that he couldn’t just fucking it, but made himself take a breath.

Continue.

“--but I could, last night. I could get to you.”

Technically he’d gotten to Gareth, who Steve probably also owed a thank you too, but hey, beggars can’t be choosers.

Gareth had found Eddie anyway, in the end.

“I absolutely get if you want nothing to do with that, considering I think I’m just now accepting this about myself but. I wanted you to know. You’re important to me, Eddie. You always have been.”

It was weird--Steve should have felt laid bare. Vulnerable now that he’d laid out all these things he’d suppressed, that he thought taken away alongside his magic.

Instead he felt lighter than air.

Like the weight had finally been lifted and he could breathe deep once again.

For a long moment no one said anything and Steve figured this was it, he’d gone too far, when Eddie darted in, pressing a quick kiss to Steve’s cheek.

He pulled away just as fast. Wide eyes searched Steve’s face, as though expecting Steve to change his mind.

If anything, it just solidified it.

Steve reached out slowly, gently grabbing on of Eddie’s hands. Brought it up to his mouth and kissed the back of it, while maintaining eye contact.

Enjoyed the way Eddie’s face went bright red.

“You’re important to me too.” He managed, voice awed. “You’ve always been important to me. Stevie.”

Finally feeling like he knew where he belonged, Steve grinned back.

xXx

Bonus

“When I said let him sleep Munson, I didn’t mean with you!” Someone screeched a few hours later, jolting Steve awake.

“He was awake when I came in!” Eddie protested, shoving himself up onto his elbows when the women from yesterday--Robin, Steve thought her name was--stormed in. “We fell asleep together after Robbie, I swear!”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Hi.” Steve said with a little wave, before the two of them could screech some more. “I’m Steve.”

“I know, Dingus.” Robin told him, eyes narrowed in fury. “You’re a member of the Clause family, everyone knows who you are.”

“Oh.” Steve said, though it felt less cool and more weird that someone had finally said it out loud.

That he, Steven Harrington, had an Uncle, and that Uncle was Santa Clause.

‘Dustin is gonna freak.’

“I’m sure Mega-Idiotson here hasn’t told you, but I’m the medmage that saw you last night. Or kinda--see I’m an apprentice medmage, but my teacher was kinda out with the Boss seeing someone a town over and time was tight and we couldn’t exactly wait--”

“Breath, Buckley. In,” Eddie teased, before demonstrating a deep breath on himself, hand sweeping into his chest before he loudly exhaled. “and out.”

“Shut up, Eddie, I’m working up to something here!”

“What is it?” Steve said, feeling like if he didn’t interject Robin would take a while to get to the point.

“I might have accidentally undid whatever was on your magic?” Robin rushed out, so fast Steve nearly didn’t catch it. “Like I can tell that’s the Boss’s magic, and that he did--whatever that was, but I couldn't figure out how to heal you with it there and it was kinda already leaking out so I just--took it off?”

Steve gaped at her.

“You fixed me?” He managed after a moment, hand darting out to squeeze at one of Eddie’s.

“Um. Yes?” Robin cautioned, like she wasn’t exactly sure that’s what she did.

“Oh my god. Oh my god!” Steve laughed, then felt absolutely stupid for not checking in with himself.

Because Robin was right.

The hole was gone--and his magic was back.

How had he not noticed that his magic was back!?

“Eddie, Eddie she’s right--I have it back!”

He turned in bed, dropping Eddie’s hand so he could cup his face and kiss him instead.

“Okay, I don’t need to see this--” Robin complained, but Steve didn’t care.

Could only laugh delighted into Eddie’s mouth, before Eddie deepened the kiss.

(“Guys seriously I am still right here! Can’t you at least wait until I’m gone!?”

“No. Now get out Robin, you’re ruining my moment!”

“It’s okay, Eds. I’ll give you as many moments as you want.”

“Ew, ew, ew-!” )

This whole ass thing on A03 if you'd rather read it there!

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quality-street-rat · 2 years

Text

Not mad. Just hurt. But in case it comes off as me being mean, kin memories under the cut.

Armin was straight. Just remembered. I mean before I remembered that I’d only kissed him once and wondering why it was only once, but now I know! He was genuinely a heterosexual! I think. We never discussed it.

We had made it to the ocean. Later in the day, once camp had been set up and everyone was busy, I saw Armin slip off by himself towards the water. I followed him. I found him standing in the ocean staring off into the distance. The moon was weirdly bright that night, I remember because his hair looked like silver in the light. I took off my boots and stepped into the wave just cresting over his feet next to him. He looked at me, and he said

“Isn’t it beautiful?”

His hair was falling in his face. So I reached out to brush it out of the way so I could see him better. He looked up at me with those big blue doe eyes, and I couldn’t help but cradle his face in my hands and kiss him.

He froze for a split second. Then he shoved me back by my shoulders so hard that I nearly fell. I looked at him, and I saw several things on his face. Fear, revulsion, confusion, anger.

“Eren, I’m not...like that,” he said. His voice was full of something ugly and hurtful. Disdain, maybe. “I’m not like you.”

Then he. He turned around and walked away. His shoulders were hunched and he walked like he was trying to escape. He looked back once, and, well, I don’t know. It’s probably wishful thinking, but I thought I might have seen some regret in that look back. We never talked about it.

I didn’t go back to the camp for a long time. Hange was more observant than one might give them credit for, and they could kind of tell I’d been crying. And because Armin came back before me, they guessed he’d had something to do with it. Hange took first watch that night. I didn’t really move move. I’d just been staring at the fire since I’d come back.

Hange came out to me that night, nonbinary (but we didn’t have that word). They didn’t really make me talk about it, but I did tell them that Armin...wasn’t like me. They understood.

Later, when I got bitter (not because of Armin), I took what I could from the world. Meaning, and I am so very ashamed of this, the biggest reason other than power that I had for my one-night-stand with Historia was that she looked like Armin. I could pretend easier. I got to pretend that falling in love with my best friend hadn’t been for nothing. I used her in more ways than one and it is one of the things I regret the most.

I couldn’t even be mad at Armin. It wasn’t his fault he was straight, you just can’t help that stuff. And genuinely, it had no bearing on the Rumbling or any shit like that, I wasn’t taking out my unhappiness on anyone.

But it still fucking hurt. The...the disgust I saw on my best friend’s face hurt so much more than a simple rejection would have. The fact he was angry with me for kissing him at all. That he never even talked to me about it after.

Well, kind of. He brought it up once. I was explaining things. And in front of everyone he fucking said

“Is this because of what you did that one day?”

That made me angry. I didn’t even know why.

“Not everything is about you, Armin.” I told him.

I don’t know what he told everyone after that. Everything was too far gone to ever have that conversation at that point.

I don’t know. I’m angry. I’m sad. I’m hurt. And it’s not the rejection that hurt. It was the way he did it.

#zip it matt #kin tag #|titan #eren jeager kin #fictionkin #eremin #one sided eremin #period-typical homophobia

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eldritch-thrumming · 4 months

Text

if we lived on the moon.

Not for the first time, Steve Harrington wishes he lived anywhere but Hawkins, Indiana.

He spots Eddie walking toward him down the grocery store aisle where he’s been waiting for him, shifting a can of baked beans from one hand to the other, dimples on full display.

“Got ‘em! Found the last can, they were shoved all the way to the back of the shelf, can you believe it? Had to reach all the way back.” Eddie stops short where Steve stands with his hands on the shopping cart handle. His eyes raise from the can in his hands to Steve’s face, smile widening. “I can’t wait to make you Wayne’s famous wieners and beans. It was all I would eat when I first moved in with him.” Eddie’s eyes sparkle while he talks, remembering, gaze still on Steve as he leans down to place the can in the bottom of the cart. His smile softens and Steve is transfixed, frozen in place, nearly breathless. “Guess it reminded me of my mom,” he finishes in a near-whisper. It makes Steve wish he’d known him when they were kids, that they’d grown up together and seen each other in every moment of their lives.

As Eddie leans back up out of the cart, a lock of hair falls across his face. Steve’s hand itches to reach out and tuck it behind his ear for him. He glances around, covertly and quickly. Finding their aisle empty, he gives in to his impulse and allows his fingers to brush Eddie’s hair away from his eyes for him before dropping it back onto the cart handle. Eddie blushes, just a little, and brings his own hand up to pull that same hair in front of his face, suddenly bashful.

Maybe it isn’t any where he wants to be. Maybe it’s an any when. Maybe in a year—or two or three or ten—he can touch his boyfriend’s hair without looking over his shoulder to be sure there’s no one watching. Maybe in a year—or two or three or ten—he can grocery shop holding Eddie’s hand and no one will say anything at all. Maybe in ten years, he’ll be allowed to kiss Eddie right in the center of Hawkins where anyone could see them and no one would even care. Maybe then they’ll be allowed to have their date nights at the diner like everyone else, instead of tucked away in the trailer with mismatched candlesticks for a centerpiece and the radio playing their well-worn mixtapes, the ones Steve knows by heart. Maybe it’s just a matter of waiting it out. Maybe then—if he believes in this bright, beautiful future when—he won’t be forced to leave everything behind just to be allowed to love Eddie out in the open, where everyone could see.

They turn to leave the aisle, finished with their shopping, but before they exit the deserted space completely, Steve feels the brush of Eddie’s knuckles against his own as he pushes the cart in front of him, like a butterfly: there suddenly, gentle and then gone.

He has to believe in anywhere and any when.

"i'd hold your hand if we lived on the moon, walking down the avenue. we'd never think twice about who we'd offend and we'd never say we're just friends. no, we'd never say we're just friends. all that i know is i want you forever and nothing like this could be wrong. if people on earth think that they know us better than we do, then i'll live on the moon with you."

is this anything? i obviously didn't know how to end it lol. i'm having big gay sad feelings tonight about homophobia. i rarely write in a universe where homophobia exists, because these are my barbies and i'm the god of this gay little world, but i'm extra sad today. hope you enjoyed this or something. idk. who are ur fave openly gay musicians? i like boygenius, muna, fletcher, etc. trying to get away from u know who, give me recs!!!! ok bye.

#steddie #steddie fic #steddie blurb #steddie drabble #steddie fanfic #steddie fanfiction #stranger things #eddie munson #steve harrington #steve x eddie #steve harrington x eddie munson #tw homophobia #period typical homophobia #steddie ficlet #stranger things fanfic #stranger things fanfiction #stranger things fic

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17yearcicada · 1 year

Text

i will never understand why fandoms with a historical setting insist on making like 70% of the fanfiction modern aus... the history aspect is literally what makes it interesting hello...

#like i'll read a modern au once or twice they CAN be fun #but its prevalence gives me a headache #if you don't want to address period-typical homophobia you can just ignore it. most people will not care #.txt

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0sbrain · 10 months

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i think one of my least favorite troupes in tf2 fanfics has to be scout finds x and y are dating and freaks out/starts being openly homophobic towards them because "canon typical homophobia"

they are mercenaries. fucking contract killers. do you think anyone gives a flying fuck about homosexuality being illegal? you see, they are ok with murder and gruesome violence, HOWEVER they draw the line at two men holding hands because the words on the paper say it's a no no

he would probably tease them because, that's normal that's what friends and annoying coworkers do. and sometimes he might step on a line. but my dear friends. if scout was genuinely homophobic to any of the other mercs, im afraid he wouldn't survive the winter (irse a mimir). he would get snapped by a twig and it doesn't even have to be by the merc he was insulting. anyone in the vicinity would suplex his ass. son, we all suck dick here. get used to it

#also the administrator wouldn't give a flying fuck #she would file it under “potential blackmail if things go south” and leave it as that #because her only investment on the war is draining the Mann brothers of their money and getting to their australium #also this is assuming that homosexuality was illegal in the tf2 universe #which first of all what purpose does it serve to the narrative? that scout says the word faggot?#and secondly do you think that shakesperacles universe needs to 100% accurate to our own?#im not saying you cant do period typical homophobia but it needs to make sense #would a private in the army make remarks towards his veterans in this situation? it's not exactly the same but you get me #this is even without entering into the entire “army gay” debacle #tf2 #i was a little bit mad could you tell

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lothiriel84 · 11 months

Text

Not Handsome Enough to Tempt Me

To say that Mr Fitzwilliam Darcy was in a foul mood the night of the Meryton assembly might have been the understatement of the century.

A Pride and Prejudice ficlet. Bisexual!Darcy, implied bisexual!Wickham and biromantic!Elizabeth.

Author’s note: This is my attempt to adapt the "Two kinsey 5s making it work" Tumblr post about Beatrice and Benedick for the Pride and Prejudice fandom. Proceed with care.

To say that Mr Fitzwilliam Darcy was in a foul mood the night of the Meryton assembly might have been the understatement of the century. Not only was he still reeling from everything that had transpired at Ramsgate – his own feelings of betrayal over George’s deplorable conduct only making it more apparent how badly he had failed his beloved sister – but he was also forced to bear the painful sight of his particular friend exchanging smiles with one that was widely regarded as the handsomest girl in the room. He could have cursed his own ill luck when Charles took it into his mind to prompt him to dance with Miss Bennet’s sister; after all, he didn’t even need to look at her to know she couldn’t possibly be handsome enough to tempt him.

If only he had known how wrong such an assessment would turn out to be, he might have at least considered holding his tongue; as it was, he thought no more of it, until fate decided to throw him and Miss Elizabeth together once more.

No sooner had the entire party quitted Netherfield that Mr Darcy was able to breathe freely once more. It was bad enough having to vie for Charles’ affections, such as they were, with a country nobody of uncertain feelings and a completely embarrassing family to boast; his sanity had been sorely taxed by the necessity of being constantly on his guard, lest a chance meeting risked stirring the tangle of conflicting emotions he had been striving to suppress with regards to a most unwelcome addition to Meryton’s society. As for Miss Elizabeth Bennet, he hardly knew himself anymore, but as he could scarcely credit his family to approve such a connection, he had therefore resolved to think of her fine eyes and pert conversation no more.

As it happened, fate entertained completely different ideas on the subject, as he would soon find out.

He was, without a doubt, the most foolish and despicable man on earth. Elizabeth had been entirely in the right in rejecting his farce of a proposal, and he could blame no one but himself on that count. With sudden clarity, he knew he could never marry, not after this. In all his eight and twenty years, not once had he looked upon a woman with anything but a sense of discomfort, and the disdain of one used to being subjected to the most artful schemes by the ladies in his society; Elizabeth was his one exception, and he had been inconsiderate enough to destroy her regard forever with his pride and his unpardonable conduct.

His previous resolve to seek out an eligible bride to bear him an heir for his estate had dissolved under the same rain he had ridden into after paying his ill-conceived addresses to the one woman he could ever see as the companion of his future life. And if he could not hope to restore himself in her regard, the very least he owed both to her and to himself was to disclose his full motives for his past conduct, and beg for her forgiveness.

After that, he would sequester himself to Pemberley, and devote his full attention to the happiness of his sister. She was now to be his heir, and her future children after her.

There had been a moment, before that fateful letter came, when he had been convinced that, should he pay his addresses again, they would not be so ill received as they had been on a previous occasion. Unfortunately, he was never to find out, as Miss Elizabeth and the Gardiners were now on their way back to Hertfordshire, and he knew he would never see her again. Oh, he planned to find the scoundrel, and give him a piece of his mind before forcing him to do the honourable thing and marry the girl; as much as the thought of securing Wickham’s marriage to a girl of fifteen turned his stomach, he saw no other alternative, and it would at least make it more difficult for George to continue ruining the reputation of unmarried young ladies.

He felt sure that, had he been more careful in concealing his preference for Miss Elizabeth, neither she nor her family would have found themselves in their current predicament. In George Wickham’s eyes, targeting the youngest Miss Bennet had been nothing but retribution for Darcy’s past conduct in his regard, in the same way persuading innocent, sweet Georgiana into an elopement had been.

That the same youthful indiscretion should come back to haunt him for the whole of his natural life, he was now bitterly sure of. Not that he deserved any less, he was convinced, and wouldn’t so much mind the misery he had brought upon himself, if only he could spare those he loved the same fate.

To his credit, Charles Bingley had listened to his friend’s detailed confession of his past misdeeds with an equanimity Darcy had not previously suspected the younger man to possess; even his momentary discomfort at being informed of the full extent of Darcy’s previous regard for him was quickly dismissed, and it was fair to say their longstanding friendship withstood such a trial with an ease and grace that could scarcely fail to surprise – and delight – both parties.

As his mind drifted towards the mutual bitterness of his and George’s parting, both after his father’s death and more recently in London, he congratulated himself on his good fortune in finding such a friend, and assured Bingley of his most heartfelt approval of his intentions to renew his suit of Miss Jane Bennet.

As for Elizabeth Bennet, he wished her every happiness, and prayed to God that she would one day find a husband who might endeavour to deserve her. He knew he did not, and he would regret this unfortunate circumstance for the rest of his life.

In his determination to do everything within his power to ensure his friend’s happiness, Mr Darcy forgot to consider whether his own feelings were under good enough regulation to face the day with the composure required of a gentleman standing up with the bridegroom. He knew that Elizabeth would be in attendance, of course, and that it was entirely possible that she would stand up with her sister; as for the Wickhams, he had dared to hope they would not brave the journey from Newcastle, as news had reached him that Mrs Wickham was expecting. And while he bore no ill will whatsoever to Charles for his happiness in entering the married state, having to bear witness to George parading Lydia around as if she were a prize mare proved to be too much for his already frazzled nerves.

He was halfway towards working himself into a state, hidden away as he was in a prettish kind of little wilderness to the side of Longbourn, when someone approached him, and shortly after a small, ungloved hand came to rest on his forearm.

“I am exceedingly pained to see you suffer thus, Sir,” Elizabeth murmured, sympathetically. “If only there was some small way for me to offer you comfort, you have but to name it.”

Darcy barked out a humourless laugh at that, and subsequently found himself unable to hold back the tears that had been threatening to escape since the morning. “You are too kind, Madam. My pain is of my own doing, as you are entirely aware, and so I must suffer it.”

He didn’t realise she was offering him her handkerchief until he felt it pressed into his own hand. “Mr Darcy, I have thought long enough on the contents of the letter you have been kind enough to give me, and I find I cannot be silent any longer. You expressed your feelings of shame and guilt for forming such a peculiar sort of attachment as society could be never prevailed upon to acknowledge, let alone accept – and yet I cannot find fault in you for simply loving your friends. I know how painful it is to have your particular friend removed from your society upon their marrying, and while Charlotte and I have never discussed our previous attachment, I can assure you it was most grievous for me to see her loyalties, if not her affections, transferred to her husband.”

“I – am not entirely sure we are speaking of the same sort of attachment, Miss Elizabeth. And while I must once again beg your forgiveness for my role in separating my friend from your sister, I knew from the start there could never be anything beyond friendship between myself and a respectable man such as Charles is.”

“I cannot possibly relate the minute details of my previous acquaintance with the former Miss Lucas, Sir, but you must at least trust me with the use of my own understanding and heart. And I wasn’t speaking of my new brother only, as you well know.”

He swallowed and faced away from her, as he surreptitiously made use of the proffered handkerchief. “I am exceedingly sorry that my mere presence in Hertfordshire spurred George to choose your family as the target of his nefarious designs. As I believe I mentioned in my letter, he has every right to consider himself ill-used on at least one count, but even after his shocking attempt to revenge himself upon me through Georgiana, I wouldn’t have thought so low of him as to think him capable of imposing upon a girl so entirely unconnected to myself.”

“Not so entirely unconnected, if my aunt and uncle are to be believed,” she smiled, the warmth in her eyes so palpable he felt his heart leap in his chest. “Which reminds me, I am still to thank you for your invaluable service in rescuing my sister, and securing the continued respectability of my family. It’s not a match I would have wished for any of my sisters, but as Lydia assures me she is far from disappointed in her choice of a husband, my only regret is that it should have come at such a personal cost for yourself.”

A most bittersweet smile coloured his features, and he promptly shook his head. “I have made my choice when I rejected George’s affections, all those years ago. And while I won’t go so far as to claim I do not regret the circumstances of our parting, his subsequent conduct has long destroyed the better part of my regard for him. Securing your sister’s future was the least I could do, when I was the indirect cause of the ruination of all her prospects.”

“You are too generous, Sir,” Elizabeth claimed, her hand impulsively covering his own. “As for myself, I can but heartily pray that your good deeds are rewarded in kind, and that you find the happiness you deserve.”

“I can assure you, Madam, I have as much happiness as I shall ever deserve,” he forced himself to speak around the tightness in his throat, as he sternly reminded himself that she would never be his, no matter how desperately he wished it.

“Mr Darcy, that will not do at all,” she cried, throwing her hands up in frustration. “I know I can scarcely hope for a renewal of your addresses, but is it so wrong of me to wish for all misunderstandings between us to cease once and for all?”

His head spun, and he wondered just how much wine he had had at the wedding breakfast. “Scarcely hope? Elizabeth, you must know – surely you will understand – after everything I disclosed to you in my letter, my honour as a gentleman prevents me from even suggesting a union between a respectable young woman such as yourself, and a – a reprobate, such as myself.”

“How dare you speak ill of the man I love most dearly?” she exclaimed with the force of her conviction, and in a moment of boldness took hold of both of his hands. “I do not care who you loved in the past, so long as you promise to be true in your affections from this day on.”

“Elizabeth,” he whispered her name like a prayer, and all but fell to his knees in front of her. “Is this possible?”

“It is indeed, Fitzwilliam,” she laughed, and when her lips touched his, he was left to wonder whether it was in fact possible to die of happiness.

#Pride and Prejudice #Mr Darcy #Elizabeth Bennet #George Wickham #Charles Bingley #Elizabeth/Darcy #past Darcy/Wickham #one-sided Darcy/Bingley #implied past Elizabeth/Charlotte #bisexual character #biromantic character #period-typical homophobia #internalised homophobia #endgame het pairing #I wrote a thing #Pride (In the Name of Love) [collection]

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