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#backyard garden nonsense
songbirdhillfarms · 6 months
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The Spy Kids movies have the exact vibe of when you and your friends are running around in the backyard creating an elaborate story based entirely around whatever random nonsense happens to be lying around.  This empty happy meal box is a computer.  If I spin this bop-it the right way it will unlock the secret door.  We have to get to the jets! (The jets are the swings).  My little sister says her pigtails spin around and let her fly and we all agree with that.  These swim goggles let me see through walls.  There are a series of stepping stones leading to a big rock in the middle of the garden.  The rock is the office of the Head Spy and the dirt is actually a bottomless pit, so you have to be careful when you jump across.  The bad guys have disabled all our weapons but my necklace is actually a secret super cool weapon that works anyway!  There’s logic and continuity but only as much as a bunch of five-to-twelve year olds can keep straight without bothering to keep notes or look up any science facts they don’t already happen to know.  This is not a complaint.
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blueywrites · 11 months
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turtle dove and the crow, part four
A 1940s Farm AU, featuring bsf!neighbor!eddie x fem!reader
story tags: 18+ (minors dni). smut; true love; unexpected pregnancy; angst, angst, angst; parental issues; corporal punishment; scheming, plotting, and betrayal; hurt/comfort; period-typical stigma regarding unwed pregnancy; angst with a happy ending.
chapter tags: please heed this warning and decide if you are prepared to read this chapter, which includes scenes of harsh but period-accurate parental abuse against an 18-year old child. this includes emotional and mental abuse in the form of 'discipline' and depictions of physical punishment. these methods are always harmful and never appropriate. they do not represent the views of the author. avoiding tw/cw's? read the part four summary instead
masterlist | part one | part two | part three | interlude | part four | part five | part six | epilogue | playlist
PART FOUR: THE WEIGHT BENEATH THE SUN (8.6K)
It’s hard to make the moment last
Hard to keep the dreams you have
Hard to let the love inside your heart
The guards are always at the gates
Turning everyone away
But you got through
Didn’t you?
You’re the One I Want — Chris and Thomas
When you were six— two years before Edward Munson became the new boy next door— your mother still hosted garden parties during the warm months. Pa would arrange the iron furniture into a pleasing configuration, ensuring the grass was level and dry beneath the table's heavy feet. The stiff-backed chairs would be spaced precisely from its wrought edges, far enough for ease of entry but close enough that the ladies would not have to stretch their arms too far to reach the cucumber sandwiches. Those Mama would assemble in careful layers, laying them out on a ceramic platter decorated with filigree. Mama's finest pitcher, made of delicate glass and attractive curves, would be used to serve fresh-squeezed lemonade. She'd garnish the sweet drink with muddled mint leaves plucked from the small personal garden she carefully maintains against the backyard fence. A generous spray of flowers would finish the trio of treasures awaiting the town's ladies, invited by your mother for an afternoon of light refreshments and genteel socializing.
Your sister, Virginia, has the supreme honor of being allowed to join the garden party for the first time this year. She is five years your senior in age and ten your superior in manner, evident in the graceful way she smooths the skirt of her shiny pink dress, perching herself with impeccable posture on the very edge of the iron chair situated to your mother’s right side. Poised and prim, Virginia accepts a glass of lemonade, taking a tiny sip before placing the china delicately to the right of her plate. Ever observant, her eyes dart around the table, absorbing gestures with ease; she follows her sip quickly with a dab of her napkin before arranging it dutifully on her lap again. She is rewarded for this, as the ladies generously indulge her presence among them.
You would be jealous of your sister's invitation if you gave a hoot about such things, but you are entirely disinterested in all of it. You care not for hushed titters floating from beneath their sunbonnets and the passing of cucumber sandwiches, which are nibbled little by little and then chewed behind demure palms as gossip is exchanged. Instead, you've happily plopped yourself behind the apple tree, back to rough bark and short legs spread wide in the ticklish grass. 
Methodically, one by one, you have been picking the delicate yellow petals off the heads of dandelion weeds, dropping each one to collect in the basin of the sunbonnet cradled between your thighs. It's painstaking work and nonsensical, perhaps, but it serves to satisfy some innate curiosity inside you. The purpose of this is unclear; your actions are confusing, the way children's play is often confusing to everyone but the child. But since you are quietly occupying yourself, and your mother and sister are busy socializing, they are happy to leave you to your own devices.
They are happy, that is, until your eye is caught by something much more exciting than plucking weeds.
Your neighbor down the lane has just finished imparting some succulent gossip to the gathering, and her lips are pursed against a grin as she relishes the reaction to her news. Her revelation has the intended effect: shock ripples around the table, but it is mixed with the suppressed delight of knowing a new, tantalizing secret. The party-goers exchange glances, searching for cues in one another, all wanting to know more but reluctant to appear too eager.
"Oh, my goodness." Mama places her hand over her heart as if in regret, but her eyes are gleaming. Interest thrums within the hush of her voice as she begins to ask, "And what d'you suppose he might now do, on account of—?"
"Mama!"
Her question is interrupted by your delighted cry. She turns to see you holding aloft that which made you abandon your collection. Back by the tree, those petals have spilled from the tipped sunbonnet to scatter heedlessly across the grass. "Look't what I caught!" you squeak, eyes alight with eager, innocent delight. "It's a big one, too!"
Despite your excitement, you cradle the large bullfrog gently in your hands, mindful of its comfort as you present it to your mother. You considered it quite the feat to catch the frog without causing it alarm, and when its strong legs twitch against your palm without attempting to flee, pride glows beneath the dirt streaks on your round cheeks.
Your mother does not share your sentiment. 
The way her expression contorts is so opposite what you expected that she may as well have smacked you across the face. Your earlier excitement is smothered like water douses a match, and promptly, you drop the frog. 
You drop it as if by acting quickly, you can undo whatever has caused your Mama offense. But it is not enough. Your mother stares at you, and though the look in her eyes is one you are too young to fully decipher, a parent's disapproval is sensed innately, and felt deeply.
One year after you drop the bullfrog, Mama will sell the garden furniture to purchase seeds and stock in preparation for the coming hardship, and the garden parties would end. Two years after you drop the bullfrog, Eddie will roll in like a summer storm to join his uncle in the red house next door. Seven years after you drop the bullfrog, Virginia will establish a nest of her own, leaving you as the only unwed daughter left in your parents' roost. But no matter how many years pass, you will never forget how your mother's stare made you feel. In the garden, a heavy stone sank in your gut, sickeningly leaden, steadily crushing your delicate insides with each second you spent pinned by her furious stare.
This moment in the hayloft reminds you of that. But there is no stone of lead in your stomach this time. This time, with the salt tang of Eddie's seed still lingering on your lips, your entire body turns to solid, petrified rock. 
Your mother stares up at you from the barn floor. Her face is contorted, screwed up tight with shock and rage, but her eyes are wide, wide enough to swallow you up entirely like a sinkhole would. She traps you. And you remain there, locked tight until the seethe of her voice boils hot from between her lips, blistering the ruddy flesh on its path to you.
"Git. Down. Here."
Each word is a spitfire bullet, enunciated so precisely so as not to be misconstrued. The burn rushes down your spine to melt your solid rock into magma. 
Your muscles are clenched tight, but the warm pulse once stoked between your legs has deadened. You're thrumming instead with horror, with deep, all-consuming dread. Where one moment ago you were heavy as a sinking stone, now you are unsteady, shaky like the first time Eddie coaxed you into a rowboat. 
You can't grab hold of his rough, broad palm to settle yourself this time, and you don't dare risk a glance at the man still nestled in that soft bed of hay. To catch his eye would be torture of a different kind. Instead, you rush to obey your mother's command. Your knee scrapes raw against old, splintery wood as you scramble around and dip one foot to catch the rung of the ladder. 
It's a sturdy old thing, that ladder. Good thing, too, because it holds fast as you cling to it with shuddering fingers and legs so wobbly, they clatter against its rungs with each step toward the perilous ground. By the time you reach the floor, the knee you'd scraped has gone numb. You want to turn your chin down and see if your dress has bloomed a crimson flower of blood, but your neck is unyielding. It's hard enough to step back from the security the ladder provides. All the will your spirit possesses must be channeled into facing the woman looming like a cloud of miasma behind you.
There is no time to brace for a confrontation, but you force your face into as docile an expression as possible before you meet your Mama head-on. She is short and portly, hunched up in such a way as to make her smaller in theory, though, in reality, the sight is only more imposing to you. You expect to meet her piercing stare again, but she isn't looking at you. Instead, she's got one eye hooked on the edge of the hayloft and her lip caught in a sneer so deep it's almost a snarl. 
"You too, Edward," she spits, and your throat dries to dust. "Don't think I'm ignorant of your bein' up there with'r."
The silence that follows is stifling, crowding in on you from all sides. The pressure doesn't ease even as that pregnant pause turns to the creaking and groaning of wood, which protests as the weight of an unseen body shifts toward the hayloft's edge. The thud of booted feet that replaces the wood's cry is little consolation; your heart kicks up at the steady plod that commences, matching it in rhythm but pounding twice as fast. You don't dare to turn and look or even to fiddle with your skirt nervously. Your hands remain still at your sides as your mother stares above your head, watching Eddie climb down from the hayloft. Her eyes dip slowly and steadily along with the thumping of those booted feet until her gaze is even with your face. The final step down behind you is quieter than the rest, and your throat tightens as you sense Eddie's hesitance in the sound. 
As he alights on the ground, Mama's eyes suddenly shift. Where once she had been staring almost uncannily in your direction, as if she may or may not have been trying to look you in the eye, a sudden cut and glint make it abundantly clear that now— now— your mother is gazing directly at you. 
It's all you can do to keep from trembling.
You vaguely hear the shuffle-scrape of Eddie's footsteps and feel the warmth of his body as he comes to stand beside you. The tiniest glance reveals the extent of his mortification: his pale cheeks are beet red with a flush that creeps down his throbbing neck, and his eyes are squinched half-shut as if bracing for a blow. His adam's apple bobs, and unconsciously, you swallow at the same time.
When Eddie finally opens his mouth, all that eeks out is the briefest croak before your mother interrupts coldly. "You best be gettin' home to your uncle now, Edward."
While the words don't drip with venom, the mention of Wayne is nothing if not a threat, and Eddie recognizes it as so. You would never expect him to argue; in fact, you'd be dismayed if he had, but the thought of facing your mother's wrath alone covers the frozen dread inside you with a fine layer of poignant sorrow. You are heavy, but now you are empty, too. 
Weakly, Eddie clears his throat to rasp, "Yes, ma'am." Your chin trembles at the sound of his voice, but your eyes only begin to sting when you feel the soft, subtle draw of his fingers across the small of your back as he passes by you to disappear out of sight beyond the barn doors. The touch is one last offering of comfort from your beloved before you both must face the consequence of your transgressions.
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In the kitchen, Mama takes you apart.
The way she lashes you with her tongue is harsh and unforgiving. Each word darts across the kitchen counter, catches you with its claws, and burrows beneath your tender skin, sinking deep to carve into your marrow. 
"How dare you." Her voice quivers with the force of her rage. "How dare you bring such disgrace upon our family. You know darn well that we forbade you from seeing that boy, yet you went behind our backs anyway. And now, to make matters worse, I find you been carryin' on like a," her lips twist up to spit a sharper barb, "hussy up in the hayloft. What kind of a girl do you think that makes you, y/n?"
She pauses long enough to make you question whether she expects an answer, but she carries on without you. Her eyes dart along the cabinets, unseeing as she chuckles mirthlessly. "And, oh. M'blood could just boil thinkin' how that boy could set there at his dinner table and talk about how good we raised our daughter, only for you two t'turn around and… and…." 
She stutters off, wild eyes rolling as she works herself up. The deepening of her wince uglies her visage, so that lines crease at the corners of her mouth where before there were none. And oh, how foolish you were to think the sight of her bulging eyes would be in any way gratifying. How deeply, utterly stupid of you to think such a thing.
"What you done is unspeakable. How'm I supposed to show my face in town, knowing what you been up to right underneath my nose? It turns my stomach just to think about what y'were doin' up there w'him." 
Each word sinks deep inside you. It’s a barrage of all you deserve because it's the truth. And this is just the beginning. Because there's disgust there, in Mama's screwed-up face, and there's fury, too. But beneath those, there's also hurt— the evidence of a deep wound torn open by your impropriety. It's a hurt you aren't sure you can mend. 
At that realization, fat, hot tears begin to roll unimpeded down your cheeks. They drip from your quivering chin, which tightens with the occasional sniffle as you try to keep yourself from collapsing to the floor, wrapping your arms around your mother’s skirt, and pressing yourself to her shins in pitiful supplication. 
Though Mama is looking at you, she doesn't seem to register that you've started to cry. "I just can't understand it." Mama's fingers press divots into her temples, and her head wags absently as if in subconscious denial. "Virginia was your age when she married her Lawrence. She knew the way of things. And now look at 'er— got her own home and three children to raise." Her hands drop sharply, and a flash of judgment returns. "She's a proper lady. And then what d'we have? You. I never thought I'd see the day when a daughter of mine would behave like this." 
The burrs stick sharply, coating you in a prickly sadness that only intensifies when your Mama's plump arms tighten to her sides, crossing beneath her bosom, cinching in tight as she presses a fist to her lips. 
"Lord help me— what'm I gonna do with you now?" 
It's so much quieter than all else she's said, so much duller, and yet all the more painful for it.
Her name on your lips is a whimper, a sob, a plea all at once. "Mama—" You suddenly feel no more than six years old with dirt streaked on your shameful cheeks, filled with the crushing sense of all you've done wrong.
"Don't." She cuts you off firmly. Your teeth click together painfully as your jaw snaps closed. She stares at you for a long moment. "Th'last thing I wanna do is talk about what was goin' on up there, but clearly…" 
You read the intention in your mother's restless shifting, the discomfited rocking of her heels. Heat floods up your throat, a sickly blaze of shame. "Well," she continues stiffly, "I know y'had your mouth on him, and that's… that's one thing. But I need to know." Her fist drops to reveal a stiff upper lip, but her voice quavers slightly as she asks a question that doesn't stick like burrs or burrow beneath your skin. Instead, it pierces straight through the center of you. 
"Have you had relations with Edward?"
Your shock is like the firm twist of a leaky spigot. The steady flow of your tears ceases so abruptly that it's nearly enough to distract from the question itself.
Nearly enough. Not quite enough.
Horrified panic surges up as the question sinks in: Mama's askin' me if I had sex with Eddie. The feeling claws its way past your stomach, past your heart, past the heat in your throat, and straight up to your head. It rushes there, leaving you dizzy. Black fuzz spreads across your vision. 
And the lie springs up, ready and poised behind your teeth. It's a denial borne of fear, desperation, and the deep ache beating in the child's heart still nestled within your grown one. That tiny heart flutters against your ribs, recalling the plink of music box drift-offs and gentle John the Rabbit wake-ups; the balm of kisses pressed to scraped knees and hurt feelings wrung out with tight hugs; the roundness of laughing cheeks streaked with flour and little hands cradled in large palms, guided to knead love into dough, right here, in this room, all those years ago.
Could you survive the loss that would come with confession? Could you bear to see the lingering light— the final vestige of a mother's regard for her child— die behind her eyes? 
Led by a child's heart and a mind seized by panic, the choice you make is not a choice, but an inevitability.
"No," you whimper, and such sincerity pools within your eyes that even one who knows better might be convinced you believe that. "No, I din't lay with him, Mama. I swear it."
The softening of her features, fractional though it is, brings you such tender relief that tears spring anew at the corners of your lashes. 
"Well, all right," she says finally, and while her voice isn't quite fond, you can see the creases around her mouth ease, fading from deep crevices back to the faint lines you're familiar with. It's a gift you wouldn't dare waste. "Y'know what needs to be done, then."
Without a hint of protest, you retrieve the wooden spoon from the crock on the counter, passing it into your mother's waiting hand and presenting your backside to her. 
With balled fists and a rigid spine, you take your punishment. You press your lips flat to keep all your noises in as Mama spanks you with the rounded back of the wooden spoon. The even raps— ten against your clothed buttocks— smart and sting, but they do not ache. Her actions are not hesitant or reluctant, but they aren’t gluttonous either. Your mother does not grow fat feasting on your pain; she is merely obliged to provide it.
You are braced for another impact when you hear the spoon clatter back into the crock. When you realize another blow will not come, you face her again. Silence reigns the room as you take stock of yourself: warm, stinging skin, pressure in your cheeks, nose, and forehead from crying, and a new, yawning hollowness inside.
"M'sorry, Mama," you sniffle, throat thick with remorse, "M'sorry for disobeying you, a-and bringin' shame on the family. I— I jus'..." You choke and try again. "I—"
There is only one justification, however inadequate it might seem to your mother. It's spoken in the misery of your crumpled brow, in the glaze of your big wet eyes, in the copper of your lower lip where you've worried the spot Eddie's kisses still sweetly linger.
I love him.
"I know." Mama replies as if you'd said it aloud, and her voice is tight, tight with what she is trying to suppress. "I know you do." Her bosom heaves with a heavy, bracing sigh. "But y'know what your Pa said." She doesn’t seem to feel the need to be more specific, and you muster a smidgeon of gratitude for that.
"I know," you echo her, and your voice is tiny and broken. You are tiny and broken. And tired. You realize all at once that you are so tired, it's a labor just to keep from lying down right here on the floor. "R'you gonna tell 'im what I did?"
A jerky nod confirms it, and you think you'd feel more afraid if you could feel anything at all. "I'll speak with your Pa when he gets home," Mama tells you. "Now go'n up to your room. Don't expect you'll get any supper tonight." 
You stare at her, solemn and unresisting, and in that stillness, you can see the moment she hesitates. The flicker that passes across her crinkled eyes is brief, but you see it, and the hush of her voice tells a story all its own. "Don't come down for nothin'," she murmurs intently. "No matter what y'hear. Just stay in your room 'til the morning. Hear me?" 
You can feel yourself wilt further into exhaustion with each passing moment. "Yes, Mama," you croak in dutiful agreement.
The press of her cool palm against your warm, sticky cheek is brief. It lingers only long enough for you to barely realize it has been offered. But that fleeting sensation keeps you alert enough to drag yourself up to your bedroom, softly shut the door, strip off your dress and chemise, and pull on your thin nightgown before relinquishing yourself to the sunken mattress. At that point, you cease to tick, like the final tines have plinked within a wound music box. You have landed on your back atop the covers, and there you will stay until you can summon the strength to turn onto your side.
Though you are tired, sleep does not come to offer a reprieve. Instead, though your eyes begin to strain, you stare at the crack in the plaster above your head. It's the same one you traced while waiting for your crow to land on your windowsill yesterday, yesterday, yesterday. Yesterday beats in the useless yearning of your heart, trailing down your temples to pool in the hollows of your ears.
Yesterday, Eddie held you in your bed until you fell asleep. Today, he never would again.
Heavy footsteps rouse you, and you jolt awake. 
At some point in the afternoon, outside your conscious memory, the slow leaking of your eyes had finally ceased. Blearily, you curled into yourself, tucking your wrists beneath your chin and finally drifting off into unconsciousness. Now, your bedroom is not the way you remember it. It's dizzying at first when your eyes pop open not to the crack in white plaster you'd expected but instead to the sight of your bedroom window. The outside is dark beyond the gauze curtains. The air now hums with the dusk song of cicadas. 
You have little time to orient yourself before the heavy footsteps that woke you yield to the squeal of a door hinge. Your neck is stiff when you lift your head, attempting to blink the strain from your eyes.
Cast in dimness, Pa looms over you like the shadow of death.
Your father is typically imposing, but his visage is made even more severe by the lack of light. His long face appears to be carved with crags, which harshen the snarl of his brow and turn the wrinkles of his sneer into jagged gashes lining his thin lips. What little light remains glints off the bony line of his nose and the flash of his hard, unyielding eyes. He stands unmoving as if etched from obsidian; the only feature to betray him as man and not stone is the ticking of his square jaw. A muscle there jumps erratically, twitching out its silent fury.
Eyes wide, heart fluttering, breath quick and shallow, you lay still as a prey animal hoping to escape a predator's sight. That is no use. Quick as a rattler, Pa's hand strikes out, and the yawning hollowness inside you becomes an uproar of fear flooding your throat.
He takes firm hold of your arm, thick fingers like a vice pinching your skin. When he tugs at you roughly, you let him maneuver you to the edge of the bed. You keep yourself limp and unresisting because, now that you've been caught in his jaws, you know he'll only bite down harder if you don't. And you even shimmy to assist him, fingers twisted tight in the hem of your nightgown to keep it from dragging up your legs. Preoccupied with maintaining your modesty, you're unprepared to be dragged beyond the footboard; you lurch off the bed in an ungainly slump, and your knees clunk painfully to the hardwood floor. 
A shock of pain shoots up both of your legs, and you muffle your reaction with lips pressed tight, following the silent command of your father's grip as he insists you turn to face the mattress. He drops you only once you're kneeling how he wants you, and the loss of his clamped fingers is a relief. Feeling begins to return to your arm as blood flows freely again, and a dull throb starts up in the place he'd gripped you. 
Yet that's nothing compared to what you know is coming when you hear the metallic clink of a buckle. It's followed by the unthreading of his belt, which shicks through the loops of his blue jeans with a drag of denim and a snap of leather breaking free. 
Moments pass in agonizing silence as you wait for the first crack of the belt. Everything inside you tightens in preparation for the pain to come— your muscles, your bones, your heart, and your spirit. You brace yourself, thighs quivering as you hold so perfectly still despite how your skin has begun to dew with nervous sweat. As you hold that stillness, you can even detect the sting of your mother's milder punishment throbbing in time with the pulse that thrums within your tense body. 
Your head has just begun to sag when Pa's voice grates loudly like the grinding of stone, gruff and hoarse. "Y'pologized to your Mama for your behavior?" 
You rush to answer. "Yes, sir." 
"Y'ever gonna dare sneakin' around under my roof again?" 
"No, sir." 
A grunt follows your reply. It sounds satisfied enough to untwist a little of the fear inside you. "Y'ashamed of yourself for what you done with that piece of trash? You regret lettin' him," he pauses so the spit of his words might sting you worse, "ruin you with his filthy hands?" 
Unbidden, Eddie's face blooms in your mind's eye: wild curls of soft dark frizz, crinkled eyes lightened to amber in the sunshine, soft nose dusted with cinnamon freckles, pink lips stretched wide in a smile that makes your heart squeeze even in your memory. You see him there, your beloved crow, and your chin trembles with the truth. You manage to steady it so that your second lie of the day can come out strong. "Yes, sir." 
But perhaps, in your remembering, you hesitate a second too long, because your answer is quickly followed by fire cracking across the crease of your thigh and cheek. 
You yelp with shock and pain, reeling as the contact burns through you, beginning as a white-hot ache before dulling to a throb. You tremble, breathing shakily as your father mutters, "I'll make damn sure of that."
Pa belts you across your buttocks and thighs, attempting to scald that shame into you with the cruelty he wields by his hand. But the whip of the belt is not the same as the lashing of your mother's words in the kitchen; it could never be. Not when Eddie's face has bloomed before you, bathed in summer sunshine. Not in this place, where the bunching of your fingers in the bedspread only makes you think about strong arms around your middle, soft breath on your cheek, and the tickle of wild curls against your shoulder. 
Your father feasts on the cries he draws from you. He takes them as evidence of your guilt and shame. But you're fortified by the memory of Eddie's strong body cradling you in this bed, the breadth of his wide palm on your mound as he brings you to the pinnacle of pleasure, holding you snugly against him when you fall into surrender.
Harshness could never drive out reverence. Pain could never drive out love.
Pa might leave you welted and whimpering against the footboard, but he can never make you waver in your devotion to Edward Munson.
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That's not, of course, due to a lack of trying. Because try he does. Pa efforts to cleave you from Eddie in any way he knows how. He begins with a belting and continues the next morning with a visit to your neighbor, Mr. Wayne.
He's over there 'til midday, which you know because you do not rouse from your bed until he returns. You'd lain there on your side for the entirety of the morning, wrists again tucked beneath your chin, but legs straight since curling them made the throbbing in your bottom and thighs sharpen to a burning ache. Throughout the morning, you stared out the window, watching the light crawl steadily up the red siding of the house next door. 
You stirred only when Mama came to tend you. She didn't speak, but you could sense her sentiment in the mild soap and damp cloth she used to wash you, in the gentle pat of a soft towel against your cleansed skin, in the earthy spice of the calendula salve she dabbed on your welts. After she was done, your nightgown fluttered back into place around your hip and flank with the lightest touch. You nibbled on the toast sweetened with butter and honey she left for you on the bedside table, but you did not quit your bed.
This was not the first time Pa had taken the belt to you for some indiscretion, but it was by far the harshest. That's evident as the painful throbbing in your lower half intensifies when you prop yourself up on a palm, testing how it feels to sit up. Your father finds you in the midst of this endeavor: leaning gingerly on one flank, your lips pressed tight and pale. 
You glance toward him warily as he bullies open your bedroom door, and he squints back but doesn't acknowledge your pained expression. "Get y'rself presentable," he grunts. "You're comin' with me next door."
Humiliation, it seems, is the next tool Pa has decided to use to cleave you from Eddie. You know it isn't unreasonable to ask you to apologize to Mr. Wayne for your inappropriate behavior. In fact, now that you've had time to reflect on your actions, you even want to apologize to your neighbor. You cannot— will not— denounce your devotion to Eddie, but you do regret disrespecting Mr. Wayne. He's a man who has been nothing but kind and patient with you and his nephew throughout all the years you've known him, and to think you'd wounded him with your actions makes your throat thicken with genuine regret. 
So you dress hastily in your loosest, lightest frock and spend the majority of the time Pa affords you sitting at your writing desk, crafting a missive of carefully-chosen words you hope will convey to Wayne the depth of your sincere contrition. It takes some scratch-outs and restarts, but by the time Pa returns to retrieve you, you feel satisfied with what you've written.
You expect to apologize to Mr. Wayne for the offence you have caused him, and you expect to make the apology in person, so you don’t hesitate as you follow your father into the red house. It is also unsurprising that Pa would watch you deliver that apology. Knowing his nature, it's expected that he'd want to ensure your efforts are satisfactory. But you do not anticipate the way Pa ushers you through your neighbors' house, one palm pressed flat to your back to keep you from retreating when you see Eddie sitting next to Wayne at the dining room table.
Eddie doesn't look any worse for wear, not in the way you feel after enduring Pa's punishment last night, but he isn't unaffected by yesterday's events. He's wilted like a shade plant left too long in the hot sun: limp curls clumped at the ends, broad shoulders slumped, pink lips sagging at the corners. His umber eyes are smudged with purple in the hollows of their sockets as he stares down at the table. He doesn't look up as Pa urges you forward. 
Your heart seizes at the sight of him, stalling as familiar, hungry want mixes with poignant, thrumming sadness. The impulse to rush to the table and throw your arms around him, to bury your fingers in his curls and cradle his face to your breast, to feel his hot arms crush you against him— all comfort, all sweetness, all desperate relief— is nearly overwhelming. 
To resist is worse agony than any strike of leather, but resist you must. Pa's firm hand on your back demands you stand behind the chair across from Mr. Wayne; all the while as he maneuvers you, you will your crow to look up. He doesn't, though you can tell he now knows you're here. You see it in the tightening of his brow and the twist of his plush lips, which pinch with the effort to keep himself at bay. 
Pa scrapes a chair out, settling himself heavily down into its seat. Standing beside him, you fidget with the crisply-folded letter, pinched fingertips crawling slowly along its edges as you pour all your will and longing into a stare that Eddie refuses to return. 
The stalemate ends as Pa clears his throat loudly, growing impatient. "Go'n, now," he prompts, crossing his arms and kicking his feet out under the table in a scuff and thump of heavy boots.
You steal one more lingering glance at Eddie before dropping your eyes to your hands and unfolding your letter. It is silent at the table as you turn it right-side up to read from. You lick your lips and take a breath to steady your nerves before beginning.
"Dear Mr. Wayne," you begin, reading in a cadence reminiscent of your schoolteachers' voices— melodic, perhaps too overly-expressive. "I want to tell you that I am so very sorry—" 
A lump rises suddenly in your throat, and you falter; you begin again, speaking a little faster, though you can't disguise the tiny tremble that has emerged. "I am so very sorry for what I've done to disrespect you. I have been carrying on in a shameful manner…."
The apology becomes a blur as you race to complete it before losing your composure. As you express your remorse and acknowledge your wrongdoing, the shaking of your voice only worsens; by the end, your chin is wobbling hard enough that your teeth start chattering.
"Tha's all right, dear," Wayne interjects, gruff but not unkind. Never unkind. "I kin what you're tryin' to express. 'ppreciate your apology."
You nod jerkily, accepting the reprieve gratefully. You fold your letter back up with trembling fingers and pass it over the table to your neighbor, who tucks it away in his pocket.
With a jut of his chin, Pa motions to Eddie. "S'your turn now, boy," he says, and there's enough vitriol roiling there beneath the surface to more than compensate for Wayne's lack. Pa's shrewd eyes dart to you. "Sit down now."
You don't dare disobey, though your stiffness and pinched expression bely your discomfort as you perch gingerly on the edge of the chair. Eddie rises sharply, and your gaze catches on the clench of his broad fist at his side, how his ruddy knuckles have blanched with the force of his grip. You know they'd tightened at the sight of your pain, and a sudden surge of longing nearly leaves you breathless.
You'd urged Eddie to look up at you when he'd been seated, but now you know why he didn't because neither can you, now that the positions are reversed. You can't look up at his face and see the expression there. It's hard enough to hear his voice as he apologizes to your father for touching you without his permission, for the deep offense of wanting you when he'd expressly been told he wasn't allowed because he was too wild and frivolous, and that he'd proven himself as such for what he'd done with you in the hayloft. 
At the end of Eddie's apology, Pa grunts his acceptance. Then, he informs you in no uncertain terms what now will happen. It is the result of his lengthy discussion with Wayne this morning; in the end, they both agreed on certain truths moving forward, and they share those with you now.
They tell you that you and Eddie have been stripped of your freedoms and grounded for further notice. That you aren't to attempt to see or speak with one another. That you should begin thinking about your separate futures and leave this silly summer romance behind. That you are both lucky they are benevolent enough to allow you to continue living side-by-side without sending one or both of you away. 
You are bidden to acknowledge the rules, and you intone your obedience, as does Eddie. And when Pa is satisfied that you have been sufficiently cleaved from the boy across the table, you are herded back around the tall fence and deposited onto your property.
Having seen the defeat written across your miserable face, Pa leaves you to your own devices. You choose to sit beneath the apple tree, hissing at the lance of pain that races up your buttocks and into your spine as you thump down into the grass. Stubbornly, you ignore the low throbbing in favor of deciphering the storm inside you.
Under the apple tree, a billow of emotion spreads within, complex and layered, filled with contradictions. Because what you've done is indeed wrong, and you know that. But to take the depth of your relationship with Eddie and reduce it to an indiscreet romp, a careless mistake, an insignificant dalliance chalked up to the folly of youthful impulse… 
Well, you know this also. Down to your core, you know that that isn't right. And no one rivals you in conviction once your mind is set.
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Twelve days ago, the intimacy you shared with your crow came to fruition in a wondrous way. As you pass your days in solitude within your roost, that wonder begins to transform you. It starts with a letter. 
Though the tall fence running the length of your adjoining properties keeps you apart from Eddie, and your parents' watchful eyes prevent any wandering from your front porch, one minor breach remains in those steadfast defenses. It's the tree stump rotted straight through, the only place where the grass of your backyards mingles to become one. Secrets are concealed there, announced by the innocuous song of two woodland birds: the turtle dove and the crow.
You don't hear the call the day following your public apologies, or even the day after that. It comes on the third day while you're sat on a stool in the goat pen, working down the nanny's final teat with one hand. Milking her has been slow and steady work, impeded because her kid is leaning against your flank, content so long as you keep one hand on his small bristly side. His tiny tail beats rhythmically against your skirt as her milk rains hollowly into the metal bucket with each pull of your pinched fingers. And when the stream has turned to a dribble, you hear that unmistakable sound: a deep, harsh 'kaa-kaa-kaa' that has your heart pattering instantly against your ribs as your head whips of its own accord toward the fence. You strain to see Eddie through those tiny gaps, but you're too far away for the gesture to mean much. Your eyes dip to second best— that familiar stump, gnarled and weathered gray, splintered but surprisingly soft and spongy to the touch as if it would give way under a heavy hand or foot. You cannot see into the dark crevice at its base, but you know what now awaits you there.
You want to throw yourself to the ground and reach elbow-deep into that damp space, dirt and dress be damned. But you know the second you leave the bucket unattended, all the milk you'd painstakingly gathered would be claimed by the kid. You squeeze out the teet a few more times— perhaps a bit too hastily, since the nanny flicks her ears at you— before snatching up the bucket, bringing it to the kitchen to strain with cheesecloth and tuck into the icebox, leaving the bucket and soiled cloth in the sink out of sight. I'll wash it right quick as soon as I check the stump, you assure yourself. You couldn't possibly wait another moment longer to see what Eddie has left for you to find.
You're thrumming with impatience and excitement as you pop the screen door back open, struggling not to rush toward your prize and draw suspicion from anyone who may see you. Thankfully, a furtive glance around the yard ensures you are alone, and with nothing else to impede you, you quickly gather up your dress and kneel before the stump to claim your offering. 
You reach past the blanket of fertile green moss that skirts the stump's base, mind flicking through the possibilities of what you might find in there. It will surely be a scrap of paper, but what will its few words convey? Will Eddie beg you to join him at the creek one last time? Tell you he's enlisted someone's help, an emissary of sorts, to go between you so you can speak again? Will he express his longing for your body's closeness? His pain at your separation? 
A fluttering thrill blooms low inside you, cautious and sweet, fearful in its intensity. Because another wondering crosses your mind before you have the good sense to prevent it, and that wondering is this:
With an acknowledgment, perhaps, of how unideal the timing and the method is… will Eddie finally put words to the truth you see in that soft expression that graces his features, the one that's only come out for you, only you, only ever you?
Your fingertips graze thin smooth paper nested in a cradle of grass. As you pull your arm out of the stump, you can imagine it so plainly, written in that familiar scrawl: three words to turn a scrap into the most precious of treasures.
But the paper that comes out is not torn hastily from the corner of a brown paper bag as it usually is. Instead, you’re holding a folded piece of stationary, lightweight and crisp white, though its edges have soaked up some dirty dampness from where it has been hiding.
You don't have the luxury of time needed to examine the emotions that stir at this unexpected sight; you need to get to safety first. You tuck the letter beneath the band of your pocketless apron, fumbling with the bow at the small of your back to tighten it. There the paper stays, pressed against your stomach as you return to the kitchen to wash the bucket and cheesecloth. You lay them out to dry, then pass by your mother in a brush of fabric down the narrow hallway. Lightheaded, heart thumping, you creak up the stairs to your bedroom, closing your door and releasing a woosh of held breath. You sink to the floor in front of it, pressing your back to the wood. In lieu of true privacy, this position keeps someone from bursting suddenly in on you before you can conceal what you're doing. With that assurance, you shift forward, untying that tight bow and letting the apron fall across your legs, revealing a flutter of crisp white.
That stirring of emotions returns full force as you run your thumb along the bottom edge of the paper, wiping the collected dirt absently on the hem of your dress. As you unfold it and Eddie's penciled scrawl is revealed, the first wave of your emotion crests to sting sweetly in the corners of your eyes.
The letter isn't particularly long. It doesn't wax poetic about your grace and charm or meander through the hills and valleys of your shared story. It little matters when you can hear Eddie's teasing rasp in every sentence, see his wild beauty in every word, and feel his firm touch in each uneven scratch of letters into the page.
My Dove, Eddie murmurs against your temple, and you sigh, melting with the sticky sweet honey as he voices his claim on you. His Dove. That's what you are. 
"Yes, Eddie," you whisper into the stillness of your empty bedroom, lids low, lashes heavy as you read the next line. 
First things first. Don't you even think about writin' me back. You hear me? Plush lips curl as your besotted expression falls into a pout, and you hear the rasp of his laugh as he cradles your face in his broad, rough palms. S'not that I don't wanna get a letter from you, you know. I just can't have you in any more trouble. It nearly killed me to see how you were hurtin' on account of me. Umber eyes crinkle, and his thumb brushes the corner of your lip. Promise me you'll listen for once. 
You regard him sullenly for a moment. "Fine," you grump, and the crooked smile you're rewarded with softens the edge of your frustration. 
Eddie regards you fondly. I know you don't wanna. But you will anyway, 'cause y'can't help but do what I say now that you're all gooey over me.
You flush with heat, bashful but pleased, twisting your lips against the dopey smile that wants to come out for him. Now that that's settled, he snarks, making you yearn to kiss the knowing tilt right off his lips, I want you to know that… well, I really am sorry for makin' a mess of things for us. Maybe if I'd done different, we wouldn't be where we are right now. No use dwellin' on it or nothin', because what's past is past. But I screwed it up for us, and I don't know what to do to fix it, and I'm just sorry, Dove. I really am. 
"Oh, Eddie—" His name is a soft, feminine sigh of anguish as the sting returns full force, burning insistently behind your eyes. You grab up his hands, squeezing them tight; the paper wrinkles in your grip. "Eddie, you didn't make a mess of anything. It's not your fault at all, what's happened."
He stares at you mournfully, dark eyes heavy and sad, continuing as if you hadn't spoken. And I know it's only been a few days since I seen you, but I miss you something fierce. S'like my arm's been cut clean off. His lips quirk up just slightly in the corners. And you'll say that's just me bein' dramatic as always, but I mean it. It really does hurt me that much to be away from you.
Eddie's curls brush your cheeks as he gathers you close to him, pressing his nose to the top of your hair. Wish I could hold you. Be there for you, take care of you. But I guess this's all I can do for now. He breathes in deep, and your heart twists sweetly in your chest at the feeling of his breath there— a cool inhale, and then warmth puffing in short bursts when he murmurs, You know you're my best friend, but you're so much more than that. Y'always have been. I told you I'd never let anyone take you from me, and I intend to keep my word, no matter how long I gotta wait.
Your first tear falls, and Eddie's arms tighten around you. He presses a kiss to your hair. In the meantime, he rasps, quiet but sure and brash as always, if you find yourself missin' me, or if you're havin' a hard go of it, or if you just wanna remind yourself where I am. All you gotta do is call for me, Turtle Dove. And when I call back, what I'm really sayin' is, 'I'm here. I'm here, and I ain't goin' nowhere.'
On the page, there's a gap of space and a scratched-out word, and you can feel Eddie's adam's apple bob in a gulp. And if I'm missin' you, or… or if I'm havin' a hard go of it. If you still want me the way that I want you.
The final line of the letter begins to fuzz while you stare down at it, expanding in a bloom of dark-on-white as more tears flood your eyes. But you don't need to see it; the words have already been etched into your heart. 
Will you call back to me? So I know you're here, and you ain't goin' anywhere?
Those two questions close the letter; there is no signature. After all, when two like souls flutter their wings and settle themselves to perch together on a shared wire, names become nothing more than an afterthought. 
Paper flattens to the wooden floor. It crinkles as you press against it with your palm, leveraging yourself up to your feet blindly as your stirrings finally overtake you in a rush of tears. They flow over as you lurch around the footboard to the windowsill, pushing the gauzy curtains heedlessly aside; they catch the corners of your lips as your fingers twist the stiff window hinge, and your smile stretches in time with the window's jerky progress up the frame. 
September air floods in, ruffling gauze and soothing over your forehead and cheeks. The humid heat of summer has finally broken, leaving mugginess a thing of the past. And it's into that air, scented with crisp wind and the first dry musk of fading leaves, that you call for your crow. 
Your first coo isn't as graceful as usual because your voice is choked by sorrow and joy combined. But you do not let that stop you. You call out your bedroom window again and again, as loud as you've ever been, eyes fixed on the stoop at the back of the red house. You call and call until the door springs open there, and a crow hops out onto the stoop. As you look down upon him, tears run in trails that drip off your chin, and your cheeks begin to ache with the force of your smile. You cup your small hands around your mouth and call again. 
'Turr-turr-turr,' you sing, mimicking the melodic trill of the turtle dove.
This moment will not quell your stirrings. As more days pass, they will billow ever more intensely and change ever more quickly as the transformation continues inside you. Your bitterness and your temper are still to come; you have not seen the last of your aching. 
But, for right now, this is all that matters. A pale face tipped up toward the sun, a cloud of dark curls tossing wild and untamed, a boyish whoop of relief and adoration, and the love that swells within you— still unspoken, but no less true.
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swee7dream · 3 months
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reliance huang renjun x reader | 3.4k words
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summary: for someone so insistent on self-reliance, renjun has to deal with you and your drunken escapades a lot more than expected.
genres: romance and poor attempts at comedy
trigger & content warnings: reader gets drunk and i accidentally made renjun lowkey a weirdo. sorry o7 he's still loveable tho i promise
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Outside of the usual, this time it only took you two hours to spill what you had called Renjun over the phone in tears that morning. It usually takes around a week, seven heart-wrenching romcoms, and turning on the otherwise never-used essential oil diffuser your mom bought when you first moved out. This time, all you needed was alcohol.
“Stop laughing!”
“I’m not!” Renjun hides his mouth with the back of his hand, but he’s still visibly shaking as he holds onto the edge of the dark oak bar table. “I’m not laughing. I promise.”
“You are such a liar.” You glare over your glass as you take a sip of your drink.
“Okay, so maybe I’m laughing a little bit. You can’t blame me, though. How did your roommate house pigeons of all animals in your apartment for four months without you noticing? Even better, how did your landlord find out before you?”
“I don’t know, okay?! I don’t know…” Your shoulders drop when you sigh. “Is this even legal? I wasn’t the one sneaking animals into the building, it was them! Why am I being kicked out too?”
“I told you they were bad news from the beginning.” Renjun licks the corner of his lips and picks up his glass.
“I will punch you in the gut,” you reply without missing a beat. Your blinks quicken until they come to a full stop, your eyes wide open as if someone had taped your eyelids back. “I might have to move back in with my parents… No…”
“What’s wrong with your parents? They’re great.” Renjun smirks, propping his temple onto the knuckles of his unoccupied hand.
“Great to you, favorite child,” you grumble. “You’ve never had to deal with the never-ending dishwashing of that house. Plus, you know how intense my parents are.”
“Fair enough,” Renjun shrugs, looking away to make eye contact with the bartender and wordlessly asking for a refill with the shake of the melting ice cubes in his cup. “Your dad’s summer training was… rough, to say the least.”
The memories of those hell-like middle school summers still make you shiver. Your father’s voice echoes in your mind as he barks orders on landscaping at you, Renjun, and the other kids in your neighborhood.
‘Get those weeds up from the roots! If you don’t, they’ll grow back up. Ah-! What did I say? Dig into the stones and get those roots out, kid!’
‘No! I said move the large stones to the backyard. I didn’t? Well, you should’ve known what I meant!’
“He’s a green thumb,” Renjun pulls you out of your thoughts to see his glass being refilled with golden rum. “Who doesn’t love a man with a nice garden?”
You just turn and stare at him.
“Are you trying to home-wreck my parents or what? What are you kissing up for?”
“I’m sorry.” He pulls his head back, mock-offended. “It’s not my fault your dad is irresistible. Let me know if your parents are ever looking for a third.”
“Huang! Ren! Jun!” You give a punch to his arm in between each pause. “Don’t be gross.”
“Ow!” He swats your hand away, face contorting into a pout. “Ouch, that hurt.”
“Yeah right.” You roll your eyes before dropping them down to your glass. The tip of your index passes along the rim of it, watching your reflection in the little of your drink remaining.
“Thank you, by the way. Like, seriously. I just called you up and made you cancel your plans so you could listen to me complain and spout nonsense… You didn’t have to do that. But you did. That makes me really happy, so… thanks.”
When you don’t get a response, you raise your head to Renjun staring at you as if you somehow grew a pimple the size of a horse on your face. His hands are pulled close to his chest with his fingers recoiled.
“You know what? Never mind-” You begin to turn back and sigh.
“I’m joking.” He nudges you with his elbow. “Of course I would pull up for you. I didn’t have any plans tonight, but even if I did, I would’ve cancelled them in a heartbeat for you. That’s what we’re supposed to do as each other’s only friends.”
“What? Hey! Okay, no. You are not my only friend. I have other friends.”
“Your mom doesn’t count.”
“Uh, first of all, it’s not just my mom. Second of all, why would my mom not count?! Having a good relationship with your parents is something to be proud of!”
“Yes, but no. She still doesn’t count, I mean. Congrats on your everlasting bond with your mom or whatever.” Renjun’s lips press into a straight line. “Even if she did, though, that’s still only like two people. Me, your mom, who else?”
“My d-”
“If you name any other family member, I promise you I will leave you stranded here.”
You clear your throat, remembering your only chance of getting back home without freezing to death is sitting right next to you.
“Eu…gene?”
“Who?” A giant question mark can be seen over Renjun’s head.
“Oh, come on! You know Eugene. Eugene from the office! The one who memorized my coffee order? He’s super nice. I told you about him!”
“Oh.” Renjun licks his bottom teeth and looks around the bar, clearly disinterested. “Eugene. No.”
“No?”
“No.” He drops his gaze back on you. “People from work don’t count.”
“This game is so rigged.” You throw yourself on the back of your seat. “Why on earth would work friends not count?”
“Don’t call them work friends. You two are not friends,” Renjun complains, messing around with a paper napkin. “You’re more like… work acquaintances.”
“Jun-”
“No, listen to me. You hate your job. I know it, you know it, the kind gentleman behind the bar and his dog both know it.”
“I don’t hate it that much… I only complained once or twice…” you mumble, staring as your pissy friend performs an optical illusion before your eyes, folding up the flimsy paper into a swan.
“What the heck. That’s so cool. Do that with this one.” You take the napkin that was collecting the condensation of your glass and toss it on his hand.
“Ew! Gross, gross, gross. It’s wet!” He tosses it back to you, wiping the back of his hand dry with the opposite sleeve of his coat. Renjun glares at you with unintimidating eyes. “This is why you don’t have any more friends.”
“I told you I do. I have very real work friends.”
“Acquaintances.”
“Friends.”
“You think that guy is stealing funds from the company.”
“I’m all for people getting their hard-earned money.”
“Through stealing?”
“Stealing takes a lot of hard work, Jun.” You look at him as if you had any experience on the subject.
“Right, so you’re admitting you're friends with a criminal?” He raises his eyebrows at you.
Checkmate.
“Eugene and I are… acquaintances. I mean, I wouldn’t buy him a donut if I was at a café or anything.”
“Ah,” Renjun throws his head back, grinning the grin that only a showoff can have. “Acquaintances. Of course.”
“Shut up. We’re pushing thirty. Friends are overrated anyway.” You exhale deeply. “I have more important things to do than ‘hanging out’ with people. Like finding a new apartment within a month so I don’t end up on the street.”
“I thought the plan was moving back in with your parents?”
“That’s plan Z. Right before that is plan Y: committing a crime and gaining federal housing.”
“How about trying plan R before attempting anything that will get you in ‘federal housing’?” Renjun says with air quotes.
“My R?” You stare at him horrified and slam your hand down. “I knew you had a Vocaloid phase. You always denied it. Also, did you really just tell me to go k-”
“No—plan R. For Renjun. Me, I’m Renjun.” He pats his chest. “Why don’t you just come live with me?”
“Live with you…?” Renjun frowns when he sees you slowly bring your hands up to your cheeks, twisting and turning like a schoolgirl with a crush. “A man and a woman under the same roof? Junnie, you animal!”
“Don’t start.” He swats away your hand that faux-abashedly pushes against his arm. “I’m serious, you know?”
“I know.” You quickly settle yourself in your seat. “But I’m gonna have to reject that plan. Thanks though.”
He doesn’t say anything as you bite your tongue, the sly smile dropped into a frown.
“I’m not gonna be a charity case or a nightmare roommate for you, Jun. Especially after my own experience with one,” You explain, rolling your eyes and picking at your nails. “Life is self-reliance. All I needed was a little ranting session to get back on my feet, that’s all.”
“You’re not a charity case. Stop talking like that.” He frowns. “I’m not doing this because I pity you. I’m doing it because I care about you. But fine, you don’t have to say yes. Just know my offer is always on the table.”
“I love you too.” You smile.
“That’s not what I said.”
“That’s basically what you said.” Your hand slides under the bar, interlacing fingers with Renjun.
“No, it’s really not.” He gives your hand a small squeeze.
“It is! You’re basically in love with me.”
You drop your head on his shoulder cheesing; the alcohol leaving your body in the form of giggles.
“Highly doubtable.” Renjun drops his cheek on the top of your head. “Seriously, extremely, highly doubtable.”
“What? What do you mean? I’m great!” You turn your head up to scrunch your nose at him.
“I wouldn’t call a pigeon hoarder great,” He mocks your expression. “I wouldn’t call anyone who’s a messy eater, drinker, and overall human.”
“I wasn’t the one who took care of those birds, and I would really appreciate it if you never said the ‘p-word’ around me ever again.” You feel your cheek get pulled at as he wipes off crumbs from some fries you had before. “And I’m not that messy…”
“Right,” He shakes your head on his shoulder to signal you getting off. “You reek. Let’s go home.”
“Your mom reeks!”
“Okay, you are… hammered.”
Renjun drops a couple of bills on the bar and nods at the bartender in appreciation as he takes one of your arms around his neck, his other hand dropping to your waist.
“Are we dancing? We’re dancing. Like in the ballrooms and stuff.” You start swaying. “Have you ever been ballroom dancing? I’ve never been. I really want to though. It would be nice to wear one of those big quinceañera dresses.”
“We most definitely are not dancing.” Despite his struggles to keep his grip on you, Renjun succeeds in getting you both out of the bar and on the street. “Watch your step. The sidewalk is higher.”
You don’t listen and instead laugh in good inebriated fashion, feeling gravity almost successfully pull you down onto the concrete as you don’t, in fact, watch your step. A groan escapes Renjun’s tightly pressed lips, adjusting his hold on you to continue your trek across the street.
“Pigeons!” You point at the small groups of birds now flying away by your sudden burst out. “Pigeons! You stupid flying rats! I hate you! Gimme my house back!”
Blood rushes to Renjun’s face and he can feel himself begin to sweat with how hot he’s burning. Nobody else is on your same street, but he knows for a fact the people around the corner could hear your voice boom. There’s nothing he wants more than to cover your mouth and muffle the colorful curses coming out of it, but his hands are already full and just focuses on getting you in the car.
“Shut up,” He mumbles as he buckles your seat belt in the passenger seat. You throw your arms over your head and begin smacking your mouth in the most irritating of ways. “Please stop talking.”
“What…?” Your voice comes out small and dejected, bringing flimsy hands to his cheeks. “Why are you being mean to me? I thought you were on my side… You said your offer was always on the table…”
“The offer did not come with a complimentary tolerance for whatever it is you’re doing right now. Let go of me so I can close the door and the heat doesn’t get out.”
“Don’t wanna.” Your lips form an upside-down ‘U.’
“I will bite your hands off.”
“Don’t leave me, Junnie!”
Renjun chokes mid-breath as you force his head into your neck, arms tight around his own.
“I’m not leaving you, you idiot. I’m trying to get behind the wheel so I can take you to your apartment.”
His logic is sound, but a weepy drunk is an unstoppable force that breaks through the strongest of arguments with tears alone.
“You can’t go! You can’t leave me here! I don’t wanna be alone! I don’t even know whose car this is… I don’t wanna get kidnapped by an Uber driver! That’s how all the Investigation ID true crime thingies start!”
“You’re not going to get kidnapped. This is my car, stupid!”
Renjun is forced to wait several minutes until your sleepy and unreasonably strong, drunken grip loosens around his neck. When it does, he can finally get off the uncomfortable seat he has on your lap, legs hanging out the car window and into the street. He stares daggers into your open-mouthed, sleeping figure when he closes the door.
“You’re paying for my wasted heating,” He whispers.
Renjun slams the door and walks back around the car alone, stopping at a blind spot in the rearview mirror. Technically, you are asleep and your eyes are closed. However, you can’t ever be too safe.
A muted yell comes out from deep inside Renjun. His head is thrown back and held in his hands, fingers digging in between pitch-black locks of hair. The winter cold turns his hot breath into vapor right in front of his eyes but he doesn’t stop to watch, making both of his hands come together to stretch his face. The echo of his hands clapping on his cheeks left the burning, awakening sensation he needed to get back in the car.
With the rumbling of the engine humming underneath you two, Renjun grips the wheel and looks out the windshield as if a hit-and-run was on his itinerary for tonight, his left leg bouncing whenever the car stops at a red light.
Unlike you right now, Renjun thinks, he’s not stupid. Renjun is not a boy going through puberty anymore. He knows what these feelings coursing through his body are. He knows that you calling him every time you have a bad day means he’s going to clear his schedule to watch the world’s worst films with you. Believe him, he is well aware of the fact that normal best friends don’t cuddle during movies or hold hands under tables.
They don’t buckle and unbuckle each other in their seats when drunk or carry each other up to their rooms. Normal best friends don’t have keys to each other's apartments or toothbrushes in each other’s bathrooms. Best friends don’t tuck each other into bed on a regular basis.
You two do, though.
And so, Renjun’s face is unreadable as he stands right next to your bed, his legs touching your bedframe. He looms over you like a death-baring gargoyle and you a blissfully ignorant snoozer. His fingers gently brush away the hair on your face while also keeping a tight jaw and furrowed eyebrows that bring a very Renjun-like balance to the otherwise romantic situation.
He moves his hand to hover over your nose, his mind screaming at him the idea to plug your nose until your grandfather-esque snores come to a cease. Until your lips come to a close and your bright eyes search for him in the darkness so you can slap his arm and he feels tingles all over his body from all the tangible and intangible little things you do.
You moan and groan as you wake, struck by a sudden headache that makes you feel every single blood vessel pumping through your brain. You’re thankful when you feel the pillow under your head, the sensation so strong you’re sure you would have fallen to your knees if you had been walking.
“I’m dying…”
“You’re not dying.”
“Jun?”
“It’s just a headache. From your irresponsible drinking tendencies.”
“Why are you in my room?”
“‘Why are you in my room?’ Take a wild guess why and shut up. Take this.” His mockery is harsh but you hear him get on his knees on the internationally-hated itchy carpet of your room to help you sit up straight. Despite the darkness, you see the outline of a glass being handed to you and feel a small pill drop into your other hand.
“You’re such a creep,” you try saying, speaking muffled by the pill on your tongue and later water. “You were watching me sleep? Freak.”
“Oh, you’re right. My bad. Let me just leave you to suffer the consequences of your own actions next time.”
“No!” You’ve had enough consequences lately. “Sorry. I love you. Thanks for the medicine. Thank you, thank you, thank you.”
Renjun pushes your forehead back from his green sweater. You have this bad habit of glomping on him whenever you want to get your way. You always have him cursing at himself on the way home because most times you succeed.
“You mean it?”
“Uh-huh! Yeah, I mean it! You’re the best best friend ever!” you whisper-yell, not wanting your headache to stick any more needles in your head. “Thank you for not dumping me on the street.”
“Even though I should’ve.”
“Even though you should’ve,” you repeat, letting go and throwing yourself back on your bed. “Thank you, thank you, thank you…”
And in the middle of the night, the clock in the hallway ticking its way to one in the morning, Renjun decides to take the leap.
“I love you too.” He whispers, after a few minutes of silence.
“And yes, in that way,” he adds. “Let’s not go around in circles, please. I love you romantically the same way I know you love me romantically. I’ve known you since you were seven. I can read you like a book.
“I know you have this whole ego thing that won’t let you accept… this until you have your own place again because ‘life is self-reliance’ and ‘dependence is cringe’ or whatever so don’t feel stressed or anything like that.
“I’ll wait. I’ve been waiting. I’m actually a patient man, even if I don’t act like it. You know how I am, I won’t try to pull anything to rush you into a decision. I’ll just keep doing us the way we’ve been doing us since the start, okay? No pushing, no rushing, no pressure.”
Renjun ends his monologue with the groan of a hundred-year-old beast as he stands up, back aching as if he aged forty years in one night.
“I know you can hear me, by the way. You suck at pretending to be asleep. Good night.”
You hear the door creaking and see the light of the living room sneak in and out through your closed lids as the door clicks shut once more.
Heart in your throat, blood rushes in violent thumps up to your face and turns your breathing heavy. Your fingers crinkle the sheets in your grip as you bring them over your head. They come up and down again once you feel your body growing too hot for them. Your roommate’s creepy-crawly cat clock out in the hallway keeps ticking and you smell a soft hint of pigeon poop in the air.
Your best friend just confessed to you in your pigeon-infested apartment at one in the morning. It truly doesn’t get much more romantic than this.
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a/n: THIS FIC TOOK SO LONG FOR WHAT. anyway shout out to glomp. has to be one of my favorite non-words. i'm going on a trip next week and won't be able to write/post so that's why this fic is a little longer than the usual! i realize i keep cycling through the same three tropes so i'm hoping the change of scenery will give me new ideas...
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shitouttabuck · 5 months
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several sentence sunday
tagged by @clusterbuck @rewritetheending @capseycartwright @athenagranted @buckactuallys <3
eddie amateur children’s face painter diaz being put to the test
He bites down on a smile, made harder by the way Buck’s grinning at him. “Gotcha. What face paint does the frog princess wear, then?” She thinks for a moment, cheek smushed against the satin of Buck’s shoulder. Then she perks up, whispering something into Buck’s ear. He nods and whispers back, smacking a kiss on her cheek before turning to Eddie with a troublemaking little grin. “Fly,” Jee tells him. “Fly?” Eddie frowns as they reach the patch of grass in the backyard where Maddie’s set up a couple of stools for them to work. “Yes, please.” Jee doesn’t bother to elaborate, wriggling down from Buck’s arms and perching on one of the stools expectantly. Fly? Eddie mouths at Buck, who looks delighted. “You know, Eddie,” he says patronisingly, “frogs love flies. Frogs love Jee. So you should make her a fly.” Eddie doesn’t bother to rein in his glare this time. “How would I—have you ever seen anyone with fly face paint, Buck?” he hisses. “Are you saying no to the frog princess on her birthday, Eddie?” Buck asks. And so Eddie finds himself painting two large, grotesque, intricately dotted eyes on Jee-Yun Han-Buckley’s little face before sending her off frolicking through the garden in her frog hat like someone’s sleep paralysis demon come to life. He has a second to hope he can avoid Maddie for the rest of the day, lest she strangle him for turning her daughter into a B-plot Spider-Man villain, before the next bare-faced child is thrust into the seat before him.
have actually finished writing this absolute nonsense birthday party fic but there’s one bit that’s scratching my brain wrong so gonna let it simmer until i can edit it better lol
tagging @onward--upward @eddiebabygirldiaz @jeeyuns @try-set-me-on-fire @housewifebuck @forthewolves @zahlibeth @anxieteandbiscuits @eowon @butchdiaz @devirnis if anyone’s got anything to share :)
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steviewashere · 1 month
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Happy Doing Taxes With You
Rating: General CW: None apply! Tags: Established Relationship, Married Steve Harrington/Eddie Munson, Domestic Fluff, Tooth-rotting Fluff, Dialogue Light, Doing Mundane Things With One Another
For the @steddielovemonth prompt: "Love is being able to exist together comfortably, sitting side by side and doing your own thing."
💕—————💕
Sundays were for work and complete and utter silence in their house. Now, it wasn’t for big errands like going to the bank or out grocery shopping or any of that nonsense. It was the small things. Things that could be completed over time, if necessary, but were still manageable enough that they could be done in a day or so. This was the day for house chores: laundry, mopping, vacuuming, meal prep. It was a day for: returning their DVD rentals, getting a quick tire pressure check, going through the car wash. It was another simple day of: sit in silence and bask in each other’s easy glow.
During tax season, though, Sundays were for paperwork. Checkbook balancing, getting their receipts in order, finalizing the songwriting (in Eddie’s case), editing that week’s lesson plan (in Steve’s).
This particular Sunday morning, the tax season of 2012, it was for genuine tax paperwork. Collecting W-2s and miscellaneous necessary purchases, the student loan payment on Steve’s part, a car loan for Eddie. It was a coffee and bagels kind of morning. It was a sit at the dining table and let Poncho snooze peacefully on the couch, curled up in a ball, purring away the rays of sunlight beaming on him. A morning in which Steve didn’t contemplate dying his hair to cover up the white streaks or notice how dirty his everyday glasses were, where instead he sat on Eddie’s right, eighth grade exams laid out in front of him, a red pen in hand to mark off errors. One where Eddie has the tax documents, the Casio calculator the size of a small paperback book, his hair tied up (the white dispersed and gentle), his eyebrows furrowed in concentration, his tongue tucked into his bottom lip, leaning back with his reading glasses perched low on his nose, and doing all the math for the both of them.
Steve enjoyed this kind of work. The warmth in it all. Their blinds half open. The dust of their space floating through the air in a gentle gust. Pens making soft taps against the dining table as it made strokes on their respective papers.
He loved sipping noisily on his coffee every once in a while, which earned a small snort from Eddie. Loved letting his eyes drift for a moment, basking in Eddie’s careful left hand marking beautifully all the big numbers that Steve fucking hated. Even loved looking at the same test questions for hours on end, if it all meant soaking up the soft heat of Eddie’s body next to his.
Eventually, though, they both hit a wall. Eddie, because he needs a moment to stand on their back porch and look out at the backyard, as the butterflies settled on the flower garden Steve started, taking in the crisp March breeze, maybe smoking a cigarette if he felt inclined to do so—just away from the numbers that began to bleed together. Steve, well all those years twirling bats and wringing things around with his hands finally caught up to him, a bad case of carpal tunnel syndrome in both wrists—and also, for the same reason, the words bled together. (There’s so much English literature that he can consume. And he’s had to read fifteen summaries on The Outsiders.)
So, they take their warm, room temp coffees. A fresh onion bagel from the toaster, smothered in cream cheese and some slightly bitter beet jam (Steve’s own specialty, he’d raised the beets like children). And they go stand outside next to each other.
Elbows on the fencing of their wraparound porch. Faces pointed towards the calmly stirring grass. Slurping noisily, again Eddie snorts, and again, Steve can’t contain his smile. Their bagels go quick. Crumbs littering the porch’s wood. Cream cheese lightly stuck to the corners of their mouths, tongues darting out like party noisemakers.
Eddie takes Steve’s left hand and squeezes. The wedding band on Steve’s finger clinking against Eddie’s old, well loved mood ring that can only show one color:
Pink.
Steve squeezes back with passion. Knowing that, in about fifteen or twenty or forty minutes, they’ll go back inside and sit back down at the dining table, noses to their paperwork, ruminating on numbers and words. Steve’ll run out of papers to grade, he’ll rub a palm down Eddie’s back, stirring him gently. He’ll kiss Eddie’s cheek, his rough stubble itching at Steve’s chapstick softened lips. They’ll discuss: “Tilapia and couscous? Or should we celebrate being done with our work?” Steve knows he won’t be frying up fish. “Pizza and beer and Golden Girls?” Eddie will ask.
He won’t be able to say no, Steve knows that. He finds it easier to comply with Eddie. To go along with it. After all, doing taxes and house work and discussing dinners, four years wedded but married since 1995—being together since 1986—Steve knows his life is nothing but flat plains and lavender. No more monsters. No more bloodshed. Just simple things.
Like leaning into Eddie’s side, their hands still joined, coffee cups empty, breath mingling as cream cheese and onion bagels. Looking out on their backyard. Standing on the wraparound porch that Eddie promised. In the glow of midday sunlight and one another.
“Love you,” Steve whispers, voice hesitant to break the quiet.
“I love you, too,” Eddie promises just as soft.
💕—————💕 I realized the other day that like all of my steddielovemonth works can be read in such a way that you follow Steve and Eddie from before they got together to when they got married. So, I guess this kind of a married Steve and Eddie AU now, too.
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1nsomniacwriter · 1 year
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Dazai, Poe, & Nikolai headcanons
Nikolai and Dazai live with Poe. None of them feel the need to mention this to anyone
Once when Poe was bored Nikolai taught him how to build a bomb. His logic was that if anything could cure the boredom it would be building bombs and it was good knowledge for a book. He turned out to be right about both of those things.
They regularly go see Broadway shows together
Nikolai forces them to have horror movies nights together once a month
They regularly get high together
Both Nikolai and Dazai turn Poe's backyard into a stunning garden
Everything in their shared house is payed for by Poe
Between Dazai having two weasels and a pygmy goat, Nikolai having two rats (named after Sigma and Fyodor), two sugar gliders (named after Poe and Dazai) a parakeet named Nicole, and Karl the house is incredibly chaotic
All three are more than willing to pet sit if one of the others need it.
If one starts with some over dramatic nonsense the other two are at least 80% likely to join in
They have a group chat together
All three have absolutely zero impulse control and will 100% join in on a stupid idea the other had. It gives Chuuya, Ranpo, and Sigma gray hairs.
They regularly drag Chuuya, Ranpo, and Sigma on triple dates. Somehow they always go exceeding well.
Nikolai has forced the other two to go to the mall wearing full on ball gowns with accessories with him multiple times
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veronicaphoenix · 5 months
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Ikigai (or A Reason for Being) — CHAPTER NINE
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“Can you shift a bit?” She asked, her morning voice also carrying a subtle raspiness.
“No, it’s so comfy,” he murmured, snuggling into the pillows, oblivious to the world.
“For you,” she replied, her cheeks tinted with a blush. “You’re poking me with… Erm, your thing… It’s hard.” She pressed her face into the pillow. Noah’s warm breath was on her hair and the back of her neck.
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NOTE: This is the first part of The Inevitability of Love at Second Sight series. / Simultaneous uploads with Koi No Yokan (part two). (Chaotic, I know, just like life itself).
Warnings: This part of the story contains mentions of substance abuse, drug addiction, child neglect and trauma.
Chapter tags: best friends, teenage drama, sleepover, a bit of angst, fluff, and slight sexual content.
Word count: 3.361
Cross posted on AO3.
Also, English is not my mother-tongue, so please bear with me and let me know if there’s anything that needs fixing! :)
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CHAPTER 9
Lia is 14. Noah is 15.
A week later.
Noah waited for hours, sort of hidden behind the bushes of Lia’s neighbors, until he saw Cristina leave the house.
Finally. 
Lia hadn’t been answering his calls, and she had closed the door on his face twice when he went to see her. The third time it had been Cristina who had opened and, of course, she had told him to get lost. The exchange could be summarized down to that.
With no other options available, he used the key to get inside Lia’s house. He called her name a couple of times as he moved around the ground floor, not wanting to startle her, and he saw her sitting on the porch steps to the back garden. The glass doors that led to the backyard were open, so she had probably heard him, but her posture and the fact that her back was facing him told him that she didn’t care.
He walked to her, with slow, deliberate steps.
The morning sun cast a warm glow on the porch, creating a subtle contrast to the growing emotional chill between them. Lia’s hair was open, long and wild, and as he approached her, he noticed she had some flowers stuck in it.  
When he stepped in the porch, the floorboards creaked.
“Why are you here?” She asked.
He waited until he was sat down next to her on the wooden steps. She was making a flower crown with daisies.
“You haven’t let me get near you in seven days, Lia.”
“You abandoned me.”
“I didn’t abandon you”, he retorted, slightly angry at her choice of words. “I’ve been coming to see you nearly every single day, to check on you. That’s not abandonment. If anything, you decided to abandon me.”
At that, she looked at him.
He continued, “Have you stopped to think if I needed you any of those days? If I wanted to talk to you? To see you?”
“You won’t need me when you go away.”
I’ll need you always. 
He let out a huff, aware of the complexity of the situation. He ran his fingers through his hair, a nervous habit.
“I’m not here to argue with you. I’m here to make things clear, Lia. You didn’t even give me a chance to explain; you just shut me out.”
The change in his tone, proving how tired he was, might have made its way into Lia’s veins, as she also let down that façade of strong girl and dropped her shoulders, looking at him with sad eyes. She let the half-done daisy crown fall on the last step and she leaned her body on the railing.
“What is there to explain?”
“Many things, in fact. Will you listen?”
She nodded, fidgeting with her own fingers. A few birds flew by, crossing the garden high up in the sky, and Noah and Lia followed them until they disappeared before they delved into the conversation.
“You know the basics. I have friends at school, but I’m not friends with all that nonsense they’re teaching, or at least, if it’s of any use, I’m not good at it, and I’m tired of feeling like a failure for being examined just like every other single student in this planet. I don’t know why the hell they expect us all to be the same. The only thing I’m good at is music, and next year they’ll be removing that subject, so what’s the point in staying?” He shrugged, a gesture that carried the weight of his uncertainty. Lia remained silent, absorbing his words. “I know for you it’s exactly the opposite. You’re such a brilliant student, Lia. I don’t know how you do it. I admire you, honestly. I wish I was half smart of what you are, but I know you struggle making friends, that you don’t feel comfortable with your classmates. I feel like some of the fault for that is mine, for having been… Overprotective or, I don’t know.”
“It’s not your fault…” She whispered. “It’s just how I am, and I understand your point…”
Noah looked at her with a pained expression, understanding and regret in his eyes. The weight of their individual struggles and the complexities of their friendship was pressing down.
“I hadn’t been thinking about dropping out of school for long, that’s why I didn’t mention it to you. I didn’t even take it seriously the few times it crossed my mind, but I was talking to Mike and to other friends last week and I started considering that maybe it’s not such a crazy idea. A lot of teenagers drop out of school. I’m not crazy. Then, the same day that I thought about talking to my grandparents about it, before I even gathered the courage, they told me that they’re going to allow my mom to stay with them for a while, to help her recover from her addiction, to give her another chance… And I thought, this is it.” He took another breath and then he extended his arm, and his fingers looked for Lia’s until he found them. He held her hand, which was now smaller than his, and ran her thumb along her skin. “I spent the whole week wanting to talk to you, wanting to let you know how I’m feeling about this, about my mom coming back. You think you’re hurt? I’m fucking heartsick, Lia. I should be happy at the thought that my mom is coming back, that she might get better, that I might have a chance to feel like I’m somebody’s son. But the truth is I’m not. I don’t want to see her. I don’t even want to call her my mom for the same reasons you don’t like calling Cristina yours. She’s never been there for me, and I know I won’t be able to survive a single day in the same house as her. You’re stronger than me, Lia. You’ve been surviving here since the day you were born. But I’m fifteen now. I cannot deal with any more bullshit like this. If I do, I’m sure it will keep me from achieving my goals, I’ll go mental, and I don’t want her to fuck up my life the way she fucked up hers.”  
His throat had gone dry. Tears welled up in his eyes, but he was resolute that he wasn’t going to cry. He looked up, trying to swallow his tears and untighten the knot in his chest.
“When Mike suggested I move in with him, I immediately said yes. I didn’t even think about it because I knew that was the only solution. And you know what I thought next?”
She waited for his answer, her expression a mix of concern and anticipation.
“I thought where do I fit Lia in this? She fits somewhere, I just have to figure out where.”
“And…?”
“And I got an answer. I was thinking that, maybe, after you graduate, you could come live with us, with me. Mike’s a nice guy, and his house has plenty of rooms, and he’s willing to rent them. I know it’s still too early to think about it, but I would love to if you were there with me. And I don’t want you to worry about money. Money will come, I’m sure. I want us to work on it, starting from this summer. I want to use the songs you wrote, if you’re ok with it, and we could compose music for them. I want to start working on that, and I also thought that, if you enjoy drawing so much, you could make the designs for the band’s merch. When there’s a band, of course.”
With his intentions laid bare, Lia’s eyes widened, and her heartbeat sped up.
“You really thought all of that?”
“And more,” he responded, his smile radiant with genuine excitement.
Lia felt her emotions bubbling up within her as the weight of Noah’s plans and the depth of his consideration sank in.  
“Noah,” her voice quivered with vulnerability. She was about to start crying. “I’m scared,” she admitted. He squeezed her hand harder. A couple of tears escaped from her eyes. Noah put the other hand on her head and pulled her forward until his chin was on top of her head and her face nestled against his chest.
“I’m scared, too, but not of losing you, not of losing each other.”
“I’m sorry about what I said to you.”
“It’s okay. I know that was like dropping a bomb,” he admitted. “I should have talked to you earlier. So, what do you say?”
Lia lifted her head.
“About what?”
The air around them seemed to hold its breath.
“Well, you have to give me an answer; tell me if you would like to move in with me and Mike when you turn eighteen.”
Lia couldn’t help but smile at his best friend’s bright expression. “Do you even need an answer?” She teased.
His smile widened, and suddenly it seemed that all his worries were gone.
“But Mike smells weird,” Lia continued, making a face. “What if the house smells like him?”
Noah chuckled.
“He smokes weed sometimes, that’s all.”
They shared a smile. Noah’s hand moved to Lia’s hair, fingers carefully untangling the flowers that were stuck. “Now, let’s finish this crown, what do you say?”
Lia nodded. Noah picked up a few flowers from the wooden step and pretended to know what he was doing. Lia observed him, a curious grin playing on her lips. Noah had no fucking clue on how to make a daisy crown, and before she knew it, laughter bubbled out of her at the way he was mistreating the little flowers.
“Never mind,” he concluded, shaking his head. “You do it. I’ll put it on your head when it’s done.”
“Deal,” she replied, her laughter still echoing through the quiet space of the porch.
As Lia skillfully weaved the flowers into a crown, Noah watched with genuine amusement, appreciating the care and precision she put into each delicate twist. The wooden steps became a makeshift workshop for their impromptu crafting session.
When the crown was finally complete and Lia had a floral masterpiece adorning her hair, they looked at each other, smiles spreading across their faces. The shared accomplishment brought a sense of lightness to the air, a moment of simple joy that momentarily eclipsed the rest of the world.
“Noah?” She called his name gently. There was a request coming, and he was willing to do anything.
Another bird landed in the grown grass of the garden and looked around as if lost. A tiny creature, unaware of the troubled lives in front of it. While Lia looked at the bird, Noah kept looking at her, and he couldn’t help but admire the way her freckles spread across her nose and cheeks, and how her eyelashes fluttered like butterfly wings every time she closed and opened her eyes.
“Yeah?”
“Can you stay the night?”
“What about your mom?” He worried, concern creasing his brow.
“She’s gone. She said she’s not coming back until Saturday or Sunday.”
“I can stay,” he said without another thought. “Let me call grandma, though.”
As Noah reached for his phone to make the call, Lia couldn't shake the warmth that spread through her. The weight of everything else still lingered, but in that moment, there was a sense of ease, and she was relieved that she wouldn’t have to spend that night alone.
Hana let him stay the night at Lia’s but couldn’t refrain from making a few remarks about the fact that she was letting two teenagers sleeping alone in a big house. Her concerns, however, were more about mischievous teenage behavior than the solitude itself. Noah waved her off with a disgusted expression and a few disapproving noises when she subtly mentioned something about hormones and such, and that Lia was a good girl and that he should treat her right, although he couldn’t deny that he was carrying a condom in his wallet. One of Mike’s friends had given it too him two weeks before, during one of their meetings to talk about music. There was no connection, but it was kind of expected that young adults would bring the topic of sex to him, a teenager. At least he was glad they did it with the intention of making sure he was safe and so was whoever was with him. Not that he had any intention of using it any time soon…
As the day unfolded and evening came, Noah and Lia opted for the convenience of a frozen pizza that had been languishing in the freezer for months. The whirr of the microwave filled the air as they prepared some popcorn, adding a touch of movie night charm to their impromptu plans. The cozy aroma of melted cheese and the crackling of popcorn accompanied them as they settled on the sofa, ready to enjoy their feast while Final Destination started playing on the TV.
The clock ticked away, and by around eleven p.m., the remnants of their meal were cleared and the movie had come to an end. They made their way upstairs, to Lia's room, the only place in the house that felt a bit like a sanctuary of comfort and familiarity. Noah, feeling the ease of their shared space, decided to make himself comfortable, stripping down to his underwear while opting to keep his T-shirt on. Meanwhile, Lia disappeared into the bathroom to change into her pajamas, allowing Noah a moment to explore Lia's cupboards in search of an extra pillow.
The atmosphere in Lia's room was infused with a quiet intimacy as they prepared for the night ahead. The soft glow of ambient light filtered through the curtains, casting a warm and soothing hue over the room. As Noah finished deciding between a square or a more rectangular pillow, Lia grabbed a book from the nearest pile to the bed and settled in the left side of her bed to read for a while. Five minutes later, the sound of Noah brushing his teeth in the bathroom faintly resonated through the hallway and into the room.  
An hour later, they were both fast asleep. The occasional murmur of turning pages and the gentle hum of the night left behind. Lia’s body was curled up in a fetal position, facing the window, while Noah sprawled out, his limbs occupying a significant portion of the mattress, legs and arms everywhere. Unconsciously, his fingers tangled into Lia’s long hair, creating an unintentional but tender connection between them.
Throughout the night, the room witnessed a dance of unconscious movements. Lia, wrapped in her own dreams, occasionally pulled at the bedsheets. Noah, embracing the depths of slumber, would instinctively gravitate towards her warmth whenever a chill lingered in the air.
By morning, the room told a silent story of the night, with Noah finding himself wrapped around Lia, their bodies intertwined in a sleepy, yet comforting embrace—his arm was draped protectively over her tummy, and their legs were entwined at the end of the mattress.  
The soft morning light filtered through the curtains. Lia had been awake for nearly an hour when she called out for him.
“Hmm?” he mumbled; his voice still heavy with sleep.
“Can you shift a bit?” She asked, her morning voice also carrying a subtle raspiness.  
“No, it’s so comfy,” he murmured, snuggling into the pillows, oblivious to the world.
“For you,” she replied, her cheeks tinted with a blush. “You’re poking me with… Erm, your thing… It’s hard.” She pressed her face into the pillow. Noah’s warm breath was on her hair and the back of her neck.
In an instant, Lia felt Noah's entire body stiffen. She didn't see it, but he shot his eyes wide open, a look of terror on his face. He looked down, frantically trying to assess the situation, and then, with an almost comical haste, he rolled on the bed, narrowly avoiding falling off the other side.
Lia stifled a laugh as she watched his reaction, her amusement evident in the playful sparkle in her eyes. Noah, now redder than she was, attempted to gather his composure, covering his bulge with his hands, while shooting her an embarrassed glance.
“Shit. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to… You know… This happens sometimes and I… Huh… Fuck.”
“It’s fine,” she said, trying to keep her eyes on his face. She remained surprisingly composed. Noah was not sure if he liked that smile plastered on her face. She bit her lip, and he thought: oh, oh.
“Can I touch it?”
There it was.
“What?” He mumbled, his drowsy, still groggy mind struggling to process her words, his eyes narrowing against the intrusive morning light.
Did she just ask if…?
“I’ve never touched one and I’m curious.”
“Lia, what the…” The embarrassment and bewilderment on his face just kept on increasing. “Ugh, no.” He stammered.
“We’ve already kissed. What’s the harm? I promise I’m not going to put my hand down your pants or anything. I just want to… Can I?”
This girl certainly knew how to keep him on his toes, and she would definitely drive him mad someday.
“One touch, and then you move away, understood?”
“Yes, sir,” she joked, saluting him with an exaggerated gesture, her hand resting on her forehead.
Noah couldn’t help but roll his eyes, a blend of amusement and exasperation crossing his features. Lia’s playful antics were both endearing and maddening.
As he reluctantly agreed to her proposition, Lia shifted on the bed, moving to sit on her knees in front of him, who was still standing by the bed, covering his erection with his hands. He looked up at the ceiling to avoid seeing Lia’s eyes wander on the bulge on his underwear. She looked beautiful in the morning light, with her features still hinting that she had been dreaming, but he didn’t want to look at her while she did… that.
He moved his hands away.
A few seconds later, he felt Lia’s fingertips pressing once, twice, against his erection.
“It’s… Harder than I thought.”
Noah swallowed, counting the seconds.
“It’s like… Hard clay.”
“Okay, congratulations on your discovery.”
His hands went back to where they had been three seconds before, and he turned around, walking away from the bed.
“Does it always get this hard?” She asked, deadpan serious.
“Stop asking me these questions. It’s uncomfortable,” he replied as he put on his jeans, that had been discarded on the floor near the piles of books.  
“Uncomfortable was having that thing pressed against my back for an hour,” she retorted with a snort. Seating herself back on the bed, she proceeded to gather her hair in a ponytail.
Noah rolled his eyes again as he made himself comfortable in his trousers.
Sensing his distress, which she still found amusing, by the way, Lia ushered to say: “Okay, sorry. Go to the bathroom and do whatever you have to do.”
“I don’t have to do anything!” He snapped, bothered by the whole ordeal.  
“That’s not what I meant, idiot. Wash your face or take a shower. I don’t know.”
The banter continued throughout the morning, with Lia teasing him and Noah shooting death glances in return. Fed up with the ongoing banter, he seized his opportunity when they were making pancakes in the kitchen and retaliated by covering Lia’s face with the batter.
“If you would just wear yesterday’s crown, I’d say you look like the most beautiful princess in the world.”
Lia, initially frozen in place, couldn’t hold her laughter. She hurried to swiftly swap some batter from the bowl and began chasing Noah around the kitchen and into the living room.
The morning, which had started with a hint of awkwardness, effortlessly transformed into a lively scene. Laughter filled the air as Noah and Lia engaged in their impromptu food fight, grabbing at each other, and running their dirty hands all over each other’s faces and bodies, smearing their skin with the whitish sticky paste.
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thegoldfishbowl · 1 year
Text
Sickness and Health Ch.2
Day 5
“No change,” your medical chart reads again this morning, causing a sneer to appear on Mycroft’s face when he reads it. His beautiful, vibrant, amazing wife has been reduced to two short and ugly words on a $3 clip board, and he has come to resent seeing them there. Mycroft has been overseeing every single step of your treatment so far, and has made his feelings widely known about the current lack of progress. The doctors have already learned to tread lightly around him, and the nurses don’t dare to speak unless spoken to. The mandatory hourly checks they perform are done in complete silence and with the utmost care; and Heaven help the man or woman that handles Mrs Mycroft Holmes too roughly.
He hasn’t left your side since his arrival a few days ago, when Dr. Watson had given him the devastating news. It had surprised Mycroft that it was not Sherlock who greeted him, but John explained that Sherlock was insistent on staying with you until Mycroft arrived. He had vowed to protect you in his brother’s absence and is feeling incredibly guilty for not noticing your deteriorating condition sooner. Mycroft immediately exonerated Sherlock of all blame, reminding him that the outcome would have likely been the same even if he himself had been present. Nevertheless, both Holmes’s are completely devoted to your care and either one or the other is at your bedside constantly; sometimes both.
Your room is private, of course, and is fully furnished with soft, comfortable fixtures in calming colors. It has an en-suite bathroom and large, floor-to ceiling windows that bathe the room in warm, diffused light. Mycroft requested to have a small, roll-away cot added to the room for his own use, but has used it only sparingly, preferring to spend most of his nights in a chair beside your bed.
Your mother visits at least once a day, to see how you are, and to scold Mycroft for not taking better care of himself. She insists that he use the hours of her visit to shower and change clothes, to find something for lunch, or even just answer a few emails for work. She reminds Mycroft constantly that you are going to need his help more than ever once you are awake, and that being greeted by an exhausted Englishman in a wrinkled suit is not exactly ideal. She even enlisted the help of Mycroft’s own Mummy and he now feels well and thoroughly managed by the pair.
Your room is heavily guarded by Mycroft’s own men and the list of approved visitors is rather short. Those who make the cut, your closest friends and family, come to sit quietly and hold your hand; whispering with Mycroft about their fondest memories of you. He can’t help but look back on some of his own.
———————————————————————
Mycroft’s Memory
The party was absolutely dreadful, as they always are. Too many wealthy diplomats and societal influencers with too little intellect and too deep of pocketbooks. But, these were Mummy’s friends, or so she said, so it was his duty as a loving son to come to these terrible functions and pretend to be nice.
The cocktail hour and the dinner were the easiest parts. Mycroft knew that when the nonsensical chatter of the goldfish became too much, he could always have another drink to help drown out the noise. He could also rely on his dear little brother to create some kind of distraction that would help Mycroft escape his current situation and look for entertainment elsewhere. 20 minutes ago they had both absconded to the backyard garden so they could each partake in a much needed cigarette and a little peace and quiet.
They were preparing to re-enter the fray when the familiar click-clack of approaching shoes broke the coveted silence. “Those things will kill you, you know,” came a feminine voice behind them, followed by a tinkling laugh.
“That’s what they say,” Sherlock replied with a grin, turning slowly to fully see the interloper. “Want one?” He asked.
“No, thank you,” the woman replied, waving shyly at Mycroft, who had also turned to greet her. “I was actually just looking for the ballroom. Do you know where it is?”
“Mycroft does!” Sherlock replied quickly, giving Mycroft’s shoulder a nudge to stop the older man from staring at their guest with his mouth open.
“Mycroft?” She asked with a slight flush, smiling at him prettily. “Is that you?”
“Yes,” he croaked, realizing just how long he had been ogling the beautiful young lady without actually saying anything.
“Sherlock… I mean… my brother… is Sherlock. Ahem.” He cleared his throat. “My name is Mycroft… Holmes. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
“My name is Y/n Y/l/n. It’s nice to meet you both. Would either of you mind showing me to the ballroom, please?” She asked politely. “I believe I’m running late.”
“Well, we wouldn’t want that,” Mycroft says smoothly, finally snapping out of his stupor. “Allow me, Miss.” He offered his arm in escort and slowly led her in the right direction, speaking softly to her along the way.
They arrived a few moments later, each smiling widely and somewhat reluctant to part. “Here we are,” Mycroft told her quietly. “I hope you find it to your liking.”
“I’m certain that I will. Thank you, Mycroft,” she demurred, raising onto her tiptoes to kiss him softly on the cheek.
His face turned a deep crimson and he reached out to take her hand gently. “Could I possibly see you again sometime Miss Y/l/n?”
“Oh you will!” She said with a wink. “Don’t you worry about that!”
The young woman quickly slipped into the room without another word, leaving a besotted Mycroft standing alone in the brightly lit hallway. He couldn’t help but smile, and chuckled to himself lightly. This party just got a lot more interesting.
————————
Back in the garden, a smug looking Sherlock greeted his brother with a half-smoked cigarette and a glass of whiskey on the rocks.
“So,” he drawled, handing both items to Mycroft. “Did you enjoy your little trip to the ballroom, brother mine?”
“Indeed I did. She’s absolutely enchanting.”
“Beautiful too,” Sherlock added with a knowing grin. “Will you see her again?”
“I’m not sure. I did ask her, and she indicated that I would see her soon… but Sherlock. What do I do when that happens?”
“You mean you didn’t have a plan when you asked her?”
“No! I didn’t even know I was going to ask her until I did!”
“Well, I suppose you could ask her for a dance?” Sherlock suggested.
“That’s a fine idea. Certainly she could make room on her dance card for me?”
“Dance card? She’s not a Victorian Debutant, Mycroft! Once you find her on the dance floor, you can just cut in.”
“Do you think she would agree to dance with me?” Mycroft muttered quietly.
“Only one way to find out!” Sherlock declared, taking the whiskey back from Mycroft and quickly tossing it down. “We’re going dancing!”
Mycroft smiled and stubbed out their shared cigarette. “Lead on brother.”
————————
By the time the brothers arrived, the dancing portion of the evening had already begun. The lights had been brought down to dim glow, and dozens of couples were moving elegantly around the highly polished floor. As each set floated by, Mycroft tried desperately to find the mysterious guest. She had not said who she was attending tonight’s party with, only that she was running late. She could be here with anyone!
They stuck close to walls and tried to remain unseen as they searched, Mycroft going right, Sherlock going left. Their eyes would meet occasionally across the crowded room, and through a series of silent gestures they communicated their findings.
- Anything, brother mine?
Nothing yet, Mycroft.
- Maybe she left?
Impossible. I have eyes on the door.
- Maybe this is a bad idea?
It’s not. Good god! Is that Uncle Milton?
- I thought he was dead?
He smells like he is. Who are all of these people anyway?
- Not a clue, Sherlock. Focus.
The absurdity of their behavior had Mycroft rolling his eyes, but he was grateful for the other man’s help. He was feeling completely out of his depth, but having Sherlock’s support calmed his nerves. He tried to catch the man’s eye again in order to say so, but was forced to laugh out loud instead when he saw his terrified little brother get pulled into a slow waltz with their ancient-looking Great Aunt Hortencia. Better he than I! Mycroft thought with a smirk.
He took a moment to watch the old woman dragging Sherlock across the floor, but quickly recognized he needed to keep moving, lest he find himself in a similar situation. He reached for a flute of champagne from a passing tray before continuing his search.
Mycroft made a full circle of the room without finding a trace of Y/n on the dance floor. Face after face spun by, but none matched her charming visage. Sherlock was eventually able to escape his moth ball scented captor, but he too, was unable to locate her. They came back together near the exit, to formulate a new plan, and decided the next logical step was to obtain Mummy’s guest list.
Sherlock volunteered to seek out Mummy’s private diary, leaving Mycroft with nothing to do but drink more champagne out of sheer boredom. Eventually, he turned to face the front of the room, curious about the entertainment for the night, and instantly felt like he had been struck by lightning.
There she was, center stage in front of a small band, crooning one of his mother’s favorite love songs. How could they have missed that? Had she been there all along? Mycroft wasn’t sure, and it didn’t really matter. He had found her now. He felt hypnotized by her voice and quickly moved to take a seat as close to the stage as possible. He didn’t want to miss a single note of her sweet, sultry song.
There's a somebody I'm longin' to see
I hope that he turns out to be
Someone who'll watch over me…
As she swayed to rhythm of the song, Mycroft slowly took in her stunning appearance, categorizing every minute detail in his mind-palace. Her beautiful (h/c) hair, coiffed elegantly in the style of a 1920’s jazz singer. Her sparkling (e/c) eyes, lined with black kohl, and her ruby red lips. The elegant shape of her body was draped in a very soft looking, black fabric, velvet, maybe? Mycroft didn’t know, but he longed to reach out and touch it. The woman had completely bewitched him like some mythical siren, and everything else now ceased to exist for him.
Won't you tell him please to put on some speed
Follow my lead,
oh, how I need
Someone to watch over me…
As the song came to a close, Mycroft jumped to his feet, applauding the performance, and immediately drawing Y/n’s eye.
She blew him a kiss and gave a little wave, before beginning a new song; another one of his Mummy’s favorites. By the end of the first verse, Mycroft had fallen head over heels in love with this majestic song bird. But what was he going to do about it?
He had no idea.
There were bells on a hill
But I never heard them ringing
No, I never heard them at all
'Til there was you
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shares-a-vest · 1 year
Text
Hiii. So I've decided to write some stuff in the lead-up to Valentine's Day. Nothing elaborate, just some Steddie-centric Valentine's ficlets/nonsense/shenanigans. I might not write every day (bc lately my brain has been barely working) but here's hoping this little project gets me out of my funk.
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I'll Steal You Some Flowers
“Remind me, again, why it’s easier for us to commit theft than just buy some flowers?” Dustin groans from behind Steve as he takes one last look at his neighbour old Mrs Collins’s, empty driveway.
“Yeah, I don’t really like the idea of this anymore,” Lucas adds, standing upright and stepping away from the property's side fence they are all crouched behind. “I don’t even think Max will like flowers.”
“Every girl likes flowers!” Steve stage-whispers as he whips around to look at the complaining duo.
At least Will Byers still seems interested in the scheme, seeing as he wastes no time in lightly slapping Dustin on the shoulder and making a face.
“Then why did you come?” he asks with an annoyed hand gesture.
“Wait, did you steal those roses you were going to give Nance?” Dustin shrieks, standing upright and folding his arms.
Jesus Christ. These kids really do make things difficult.
Steve stands and mirrors Henderson’s defiant posture.
“Actually I bought those from the completely overpriced gas station,” he retorts and places his hands on his hips. “Now, old lady Collins is gone, so who’s with me?”
“This really feels like something Eddie would suggest,” Lucas says, jumping up and dangling from the fence, scoping out the backyard with a sceptical eye.
“Nope, all my idea,” Steve retorts. “And I want to surprise him so today’s the day, assholes. Now, if you’re going to chicken out, Henderson, you can stay here and be the lookout.”
“I’m staying too,” Lucas chimes, snatching the radio off Dustin.
“Fine, I’ll go,” Will relents and reaches a hand out for the other radio. “Which flowers do you want for Max again?”
Lucas shrugs.
Will sighs and lolls his head back as he rolls his eyes as dramatically as possible.
“So helpful, Sinclair,” Steve says. “I’ll get you some roses. Can’t go wrong with those.”
He removes his backpack and sets it down to retrieve two pairs of gardening gloves and clippers.
“So you own several pairs of gardening gloves but can’t grow your own flowers!” Dustin wonders aloud with a furrowed brow in that tone he gets when he thinks Steve is the dumbest person alive.
“Shut up,” he says, throwing the floral pair to Will and putting the larger ones on. “My mum likes gardening but has a total black thumb so we’ve got all the equipment and the sparsest garden in Hawkins.”
“If we get caught, you’re taking the fall,” Dustin insists.
“Why did you come anyway?” Lucas asks, turning with a hand on his hip towards Dustin. “It's not like you can send Suzie flowers through the mail!”
“I'll have you know,” Dustin starts, snatching the radio back. “I sent Suzie a poetic letter and we are going on a long-distance date over Cerbero for Valentine's Day, thank you very much.”
He places his hand on his heart and practically bops on the spot, beaming at the idea of the lamest, nerdiest date on the planet. Steve rolls his eyes even though with the pair now turning on each other (and thus, distracted), it is probably time to go over the plan. He places a hand on Will’s shoulder.
“You take the radio and the binoculars and stay facing the house. Collins has this annoying yapping little dog named Archie, but he stays inside. I’ll get the flowers and hand them to you.”
“Okay,” Will nods and blushes, likely remembering his rose that he plans on anonymously sending to Mike. A plan that no one knew about except for Steve.
“Remember,” he begins, nodding. “Stealth.”
He ignores the scoffs coming from the pair behind them and waits for a nod of understanding from young Byers who only gestures for him to get the hell on with their plan.
Steve throws his backpack to Dustin, who just allows it to fall and spill onto the grass. He waves it away and silently beckons Will to follow as he books it for Collins’ side gate between the side hedge and garage. He unlocks it and, with Will right behind him, they cross the backyard to Mrs Collins’s prize-winning flower garden, the envy of every housewife in Hawkins. Archie isn’t anywhere to be heard although, now that Steve thinks about it, he won’t hear the little critter for shit anyway.
“What did I tell you,” he says, outstretching a welcoming arm as he ducks his head to miss the white trellis arch covered in wisteria.
“Holy shit,” Will says, following along and heading straight for the corner patch of rose bushes.
“Exactly,” he says.
He makes quick work of cutting some roses, working from the back of the bush before heading over to the next one as he carefully takes from each bush so as not to draw suspicion. Will begins counting them out on a bare patch of grass when the radio kicks in with incoherent noise as if Dustin and Lucas are fighting over who gets control.
“Abort! Abort!” Dustin screeches. “Mr Collins has returned home. I repeat. Mr Collins is parked in the driveway and headed for the side gate. Steeeeeeve! Over.”
“Shit!” Steve yells.
He starts gathering up the roses and immediately scratches his forearm as he attempts to hastily tuck them under his arm. And, not wanting to leave without his share of the spoils, Steve quickly yanks a handful of tulips square out of the ground and looks up to find Will sprinting to the back fence, a bunch of roses in hand.
“We’re leaving, over,” Dustin says through the crackling radio.
Cowards. All of them, traitorous cowards.
“Steve?” Mr Collins calls across the lawn, breaking his focus.
He looks over to find Mr Collins staring at him with slack-jawed confusion before he looks down to discover the flowers in his hands.
“Fuck.”
Steve drops the cutters and runs for it, vaulting over the small fence that separates the garden from the lawn and follows Will, who’s struggling to escape over the back fence.
“What on earth!” Mr Collins exclaims, obviously spotting Byers.
Steve throws his flowers over the fence and Will follows suit before he kneels down to boost the boy up.
“Just run for it,” Steve relents as Mr Collins continues yelling at both them and the dog that must be barking.
“I thought you said no one was home!” Will yells as he disappears over the fence with a thump.
“He's supposed to be at work!” Steve calls back as he does a small run-up and jumps as high as he can so he’s half-hanging over the fence.
The planks are sticking into his stomach, which these days aches like hell. And as he feels a sharp tinge in his back, Steve rolls forward and over the fence, landing directly on his right shoulder. Feeling it dislodge, he wails in pain and clutches at his dislocated joint.
“Steve!” Will says, crouching down beside him.
“Just leave the flowers,” he groans.
Before he knows it, Steve finds himself on a bed in the emergency department of Hawkins General with his arm in a sling and Will sitting at his bedside. And just like that Eddie appears, pulling back the dividing curtain with a hard tug.
“Oh no,” he groans, sinking his head further back into the pillow.
“Oh no, indeed,” Eddie says, stern despite the smallest smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.
“Why did you call him?” he whines at his co-conspirator. “I’m fine.”
“Who else was I supposed to call!” Will argues, gesticulating wildly.
“Byers,” Eddie begins, reaching in his pocket for loose change that he tosses to Will. “Go get a snack. I’ll drive you home later.”
“You aren’t going to tell Hop, are you?” the boy asks, worried.
“Oh, god no, man,” Eddie insists without a second thought.
Steve knows he's in for a lecture. And will have to fess up about what the hell he was doing that led to him being admitted to emergency with a dislocated shoulder. But Eddie will stop short of tattling to anyone, let alone Chief of Police Hopper.
At that guarantee, Will scurries off into the waiting room. Eddie sits on the edge of Steve's hospital bed and purses his lips.
“So…” he begins and Steve can't tell if he's pissed off or just mildly inconvenienced. “Getting the boys ready for Valentine’s Day actually meant stealing flowers from your neighbour like a regular Dennis the Menace?”
“Like you haven’t stolen anything,” Steve huffs and if he could, he’d fold his arms.
“We literally committed Grand Theft Auto together, sweets,” Eddie smiles before going all coy and running his hand along Steve’s thigh, his jeans covered in grass stains. “Did you steal me anything?”
“Tried to,” he says, low and disappointed at his botched heist. “But we left them when I fell.”
“You’re so naughty, Steve Harrington,” Eddie coos, leaning in close.
He winks.
“I’m sorry,” Steve says.
“I’m sorry that your arm is in a sling!” Eddie shoots back and tsks’. “Just in time for Valentine's Day! And to think, all the things you could be doing with your right hand. Deary me...”
He theatrically slumps forward, clutching at Steve's right thigh and gradually creeps his arm dangerously further up his leg.
“Don’t,” Steve warns, shifting on the spot.
“Come on, let’s get you out of here,” he offers, leaping up and extending a hand. “I’m sure we can think of a workaround.”
Steve’s more than a little wobbly on his feet and honestly, it's a goddamn miracle he hasn’t gotten a migraine yet. Shit. This really wasn't a good idea. Likely sensing his sudden panic, Eddie loops an arm around his middle and adds a teasing squeeze to his hip before holding him tight.
“I’m taking you home to kiss you better,” Eddie continues, chancing a quick kiss on his cheek before they walk into the waiting room to find Will nervously downing a packet of crisps.
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wordrummager · 3 months
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it’s Friday and I miss the nonsense of old Tumblr so here are 10 somewhat random shots from my camera roll, with titles (no explanations)
1) the backyard
2) futility
3) a decorated port-a-potty on parade
4) happy pepper
5) chomping down, and slightly terrifying
6) me and my fibonacci curl
7) along for the ride
8) it’s the thought that counts
9) an aurora garden display
10) what the world needs now
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shadedheart138 · 1 year
Text
Keigo Takami Headcanons! (Part TWO)
LET'S DO THIS
He'll headbutt sometimes when he wants to tell you he's hungry but doesn't want to open his snarky little mouth.
Or he'll do it just to be annoying.
Has a tiny stick collection.
Like, he'll just go outside and sit in the garden or backyard for hours, rifling through little sticks.
Weaves teeny nests as a past time.
Has an ACTUAL stick nest in the attic.
HAS PERFECT FRICKING POSTURE (Most of the time)
WHERE?
WHY?
HOW???
Flaps his wings when really excited.
Will hop on one foot if he gets impatient or antsy.
He'll sit in a tree all day if you let him.
Really likes sunflower seeds, especially salted.
Sneaky little birdseed thief.
Like, you'll set out a bird feeder and he'll legit sit under it and reach up and steal the birdseed.
Will preen his feathers with his mouth.
Is legit ECSTATIC when someone offers to preen his feathers for him.
Bird documentaries? Eyes GLUED to the screen.
Once he hears, "Welcome... to National Geographic." He's instantly in the room and he's sitting two inches from the screen, chirping right back at the birds.
He once brought you a dead mouse.
RUFFLE THEM FEATHERS BABY-
PET THEM STROKE THEM MAKE THIS BABY PURR-
"Go touch grass."
"Okay, I love grass-" *Proceeds to nibble grass*
"What the hell, Keigo."
Will get SO TERRATORIAL. OMG.
Over just about anything too.
If you bump him while he's eating you're toast.
Makes a whole messy, Messy, MESSY nest and only invites you in if he really needs you.
When he first sees a big cat (Lion, Tiger, Panther, etc.) at the zoo, he's first scared sh*tless, but then gets all smug and haughty when he realizes they can't hurt him.
Will legit eat a dandelion.
He's a funny drunk.
Laughing, chirping, spewing utter nonsense.
GIVE THIS MAN A CLICKETY PEN RIGHT NOW, THAT WILL KEEP HIM OCCUPIED FOR HOURS-
Chin scritches? Chest rubs? As soon as you call him and start, he's YOURS.
There you go! I have some SPICY ones next, then I'm done for now.
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bloopdydooooo · 7 months
Note
It’s going in an ask because it’s going to be too long for tags. I hyperfixated on pet birds like… last year I think.
Going to specifically be speaking a lot about parrots because they’re the ones I know the most about and because the peach-faced lovebird in the article is a parrot (the article keeps talking about “resembling” a peach-faced lovebird and not just?? Being one? I don’t know if that’s a weird language thing but anyway.
Reasons why the cell is bad:
NO PERCHES! Nowhere to fly and land and climb (parrots especially often love to climb using their feet and beak). Did you know dowel stick perches are really bad for birds because they’re flat and have no variety and so the feet don’t get sufficient exercise and that leads to developing bumble-foot (where the feet get really swollen and bumpy).
BREAD??? Who feeds a parrot bread??? You shouldn’t feed birds bread in general but if you do it’s recommend to only be in small quantities because of the high sodium content and low nutritional value, and it should be whole grain and brown bread. TWO WHOLE SLICES OF WHITE BREAD for a bird that small?? The bird can barely fit in a hand like come on there’s more bread than bird in that cell.
No toys!! Birds need a lot more enrichment than people think (seriously I am so so mad about the birds as low-maintenance pets that can be kept for decoration opinion that’s so widely spread) and there is NONE in there. Parrots especially are also quite destructive and they love to destroy things for fun so toys should be able to be “used up” by the bird (via tearing and chewing and generally just being obliterated) so plastic toys Don’t Work. Natural materials are also preferred because plastic and rubber is very bad when digested (obviously). So stuff like tweed and sticks and branches and dry grass and stuff all good. You can put seeds and other food in some of them so that the bird has to dig or forage for it which is good for them because it’s a natural behaviour that they still retain (did you know parrots aren’t fully domesticated yet. Not even close. So they still retain a lot of those instincts and especially prey instincts which leads them to fly when threatened and be generally scared of people so that you have to earn their trust first before you can actually do anything because you are huge and they are so small and so scared. Anyway)
I’m still mad about the bread. Anyway. Seeds are also pretty bad for one birds, especially if it’s all they’re eating. They have a very high fat content and because the pet bird is not flying many many miles a day to burn all that off it just sits there and often becomes fatty liver disease. This is probably one of the biggest contributing factors that makes up that “pet birds have very short lifespans” nonsense, because people don’t feed their bird right and don’t get it enough exercise. Also the smaller the cage the more time the bird needs to spend out of it, to get the right amount of exercise and enrichment. A lot of people just don’t let their birds out of the cage ever??? Fucked up. The only time you’d maybe justify keeping the bird in the cage for its whole life would be if you have a literal huge aviary with a cage the size of a room, and even then you should still let it out occasionally to actually experience like. The outside. (Did you know you get bird harnesses. Like the ones for cats but for birds. So that you can take the bird outside without it flying away). And also some people section off their backyard with mesh around it so that the bird can have the whole garden without the danger of flying away. You can also train your bird to fly back to you even when outside but that’s more difficult so I’m not gonna go on about that here.
I’m just so confused as to why people would get a pet that can fly if they don’t want their pet to fly. Like come on. What’s the point. And flight training is so so cool and so rewarding. Your pet can FLY and you’re not going to let them?? You don’t want a little bird to come from the other side of the room and sit on your shoulder or up onto your hand like you’re an adventurer with a falcon for a best friend?
Whatever. I’m so mad that I can’t have a bird. They’re also probably the most loyal pets on the planet once you bond with them. Birds actually automatically favour one person over everyone else (you have to be careful that you don’t tip thst 60/40 scale into 100/0 if you don’t want the bird to attack everyone that comes near you. Insane) and you are their best friend if you only have one bird. A lot of birds are also really cuddly (I don’t know about lovebirds but I think they can be? Conures especially are (green-cheeked specifically because that’s the bird I was looking into)) and they can be very vocal and make little trills (ahhhh) and chirps. But they can also scream. Most birds are so so noisy (ESPECIALLY sun conures and macaws. Oh my god. They just screech all day I would die I think).
…Most pet birds (especially parrots) cannot be fed a seed-only diet. Birds can eat fruit, vegetables, berries, nuts and seeds (as treats), grains… other stuff that I’m forgetting… And they should be fed regularly, like two or three times a day. And their water also has to be changed regularly because they poop in it (especially if it’s low in the cage. Same with food ideally you should put the food higher up and not under any higher perches).
Some birds (thinking of African greys and macaws) do this thing called eye-pinning where they dilate and contract their pupils really fast to show that they’re interested in something (I think it can also show when they’re angry? Can’t remember) and it’s very cute. You can use it for taste-testing foods for the bird to see if they like it (birds have preferences. Some really hate sunflower seeds but love macadamia nuts and some are neutral towards them but hate almonds etc etc).
Birds are also really sensitive to the air they breathe! Humans have very strong lungs and we can survive a lot without even noticing but birds can’t. Anything that damages air quality can kill them really quickly if you’re not careful (I suspect it’s another contributor to the “pet birds have short lifespans” thing because people don’t know what killed them when in reality it was like. The dust). Cockatiels are very dusty birds (wing dust) and they usually need an air purifier in the room to keep the air clean (and also you probably shouldn’t get a cockatiel if you have a dust allergy). Scented candles can be dangerous to birds because they often burn oil, except for Yankee Candles which is apparently bird safe because they don’t use oil (did spend a lot of time verifying this, apparently one of the employees sent an email saying they have a pet cockatiel and regularly burn scented candles around it and the bird is fine so. But still). There’s also a type of cookware that’s extremely deadly to birds because it releases a chemical whenever it’s scraped that can kill them instantly so bird owners have to watch out for stuff like that.
Most houseplants are also very toxic to birds. You have to be very careful when letting your bird out and should never leave your bird unsupervised because of stuff like that, because one bite of a leaf can kill them. Parrots are generally tougher than smaller birds but they’re still very delicate.
The bird cage should also be cleaned regularly, including the bars of the cage. Removable trays at the bottom are good because then you can do it easily and just replace the newspaper or bedding and whatever. Perches should also be cleaned. Did you know bird poop doesn’t actually have a smell and if it does that means something’s probably wrong. Also have to inspect poop for signs of illness (which is why the newspaper is a good option so that you can actually see it properly).
Cages should also preferably be square (and MUCH larger than the stupid little Tweety Bird round cages). Round cages are awful for birds it makes them anxious when there are no corners to hide in. You know like how round tanks are bad for fish, it’s a similar thing. Your bird should be able to fly at least a little bit in the cage from perch to perch. If you’re at work regularly so you can’t let your bird out for most of the day then you need a big cage. And probably another bird to keep your bird company. They’re very social creatures. Cage should also be sturdy and off the ground, especially if you have other pets (dogs, cats) because they might try to knock over the cage. You have to also acclimate your dog or cat to be around the bird safely but you have to be VERY careful with that because it’s still a prey animal and your cat/dog are still predators and are going to want to kill the bird. I don’t really trust anything that says the cat/dog and bird are 100% besties because there’s still a very real chance your pet will just snap and kill them either accidentally or on purpose (once again birds are very delicate). If you’re flight training your bird you need to be especially careful because often the flapping of wings can set the pet off. I’ve seen some people keep their other pet in a cage while the bird does flight training so that they can get them used to seeing it so that they don’t get spooked.
…I have more but this is enough I think. Apologies I just really like birds and this info has given me nothing except the response of getting irrationally angry whenever I see a pet bird in an unhealthy living situation.
whao‼️‼️
i really want a pet pigeon (based on a love founded by another bird hyperfixation) but i haven’t actually done any research into keeping birds because i know realistically i can’t get one for years to come, at least, and i didn’t want to learn all about them as pets only to not be able to get one cause that would make me sad (so i learnt all about them in the wild and in history lol)
this is really interesting though, i did not know parrots were so sensitive. i mean i knew theyre hugely mistreated pets and it’s very hard to keep one alive and happy but i figured it wasn’t like. that hard, idk.
very thanks for the bird infodump!! it was really fascinating :3
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mattydemise · 1 year
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The government serves no purpose. We must return to our roots. The roots of man. Pre government. Pre industrial civilisation. A band of men and women living and providing for themselves. No global war. No more political mudslinging. No more politicians. Politics and politicking are post-intellectual nonsense. All rooted in ego. No, this will be just brothers and sisters united via their love for community and their fellow man. Trade and barter between groups. No industry but small scale productions of beer, bread, and wine. Communal gardens and miles upon miles of fresh produce for all. A peaceful green utopia. It shouldn’t be so hard to achieve this. Must we perpetuate the corporate and technological rat races. Should we really aim for the stars when we struggle so wholeheartedly with our own backyards? We are not destined for the galaxies, but our own garden, with the flowers, plants, and trees our grandfathers grew from the very sweat of their brows. No, our destiny isn’t the colonisation of worlds, but the growth of our own hearts, and our capacity to finally love, understand, and accept our fellow man.
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zeldaorz · 10 months
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So I guess I’m going to Toronto Monday then I’m going to Niagara Falls I think from there. I don’t know it’s a week earlier than I had planned and I wanted to get the car serviced first. It’s better though too because I will be back sooner and will be able to move into my room on the first. I’ll need to find a job or figure out how to make Zelda’s Side Quests (road-trip buddy on demand for up to six passengers for a prearranged fee split.
I have to figure out how to word it so that it’s not a business just shared expense. I’ve got it figured out at .70 a mile starting and ending at my residence. So, I figure my travel in always, that’s aper hour for me, average fuel cost plus a percentage for maintenance and insurance. I would need 8 trips to Boston a week to make ends meet on that alone. I’m going to grow from there and start figuring out some tours and I will charge by the hour if they want to spend the day in Boston or Salem or New York or wherever. It can be pretty affordable for a group of 4.
I’d rather do that then something else. Plus I can make money fundraising here when I get stuff going. Right now we need to crowdfund 3k to pay for tick and poison ivy control. It is possible there is a grant we can get but there are no grant writers here. My plan is a large event in Aug that is music and vendors and an art competition, hopefully the mansion is pretty functional by then.
I think we have some really cool music connects and we have a pretty neat stage in front of an organ in the ballroom. The solarium art organ fountain garden pond centerpiece should be done if we get the go ahead on that.
I have some great ideas to bring the resident artist together to collaborate on the backyard. It’s so much but I see it all coming together and everyday is collaboration and progress.
I have 500 more words to write to get me 1/2 way to goal on my book!! 25,000 words!! I’m so proud of myself and the voice I am finding in this. I needed to psych myself up a bit becaus I am struggling to find these last words. Ahhhh the nonsense of course it’s time to talk about Dog Man Will!!
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lollytea · 2 years
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There’s Sunshine in Your Smile: Chapter 4
[READ ON AO3]
Hunter had stabbed himself in the foot.
(Not literally, of course, though that would certainly have shown Willow that his vigilance over potential stabbings in her garden was not irrational. However, she probably would have argued that self-infliction was both a petty and nonsensical way to prove a point. Hunter was forced to concede that she was correct in this imaginary debate they were having in his head.)
He hadn’t realized he was hungry until he had scarfed down the last of his food, which was small enough that it wouldn’t have taken long in normal circumstances, unless he wanted to make it blatantly obvious that he was stalling. But Hunter had cut his already brief time in half because he was so thoroughly enticed by a juice box and an abomination goo sandwich.
(“You need to stop calling it that.” Willow complained with a sniff of disgust. This was a side of her that Hunter was beginning to take impish joy in igniting. “I’ll never be able to stomach jelly again if you get that imagery stuck in my head.”)
He took his time with the goreberries and even Flapjack had caught the hint to pace himself. His bird had left the remaining fruit for Hunter and was currently racing Clover over the heads of Willow’s trees. The two palismen had clicked together like magic.
And then, only a single berry remained, its existence a palpable reminder that once it was gone, Hunter had to be gone.
But he couldn’t just leave it there. Now its lone inhabitation on the plate was drawing attention to itself. He had even caught Willow glance down at it.
She knew.
They both knew.
The anticipation was outright crackling from the damn thing and when Hunter finally couldn’t take it anymore, he popped it in his mouth and sealed his fate.
And then, there were no more excuses. No more obligations to tether him here. He had to leave.
The claw of guilt was already digging in deeper, though he knew it wasn’t entirely about the job itself. Afternoon patrol was minimal work at best and totally tedious at worst.
For Hunter, the appeal was the authority it represented, the Golden Guard in all his eminence. And during weeks when assigned missions were scarce, it was his only opportunity to get out of the castle, so it was something he looked forward to.
And now here was this girl and this garden of hers, smiling and shining and melting away all of his devotion to the task at hand. He didn’t care about the gold mask right now. He wanted to stay here, and that was the true source of his guilt.
The title of Golden Guard had been a gift from his uncle, an honour to receive, and something he had promised on his own soul to uphold.
And what was he doing right now? Fighting with himself not to blow it off for the sake of…
Of…
Of something completely insignificant to his life’s one and only purpose.
“Hunter?”
Willow was watching him intently, apprehension straining her features. He had been silent for a moment too long, and she seemed to know what came next.
But that didn’t stop her from shooting to her feet alongside him as he abruptly stood up.
Hunter had put his metaphorical foot down. Which hurt a little, as it had already been metaphorically stabbed.
“I have to leave.” He announced, a clipped tightness to his voice.
“But you just got here,”
“Yeah. And now I’m just leaving.”
“But--”
“No buts. I did something for you, you did something in return. That’s where it ends.”
Hunter paused in his dutiful march out of the backyard to look over his shoulder at Willow. He nodded purposefully, with an expression he hoped read as sincere as he felt. “Thanks, by the way. To you and your Dad.”
She did not smile at this. Her frown only deepened.
“You can’t just--”
“Captain, I don’t know if you’ve realized this yet, but I’m not the kind of witch who wastes time. I’m not gonna linger around for no reason.”
“What if there was a reason?”
“That being?”
“Um…”
“Yeah. That’s what I thought.”
Hunter would not let himself entertain the notion for very long, as it would surely weaken his resolve (and burn his traitorous ears) but…
She really wanted him to stay.
“Hunter, just…just wait a second.”
He was caught by the wrist.
In that miniscule beat of total silence, Hunter strategized on how to logically approach his next move. He considered how she might ensnare him once again, and how to avoid falling into the trap.
Let’s see, the first time, when she convinced him to follow her home, it had revolved around the Lump of Hell and Pain. But what had been the turning point where he completely folded?
He remembered how she had looked at him.
And then the second time, when she had insisted he stay for a snack, even when he had pushed against her efforts?
Once again, she had looked at him.
So, when Willow gave a tentative tug and he reluctantly turned around, he refused so much as a glance at her face. He kept his eyes resolutely locked on the spot where she was gripping him, her fingers bunching around the cuff of his glove.
“I was thinking… maybe you could help me with my garden?”
“That’s not a dire reason for me to stick around and you know it.”
“Well…” Her fingers loosened, as she fumbled for excuses. They absentmindedly spidered up his arm. “It’s a scorcher today so it’s really important that all my friends are watered properly…”
Still not dire enough.
“But there’s all this garden and only one me so…”
Her voice faltered, clearly realizing that this simply wasn’t going to work. She couldn’t plead her flimsy case in a way that sounded urgent, and even if she could, Hunter was done playing along with her games today. It was immature anyway.
Willow’s hold came almost completely undone, save for the fingertips that still hesitated to let go and, on the verge of defeat, she sadly drew her hand away. As she did so, her thumb slid a line down his inner forearm, the gentlest brush, a tickle against his skin.
His knees liquidized so fast, Hunter nearly collapsed on the spot. His legs buckled, subtle enough that Willow didn’t notice but mentally captivating enough that he felt a flash of worry for his health.  
Then came her last effort, not even remotely confident in her odds, as she said in the softest voice that ever fell off her lips “Please…”
The sensation in the back of his mind scuttled down his neck, leaving a prickle of goosebumps in its wake.
His answer was instantaneous.
“Okay…”
Well. Damn.
“Okay?” Willow blurted. She had been so certain that this wasn’t going her way, that she didn’t even sound convinced.
She didn’t believe him. He still had a chance to back out. He could leave.
But then, but then, Titan help him, this hopeless excuse for a Coven official….
But then Hunter did such a frantic inventory of Willow’s garden that his brain threatened to overheat from the rapid-fire calculations. He managed to rack up a conclusion regardless.
“It looks like--” He cleared his throat, annoyed with how feeble his voice came out. He shook out the arm where Willow’s touch still tingled, in a gesture that probably looked pointless and ridiculous to the girl in front of him.
But once it no longer felt boneless, he was confident to proceed.
When he spoke again, it was detached and succinct. The Golden Guard. “It looks like you have the ingredients here for a whole plethora of essential goods.”  
With his regained composure, he was capable of finally looking at her.
She was staring at him strangely, somewhere between confusion and suspicion.
Hunter swept a hand across the garden, gesturing from one plant to the next.
“Sleeping droughts, energy supplements, key components for important potions and elixirs, etcetera, etcetera…” He rattled off.
“A lot of your harvest is edible too, thus would be necessary ration in case of emergency. And that’s not even touching on all the rare specimen you have here, the properties of which I’m not familiar with, but would be foolish to disregard.”
Willow’s arms had crossed, her weight shifted to one hip. With one eyebrow raised, he couldn’t recall her ever giving him a more unimpressed look. And he had locked this girl in a cell.
She did not seem to like the Golden Guard very much.
“What are you even saying, Hunter?”
“I’m saying that it’s irresponsible that you haven’t yet registered this garden for official Coven protection.”
Her eyes flared.
“You’re not seriously calling me irresponsible for--”
“But considering its value, it must be sufficiently maintained. And the current heat is concerning.” He shrugged one shoulder, eyes betraying him by glancing askance. “And as you’ve informed me that it’s too difficult a task to handle alone…”
The anger left Willow like a snuffed out green fire.
In a matter of two days, Hunter had successfully become the stupidest witch in the Emperor’s Coven.
And there were a lot of stupid witches in the Emperor’s Coven.
He could not begin to describe the full extent of Willow’s delight, as his brain was already in complete tatters. But all the semblance of competence he possessed was used to register that giddy grin, those crinkled eyes and her unforgettable dimples as she shoved a watering can into his hands and put him to work.
Hunter should be outright furious at himself right about now. But after a moment of staring at the pale green object, painted with flowers, his facial muscles decided that he desperately wanted to smile. And though it twisted reluctantly on his mouth, smile he did.
Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.
Willow was chattering away about her limits, (Yeah. Apparently the terrifying force of nature known as Willow Park had limits.) namely that she was incapable of conjuring a spell to water all her plants at once.
She demonstrated with a spin of her finger. A puny spell circle poured a gush of water over a singular shrub.
“Sometimes I wish Luz hadn’t told me so much about her world.” She lamented with a sigh. “I mean, I don’t really. But I also do. Sorry, you probably don’t know what I mean.”
“I know what you mean.”
He wasn’t lying. Hunter had become quite familiar with his emotions torn in opposite directions. (Case in point: Literally everything that had led him to the point of ditching patrol and watering some girl’s flowers.)
“I’m always thinking about that world, how easy it must be to keep a garden healthy.” Willow’s head tipped back to the sky. And then Hunter was reminded that not only did she belong in the garden, she belonged in the air.
She peered at him over her shoulder, one of her pigtails spilling down her back. “Did you know rain doesn’t boil in the Human Realm?”
“I’ve heard.” Was all Hunter said, careful not to splash too much or too little water over the plants he was tending to.
Willow’s eyes slid shut, as the sun bathed her face. “I hope I can see it one day.”
They worked in parallel, Willow seamlessly intertwining her body through the bushes and blooms, (He wasn’t certain how much sentience they had, but they seemed to clear paths for her.) and Hunter methodically stepping from one plant to the next. Start. Stop. Water. Start. Stop. Water.
Every so often, he would steal glances at Willow out of the corner of his eye. He learned that not only did she talk to her plants, but she had a specific routine with every sprout in the garden.
To some she whispered, to others she announced with a royal air and a dramatic flourish, some liked corny jokes, some liked to be fawned over and some liked an affectionate stroke around the petals.
Now, as far as Hunter was aware, plants did not possess personalities. But then again, he would not be surprised if Willow had somehow tapped into some kind of nature mental link, similar to that of a witch and their palisman.
He was pretty sure Terra could do….something like that. He was never explained the specifics, as Terra liked nothing more than to pretend Hunter didn’t exist.
He probably wouldn’t have bought the notion that a fourteen year old girl would have a budding ability akin to a Coven Head. But underestimating Willow’s capabilities with the words ‘fourteen year old girl’ could be a dangerous mindset and Hunter wasn’t dumb enough for that.
Or maybe…
This was also a possibility…
Maybe Willow couldn’t actually telepathically communicate with her garden and she was just odd.
With this perspective in mind, Hunter listened to her babble away to the friends she had grown herself, bright and bubbly. Without making the conscious decision to do so, he wound up watching her.
She flittered around a scalectrica bloom, making a huge fuss over the intensity of its fire stained petals, fluffing them up as though it were a hairdo. The voice she was doing was so foreign from her own soft lilt and so goofy sounding that it may have been solely for her own entertainment.
At this very moment, was Willow demonstrating herself as an extraordinarily powerful witch…or was she just being a kid?
He kinda liked the latter. It was…it was weirdly…
Immature.
No. No, that wasn’t the word for it. Hunter recoiled a little at the use of the word he frequently used to criticize himself in order to describe Willow. It was something else entirely.
(He knew the word. But it would be far too troublesome to let himself think it.)
He didn’t realize he was smiling so wide until his cheeks ached. And though he tried to subdue it, he could still feel it linger on his face as he averted his attention to a cluster of moonflowers.
The sprinkle of his watering can reminded him of rain.
Rain.
Though he had remained tight lipped on the subject from earlier, the concept had been plucking at him.
Belos said the Day of Unity would bring upon an era of pure Utopia. And Hunter truly believed him, and so he knew in his bones that if this supposed era was as wondrous as his uncle had described, then surely, Willow Park would get to see the rain.
He hoped she got to see the rain.
Hunter would like to see it too.
Maybe, though probably not, but maybe, maybe when she saw it, Hunter would be standing beside her.
Though probably not.
He imagined a Utopia would need its Golden Guard, not a dumb boy possessed with childish curiosity. Exploring the new world with Willow likely wouldn’t be an option for him.
And that was a good thing. It had to be a good thing.
Just as he was edging dangerously close to considering how he felt about this whole situation, Hunter stubbed his toe. It hurt a billion times worse than the metaphorical stabbing.
He broke out into a loud string of curses, alerting Willow, who had been in the middle of asking a gallberry bush about the hot gossip between the nearby bloodwheat and fire hedge.
“Whatever you do, don’t talk like that in front of my Dads.” She warned. “Are you okay?”
“No. What even is this and what’s it doing here?” He hissed through clenched teeth, gesturing wildly at the large, battered cauldron that Willow had turned into a makeshift flowerpot. It was overflowing with a crowd of magnificent dragon lilies.
“That’s my leftover cauldron from when I was in the abomination track.”
Hunter’s shock was so pronounced that he entirely blanked on his throbbing toe.
“You were in the abomination track?”  
Willow’s brow furrowed at that, and in a stark contrast to her precocious nature, jutted her lip out in a pout. “You don’t have to sound that surprised.”
“Captain, you eat, sleep and breathe plants. The only way I can picture you raising abomination is if you build them out of bushes or whatever,”
“Oh! That reminds me.” Willow’s lip tweaked. There was a perilous glint in her eye as she shuffled into Hunter’s space and whispered “Wanna hear something cool?”
And.
So.
This was around the point in the afternoon where Hunter gave up.
He let it go. Dropped it. Just completely and utterly abandoned any intention of carrying out the rest of his patrol shift. Nah, nope, nuh uh, it was simply not happening today.
The ever-present guilt, the anxiety, the duty, it all flew to the far corners of his mind, shoved away before it all burst out of him at a later date, (And by the Titan, it certainly would.) because for the time being, something far more powerful had seized control of him.
Willow had opened her mouth and spoke of wild magic.
Hunter often left his window open ajar on hot nights, which had once led to one particular moth fluttering in, bewitched by the heady glow of his wall torch. Predictably, the stupid creature had caught itself on fire.
Hunter had been thirteen at the time. Sure, he had some sympathy for the thing but his first reaction was an eye roll. Surely there was at least an ounce of instinct hardwired into that microscopic insect brain that told it not to get too close to something that radiated burning heat.
Well, as Hunter grew older, he learned that every living creature had its flame. And at this stage in his life, he could admit (to himself anyway.) that wild magic might be his.
(Something he was not willing to admit just yet was that there might also be a second flame, one still early in the developmental stage.)
So. Yeah. Vindication for the moth. Sorry, moth.
“Okay, okay!” Hunter hovered excitedly around Willow as she multitasked between tending to her plants and laying out the basics of a hypothesis.
Flapjack had arrived from above, sensing Hunter’s shot of adrenaline and was now flapping and twittering between him and Willow, basking in the flying sparks of the Unknown(!)
“So, what you’re saying is that they would be able to function entirely independent from the witch who conjured them? So, they wouldn’t require their creator’s magic source at all to survive?”
Willow shook her head, not as jittery as Hunter but clearly enthusiastic. She was grinning ear-to-ear. At some point, she had magnetized so close to him that he could smell the floral scent off her, which was either perfume or a side effect of being a plant witch.
“They would need a daily intake of water but if the transfusion worked and the shrub inside them took root, a plant based abomination should be able to keep itself functional through photosynthesis!”
“That’s the sun, right?”
“Yep!”
“A solar powered abomination? And it grows berries? Ha!” Running his fingers through his hair, Hunter couldn’t help the wired laugh that split out of him. His mind was reeling. “That’s so fascinating! Has anyone ever attempted it bef--”
He stopped short. No, of course they hadn’t. It was illegal.
And for good reason too. It was highly unlikely that sort of experimentation would be successful. It was danger waiting to happen.
Willow had taken notice of his sudden silence. “Everything okay?”
“We….really shouldn’t get too carried away talking about this.” Hunter muttered firmly. It was a reminder to himself, an indisputable truth that Belos had seared into every facet of his mind through an intricate braid of episodes, blood, nightmares and the drip drip drip of that deathly sludge.
“Messing around with this stuff could get someone hurt.”
But when he got all tangled up in his studies of the forbidden, he allowed the reality of it all to slip his mind.
Sometimes it was too overwhelming to unpack just how selfish he was to forget.
Willow was silent for a long moment, He wondered if she was gearing up to argue about this, or perhaps his abrupt rejection of her innocent theory had upset her.
They shouldn’t have talked about this in the first place, and now he had to deal with the fallout of ruining a conversation in which he was actually comfortable.
He didn’t even want to stop talking about it.
Finally, Willow shrugged.
“It guess it can be. Any kind of magic can hurt.” Her tone was nonchalant, conversational.
“But not in the way wild magic can.”
“Well, I’m not really a wild witch. I mostly stick to plant spells,” She placed one hand on her hip as the other dramatically tossed back her hair. Her demeanour was a faux air of chilliness that was so strange on her, that it was funny. “But when I had you in those vines earlier, I could have crushed you like a goreberry.”
Hunter smirked, loosely folding his arms. He subconsciously mirrored her posture, arrow straight and challenging. “You’re way too nice for that.”
“Maybe so.” Willow agreed, that hilariously stoic look on her face. “But if I had made that threat, your first thought probably wouldn’t be how grateful you were that I was using by-the-book magic to kill you. It’d be ‘oh no. Death.’”
Something about her monotonous delivery made Hunter crack up, though he was extremely conscious to the giggles slipping out being a stupid noise, and he made an effort to stifle it with his backhand.
But then his amusement cracked the walnut that was Willow and she burst out laughing too. And of course, once it spread, it became difficult to stop.
“I would not have said ‘Oh no. Death.’”
Flapjack agreed with a cheep, landing atop Hunter’s head.
“Sorry I got it wrong.” Willow cocked her head playfully. “You’re just such an enigma.”
“That,” Hunter pitched a pointer finger, the pad he raised just an inch from Willow’s nose. Her lashes fluttered, eyes crossed. (Something squeezed at Hunter’s heart.) “Is very true.”
Her eyes lifted to rest on Hunter, smile glowing.
That look caught him off guard, brazen and undone. His finger faltered.
A moment earlier he would have second guessed himself, unsure of what to make of it, unsure if he had said the right thing.
Being seen as odd to other people had never bothered him before, it went in tandem with being annoying and he was well accustomed to that. Being liked hadn’t been Hunter’s concern for quite a long time.
But then he met some kids who called him a friend and it was like a door blown off its hinges, a door he hadn’t even known was closed, let alone locked. It had felt like such a delicate thing, having friends, like one fumble could shatter it all.  
But Earlier and Now were two entirely separate realms.
He wanted to say this was surprisingly easy, being here with Willow, but that wasn’t the right word for it. His breath still hitched, he would still open his mouth with only a sputter instead of a sentence, but it was alright. Willow botched her words sometimes too.
And that was okay.
It was more like breathing or falling asleep or the language of quiet whistling that he shared with Flapjack alone in his room.
Natural. That was the word.
This friendship felt natural.
“Do you want to help me sow seeds?” Willow had asked once they finished watering.
How the Hell do you sew seeds?
“I don’t know much about the whole gardening thing,” shrugged Hunter, scratching his cheek. His thoughts snagged on his disastrous attempts to stitch the Golden Guard sigil into his cloak, before Darius had intervened. “Also I’m….not great with a needle and thread so,”
Her giggle was tiny, barely even there, and Hunter wondered how she managed to laugh at him so frequently yet never made him feel like he was being ridiculed.
“I promise it’s easy.” There was something so simplistic and innocent about the way Willow made promises. Hunter had a difficult time doubting her. Which was strange, as it defied everything he knew about promises as complex, sacrificial things. “C’mon, I’ll show you.”
She showed him.
He had found that he quite liked it when she showed him things, even if the Lump of Hell and Pain was involved.
Willow prattled on about the shrubs they would be planting as she spread out a layer of fresh fertilizer. When Hunter shifted to assist her, she drummed two fingers against his wrist.
“Before you do anything, you should lose the gloves,” She suggested.
Hunter’s dumbstruck look made her backtrack.
“I just don’t want you to get them dirty. But if you don’t want to--”
“It’s fine. I’ll take them off.” Said Hunter, far more snappish than intended.
It wasn’t that he had any big grand reservations about the thought of flaunting his bare hands, it was just….it was just weird. Most of the time, he didn’t like looking at them. But he figured it would be even weirder to make a big thing of it.
He pinched the fabric from his fingertips and slowly pulled off his gloves, one after the other.
One wrist was disguised by a branded sigil, though the other spotlit trails of dark protruding veins. He had pale narrow palms that splotched red in odd places, knobbly knuckles that bulged against his long fingers and chipped uneven nails. Lining the edges were faded scars and remnants of blisters.
Naked hands, riddled with faults. Not so different from the rest of him, really.
Hunter’s lip tightened with distaste. They were perfectly standard pair of hands but he would never stop viewing them as sorta pathetic looking.
When Hunter was little, long before he had developed caution as second nature, he had been a recklessly curious thing, who tended to paw at everything he didn’t understand.
He hadn’t understood anything.
This led to a smattering of nicks, bites and burns documented over the years in the glove buried canvas of his skin.
He liked to detach himself from these hands. These scarred, curious hands that had once been small and stupid.
When Hunter lifted his head, Willow snapped hers in the opposite direction, the colour in her cheeks like a dusting of pink pollen, as she plunged her hands into the soil.
Willow’s hands were nothing like Hunter’s. They were small, most of their size in the wide, cushioned palms. Her fingers were short, blunt and practical, with dirt already digging under her neatly clipped nails.
Three cinnamon coloured freckles were splayed across the side of her wrist and Hunter mused, for longer than he should, that if you connected those dots with your fingertip, you could draw a little triangle.
The skin of her hands was drier than the cloudlike softness of her face, and depending on how she fluttered them, he caught one or two peeks of her cracked calluses.
If his bare hand were to touch hers it would be a lot rougher than he originally thought.
Not that he had given it much thought, of course.
By the time Willow’s took note of his staring, Hunter had already cut his gaze away to rake his fingers through the fertilizer. He didn’t know what he was doing just yet but he could certainly make it look like he did.
Willow walked him through the process of planting seeds and yes, her first promise to Hunter had not been broken. It was easy. Ridiculously easy.
This aspect of gardening was swift and relaxing and Hunter didn’t even mind the texture of soil as much as he thought he would. It was soft and crumbly in his hands.
“You know, I always figured plant witches just sprung stuff out of the ground,” Hunter remarked, tracing a useless circle where he had just planted a seed.
“So, Most Powerful Witch in Her Track. What’s the deal with you down on your knees, digging in the dirt?”
Willow wiped back her sweaty forehead and turned a broad grin on him. The only way she could possibly look more in her element was if her ears begun sprouting leaves. “You say that like it’s a bad thing. With a perspective like that, you’d never make it in my track.”
That wasn’t the only reason.
“Enlighten me.”
She hummed thoughtfully, readjusting herself into a more comfortable sitting position.
“This garden was my passion long before my powers developed,” Her gaze pooled with pride as she skimmed across her worlds upon worlds of thriving life. A slight breeze rustled the trees.
“So when I finally started to grow into myself, I had an immediate connection to plant magic. Nobody knew plants like me, nobody loved plants like me and the plants could sense it.”
“But you have magic now. So why do you still have to--?”
“I don’t have to.” She deadpanned, as though it were obvious. “But it’s always nice to put in the extra effort for what you love. I still love plants and they love me. Plus a more hands-on approach enhances our connection,”
Her dimples popped with a smile. “And that in turn enhances my magic! Cool, huh?”
Hunter’s eyebrows shot up. “Oh…Huh. Weird.”
“Weird?”
“Well, it’s just…this is the human way, right? It’s just weird to think there’d actually be value in that.”
“A lot of witches think like that.” Willow said with an exasperated shake of her head. “Which is why nobody believes me when I tell them this is how I got so good.”
“Hey, it’s less competition.” Hunter shrugged.
“I don’t care about that, Hunter.”
“That’s fine. I’ll care about it for you.” He did a sarcastic little spin of his finger. “Less competition. Woo.”
Willow smirked, a teasing glitter in her eye. “Okay, that’s settled. You shan’t tell a soul about the secret of my power, are we clear?”
Hunter set a hand to his heart. “Shan’t tell a—smmph!”
“Ssssshhh” Willow had smushed the pad of her filthy finger against his lips. “I am a soul and you were about to blab.”
“Captain!” Hunter protested. “Stop, that’s gross, it’s—Ugh!”
His face scrunched up in disgust. “Dirt in my mouth, dirt in my mouth, blech, uck,” He frantically spat into the ground as Willow cackled at him.
And when Hunter laughed in response, it was a low warning.
He pounced on her and she shrieked, attempting to bat him away with her flailing hands but Hunter refused to relent until he had successfully gotten her back. Once his thumb had managed to leave a smudge across her cheek, he was satisfied.  
But Willow just could not let him have his win and things escalated. It was all a bit of a blur, actually. Around five minutes of rolling in the dirt later, both Willow and Hunter were caked in the stuff and their faces were stretched into lunatic grins.
Willow had announced that there was no clear winner, only for Hunter to say that while he respected her opinion, she was wrong and it was him.
She responded by flicking another spot of soil at him.
By the time Hunter’s giddy buzz died away and he began to worry that returning to the castle like this would draw attention, Willow had already spelled the two of them clean.
He then proceeded to dirty his cheek two minutes later and all she could do was throw her hands up and sigh.  
The time spun by and the only determination of the passing hours was the gradual droop of the sun. Hunter had decided that once streaks of pink painted the sky, that was his sign that he must leave.  
They continued to chat as they worked, topic fluid as it had been during their morning message thread.
Willow had asked about Hunter’s favourite book at some point and wound up receiving a barrage of information about Ruler’s Reach. It hadn’t occurred to him that she was just asking for a basic synopsis before he had reached the gore dripping contents of chapter 46 in in his page-by-page recount.
He stopped abruptly, figuring that being a fanboy was not the image he wanted to represent, and asked her favourite book in return.
Willow had obliged, eyes alight and happily explained that while she wasn’t a huge reader like Luz or Amity, she had this one beloved novella that had been tucked away under her pillow for years and years and she still wasn’t sick of it, pouring over the memorized words when she had trouble falling asleep.
“It’s not in great condition though. It’s sort of falling apart,” She added with a sheepish smile.
Hunter liked that idea. Willow owning a book with a damaged spine and frayed corners and pages well worn by time.
Just like Hunter.
Maybe, on occasion, they had read during the same hours, vastly different stories for vastly different individuals, and yet everlastingly connected by the same night, the hang of the same moon.
It was a totally dumb and insignificant notion, but Hunter pocketed it in his heart to think about the next late night in that deathly silent castle, as he turned a tattered page and felt the icy bite of being entirely alone.
Willow told him a story pillared on themes of politics, life, and the relationship between witches and nature. It focused on a warrior queen who grew a new kingdom from a forest beneath the sea, only to realize forty years later that she had destroyed the already existing ecosystem that had been there before, and her efforts to undo her hubris.
There were battles peppered here and there, but it lacked the raw emphasis on violence that Hunter’s book had revolved around, which he considered detrimental to his overall review.
He didn’t really get the appeal but Willow certainly did, and he liked to listen to her recite the quotes like poetry, they sounded prettier when she said them then they probably looked written down, her voice imbued with some kind of magnitude that one could only understand if they poured over the pages like she did.
She seemed to care more for the beauty of flowery prose and symbolism than the gaping plot holes. Which Hunter also didn’t get, but she loved it in such a way that he hoped she never stopped loving it.
“Would you, as a plant witch, have a favourite plant, or are you, like, obligated not to?” Hunter asked, once they had pattered around the subject of Willow’s track.
At this point in the afternoon, they had phased out of garden work without noticing. Hunter was now lazing by the goreberry bush, having invented a game of tossing a berry high into the air and Flapjack would swoop in and attempt to snatch it in his beak
He was successful nine times out of ten, though Hunter and Willow still cheered and clapped every time, hyping the little bird into a frenzy.
“Huh.” Said Willow, like Hunter had asked something profound.
“What?”
“I don’t think, for as long as I’ve been alive, that I’ve ever thought about a favourite plant.”
“So, I’m about to witness a milestone.” Hunter said dryly. He quirked a smile. “Cool.”
Willow tutted, winding her arms around her tucked up legs. She plopped her chin on her knees. “Now, that’s just putting pressure on me.”
“Even better.”
“Hmm…” She rocked back and forth as she ruminated, gazing around the expanse of her garden.
“Any day now.”
“It’s a tough question!”
Hunter snorted.
“I think…” She said finally, slow and pensive. “If I were to consider a favourite plant, I would probably just consider my mood and equate it to the language of the flowers.
Hunter clenched a triumphant fist. “So, they can talk!”
This was becoming one of his favourite Willow laughs, where he uttered something that she hadn’t expected and it surprised a laugh right out of her. It made a very pretty jingling sound.
“Not like that. I mean….look at this.” Willow climbed to a stand and drifted past where he was sitting. When she realized he wasn’t making any effort to follow her, she lifted a finger.
“Up.”
Hunter let out a strangled yelp as a plump, fuzzy bloom erupted directly beneath him, successfully launching him to his feet. He was stumbling where he stood, arms thrown out to keep his balance when he processed what the Hell just happened.
“Hey!”
Willow’s giggles wobbled high the air, catching in the breeze.
She led him to a patch of technicolored flowers. They resembled curled up wrinkled paper, all crawling up stems and tight for space. Willow gestured to it all with jazzy hands and a silly little “Ta da~”
“I’ve never seen flowers like this before.” Hunter commented, crouching to his knees for a more thorough examination. “And these are your favourite? In the whole garden?”
“No, they were my favourite plant yesterday. Because that was when I was determined to start my Flyer Derby team. It was game time.” She emphasized, punching a fist into her palm. “And that’s exactly what gladiolus flowers represent. Battle! Strength! Integrity!”
With every declaration, her fist pumped closer and closer to Hunter’s face and if this were anyone else, he would swear he was about to be socked in the jaw.
This new bout of information had piqued his interest, and something was beginning to bubble, to sizzle, to explode.  
“There’s a….a code for flowers?” He asked, making absolute certain that he was hearing this right.
“Exactly! Of course there’s also a language behind plants native to the Boiling Isles and it’s pretty much common knowledge. However, there’s barely any witches who are interested in the meanings behind Human Realm flowers. Which is a little sad because I’ve always found them--”
“Teach me.”
Willow’s prattle came to a staggering halt and she gaped at Hunter like he had suddenly turned himself upside-down. She even cocked her head in an attempt to see him right side up. “You—you’re really….? I didn’t think flower language would be your thing.”
“Are you serious? This is exactly my thing.” Hunter corrected her, grinning.  
There was potential here for something structured and elaborate, which was very much within the realm of Hunter’s interest, and he was so willing to expand on it further that his head was beginning to spin.
“Really?”
“Yeah! I mean, you said so yourself, when it comes to Human Realm flowers, it’s practically a dead language, right?”
“Yeah?”
“So!” Hunter did not recall leaning into such close proximity to Willow until she took an instinctive step back, and when he clapped his hands on her shoulders, he was too filled with enthusiasm to second guess it.
“Just think of the information you could conceal in a bouquet without risk of it being compromised! Secret plans, strategies, all things confidential. It’s a completely untapped method of communication.”
“Hunter, I don’t think the meanings behind plants are detailed enough for that,”
“Then we’ll add to it! We’ll develop it into something more complex, using the already existent language as a basic structure. It’ll be fun!”
He didn’t realize he was jostling her until he caught the glasses sliding down her nose. The sense of something out of place bothered him, so he absentmindedly pushed them up.
Willow’s eyes were blown wide, which was to be expected when he was spitting out so much information at a possibly overwhelming rate. He thus made an effort to speak slower when he opened his mouth again.
“Look, I picked up texting fast and I know I can pick up this too. Just teach me a basic understanding of deciphering flowers, that’s all I ask.”  
At that, Willow’s bewildered face twitched into something mischievous. “And just who exactly would be sending you flowers, Hunter?”
Hunter blinked at her, uncomprehending.
Was she seriously not following him here?
“Who else? You, Captain.”
In what was an extremely perplexing reaction, Willow was so stunned that she blushed pure fire, a strange noise squeaking from the back of her throat.
She turned away from him, fingers gripping the hair from her scalp like she was having some sort of meltdown, before seizing tight on her pigtails.
Hunter stared at her, wondering the extent of her reservations about awesome new forms of language. He had expected her to be a lot more enthusiastic about the whole concept of what was essentially texting but with flowers. Now, he knew Willow loved both those things, so what was all this about?
He inched closer, attempting to peer at the face directed firmly on the ground. This fuss was truly bizarre.
“Captain?” He murmured, voice thick with hesitation.
She chanced a glance up, only to immediately lock eyes with Hunter. He picked up the soft stutter of her breath and the wild flare of jungle green irises, but before he could say anything more, she had shoved him away by the face.
“Ack-- ” Hunter grunted, attempting to pry away the hand that was squishing up his nose.
“Fine, Hunter.” Sighed Willow, and once she finally let her hand fall, he got a clear look at her.
The ghost of a full face flush still blotched in her cheeks but she had regained enough composure to smile. It was that peculiar smile that Hunter had seen touch her lips quite a few time today, and the only emotion he could compare it to was exasperation.
“I’ll teach you some flowers. Maybe we’ll start tomorrow. And…” Her voice lowered, gaze retreating to the ground. “Maybe once you’re semi-fluent, I’ll send you one or two messages. Maybe.”
Hunter guessed that he had failed to disguise how pleased he was, as Willow promptly laughed at the look on his face.
“You still haven’t answered my original question.” He said as he followed her through the garden. Because if there was one thing Hunter was becoming accustomed to, it was following Willow around.
“Which question?”
“What’s your favourite plant? Today’s favourite plant?”
Willow’s footsteps halted. She sucked down on her bottom lip in consideration before fixing a look on Hunter that he could not hope to untangle the meaning behind. Her eyes travelled from his bare fidgeting hands all the way to the stray forelock that dangled over his eye.
“I haven’t decided yet.”
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