#five two of my childhood friends are getting married next month and I’m really bummed I’ll be missing the one wedding

[pickalilywrites]

hi everyone!!! here’s the eretra au that a few of you might remember from my wip posts a few months (?) ago! i’m really excited about it, so i hope you guys like it. it’s very loosely based off a kdrama called big, although there aren’t very many similarities. i hope you guys enjoy it :) 

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My First Love Come Back to Me

Eretra. Big AU. 

I’ll Love You in the Rain or Shine Series: Chapter 1

12788 words. 

Read on Ao3!

Eren stands in the deli section of the grocery store staring down at the premade sandwiches that have, judging by the wilting lettuce and stiff-looking squares of cheese stuffed between dry bread buns, been sitting there all day after being passed over by other customers for more enticing premade meals like the colorful, little sushis in their plastic containers or the burritos so stuffed with filling that beans are practically spilling out of the tortilla wraps meant to contain them. He looks at one particularly sad-looking sandwich. Turkey chunks and droopy lettuce leaves are shoved inside a stale bread loaf. Tomato juice from the poor fruit that was cut to make this depressing sub bleeds out from the bun, dripping onto the plastic wrap that can hardly hold the thing together. A strange assortment of veggies also poke out from the bread - bright yellow bell peppers, chunky strips of carrots, and slices of onions - but they look as though someone has carelessly dropped them into the sandwich because they’re not even evenly dispersed through the sub. It is, Eren thinks, the most wretched sandwich he’d ever laid eyes on. 

It’s a little sad, the fact that Eren is spending so much time picking out something to bring to a family dinner that he would claim, if anyone bothered to ask, to not give a single shit about. And, really, he doesn’t, but it makes him feel slightly better about going to those miserable gatherings if he’s able to bring something he knows his stepmom will hate. Except she’s not really his stepmom. To be more precise, the woman is his father’s first and only wife - the bastard having never married Eren’s mother - and his half-brother’s mother. In all honesty, Eren can completely understand why the woman hates him. He is, after all, a constant reminder of his father’s infidelity. It’s not like Eren likes her either and, with all of the snide comments about his upbringing and disappointing career path (although Eren has no idea why that is any of her business), she hasn’t given Eren any reason to. 

Eren looks down at the sandwich again, leaning towards not getting it. As much as he would love to purchase it and slap it down on the dinner table with a cheerful smile, there are only so many times he can buy disgusting sandwiches for his family dinners. He really outdid himself last time with a self-made sandwich with all sorts of odd ingredients (blue cheese, coriander, tuna, onions, cherry tomatoes, the works) that had no business being slapped between the same two buns. He even remembered not to toast the bread buns. Apparently, the only thing his father’s wife hates more than sandwiches are untoasted sandwiches, but not everyone can afford a $300 panini press like she can. Apparently, any panini press with a smaller price tag can’t be called a real panini press. Eren only half-regretted his decision to bring the disgusting thing to his father’s house an hour later when he sprinted out of the house and biked half a block away to empty the contents of his stomach on the edge of a poor neighbor's sidewalk. No, a normal deli sandwich would be a step down from his previous contribution to family dinner, Eren decides. 

He walks up and down the aisle of the grocery store, taking his time even though he’s already a half-hour late for dinner. (He’s doing them a favor. Nobody in their right mind should be having dinner at five when the sun is still high in the sky.) His green eyes glaze over tubs of soup and plastic bins filled with salad. For a moment, he wonders if he should walk through the shelves of chips on the other side or maybe into the frozen food section so he can haul a tub of melting ice cream to his father’s house, but he wonders if that’s too petty. It’s probably best not to, Eren thinks with a grimace. He doesn’t want to ruin junk food for himself forever. 

In the end, Eren purchases a little tub of potato salad, hoping that it’ll be enough to piss off his Disney-esque sort-of stepmother. It’s not perfect, but he supposes it will do. It’s probably not as grotesque as the stuff he’s brought before, but he likes how simple it is. That woman’s definitely going to be miffed that Eren bought potato salad as if he cared so little that he couldn’t be bothered to spend a few minutes in the kitchen to make the same dish. He’s really going to enjoy seeing the vein on her forehead pulse when she sees him standing at the door with the potato salad. 

Eren thanks the cashier for ringing up his purchase, sliding two dollars into the charity box next to the register, and walks away with his tub of potato salad, whistling as he practically skips out of the grocery store. He hadn’t taken as long as he would have liked; there are still fifteen minutes before six and he had hoped he would burn enough time to arrive at six-thirty, but maybe he can take a roundabout way to his dad’s house, Eren thinks as he drops the tub carelessly into the front basket of his bicycle. He unlocks his bike with a click and pulls it off the bike rack before mounting it and pedaling away. 

Taking the direct route would be too quick. Eren quickly pedals across the road as soon as the road is clear and finds his way to the creek that cuts across the suburbs. It’s the same creek Eren used to play beside when he was a child. He fell in there once trying to catch a frog and his mom scolded him for being so reckless. It’s also the same creek that he frequented during the spring of his sophomore year of highschool when he was assigned to do a bug project, which Eren hated especially when the same project was no longer mandatory after his school cut the science department’s funding the year after. Eren doesn’t think he’s visited the creek ever since he graduated from high school. He blames it on college and summer internships taking up all his time and never really allowing him to return to his youth, but the truth is that Eren wouldn’t have sought out his childhood even if he had the time. 

It’s not that Eren had a terrible childhood. In fact, Eren would say that he had a fairly happy childhood. True, he grew up in a (mostly) single-parent household, but his mother was always patient and attentive to him even though he was a pain the ass about 75 percent of the time. Nothing incredibly significant happened. He didn’t win any awards and he never made the honor roll, but his mother was fine with it as long as he did his best. It was strange, but he got a lot more shit about his grades from his sort-of stepmom than he did from his own mother. He’s not particularly sure what his father thought about it. Eren’s father never said much of anything to defend him, but his father hardly said anything to him at all. It was kind of like not having a father at all, so it wasn’t really that surprising when Eren found a way to avoid his old neighborhood completely after his mother passed away after his senior year of high school. 

Eren hadn’t planned on returning so soon. Actually, he hadn’t planned on returning at all after he had left for college. He only came back the summer after freshman year, but he bummed it at his best friend Armin’s house and only ventured as far as Armin’s front lawn. The following summers he crashed at his ex-boyfriend’s house - an art student-turned-tattoo artist who somehow ended up setting up a shop in the city Eren and Armin grew up in - or Armin’s dorm when they were both working at their internships. Somehow, they ended up landing jobs back in their hometown because evidently the big city did not want them and they were too young and broke to go up against the universe. Maybe another day. 

It’s not that bad. Despite renting an apartment near his neighborhood, Eren hasn’t run into any childhood friends that might still remember all the embarrassing things he did as a teenager. He’s bumped into a few parents at the grocery store that would smile up at him and talk about how nicely he’s grown while reaching up to ruffle his hair. Other than a few childhood friends and the “family” he feels obligated to meet due to the biological bond he unwillingly shares with his father, Eren has successfully avoided most of his past. 

He pedals past his old middle school, zooming past the gates and grimacing as he remembers the less pleasant parts of his past - struggling with algebra, running a mile at seven AM, and the terrible school uniforms they forced on everyone in a strange attempt to boost standardized test scores. He’s happier when he crosses the street and is greeted with the lit-up shops - the convenience store where he’d happily slurp down slushies with Armin after school, the Chinese restaurant that his class would frequent every year for Lunar New Year’s, and the bakery store that always smelled of freshly baked tarts and pies. Eren’s pedaling slows as he approaches the bakery and he inhales deeply, his lungs filling with the scent of buttery baguettes and chocolate tarts. The aroma is so distractingly sweet. His mouth begins to water at just the thought of them, and Eren wonders why he hadn’t bothered stepping foot in the bakery since coming back. He’s about to stop his bike and pop in for a brownie or a lemon bar only to realize that he’s biking far too fast and about to crash into someone. 

“Shit!” Eren’s bike screeches as he swerves out of the way and he crashes into a pole so hard that he can feel his teeth rattle. He topples to the ground with a hard thud, groaning as he rolls over onto his side that didn’t get smashed violently against a pole. When he opens his eyes, he sees stars as well as the face of an old man that he had last seen a decade ago. Eren tries to sit up, but his side is throbbing and he can only clutch at his side, trying his best to suppress a groan so as to not startle the man he had nearly collided with. He gives the man a weak smile. “Hey, Mr. Ral. I haven’t seen you in a while.” 

The old man’s mouth, which was already open to begin with after seeing Eren’s embarrassing bicycle collision, falls open a bit wider. “A-are you … okay?” he asks after a while, squinting a bit as he looks at Eren’s face and tries to place a name to it. Eren doesn’t really blame him for not remembering who he is. It’s been quite a while since they’ve seen each other and Eren has grown up a lot since then.

“Yeah, I’m fine. Just a little bump,” Eren says, laughing it off. He manages to sit up and pushes himself off the ground, standing up and brushing off the little pebbles that have managed to stick to his face and clothing. He picks up his bike, leaning it against the pole before turning to the man again. “It’s Eren, by the way.” He pauses, observing Mr. Ral’s expression. When he sees that the man doesn’t recognize him, Eren politely adds, “Eren Kruger. I’m Zeke Jaeger’s younger brother.” 

A spark of recognition finally lights up in the old man’s eyes at the mention of Zeke’s name. Eren’s not going to lie, but it kind of hurts. “Ah, Zeke,” Mr. Ral says fondly. Eren shifts from feeling hurt to feeling slightly jealous. “How could I ever forget him? And you, of course. You two used to play with my dear Petra back in the day.” 

Petra, a name that Eren hasn’t heard in years, and yet hearing it still makes him blush like a young schoolboy. He ducks his head, his hand rubbing at the back of his neck, and he prays that Mr. Ral doesn’t notice the sudden flush of his cheeks. “Yeah, it’s been a while. How is, ah, Petra doing?” he asks. He had meant to ask the question casually, but he stumbles over the words a little too quickly. 

“Petra? She’s well,” Mr. Ral answers with a smile. The corners of his eyes crinkle and his laughter lines deepen. He doesn’t seem to notice how flustered Eren is. “She just started teaching at the same university that Zeke is teaching at.” 

That’s certainly news to Eren. Zeke hadn’t mentioned that at any of the family dinners Eren had attended recently. It could just be because Zeke hadn’t run into her yet or it had simply slipped his mind, but Eren kind of doubts it. If Petra’s father knew, then it’s highly unlikely that Zeke didn’t know. As much as Eren wants to frown, he fights the urge to turn the edges of his mouth downward and gives Mr. Ral a thin but polite smile. “That’s great to hear. What does she teach?” 

“English,” Mr. Ral replies, his chest puffed out proudly. It’s endearing how much he adores his daughter. “She teaches some upper-division classes on creative writing and a few classes for freshmen on critical reading and writing.” 

Eren’s smile is more genuine now, more fond as he listens to Mr. Ral speak about his daughter. “Yeah, that sounds like her. She was always really good with words.” He remembers lazy summer afternoons lying underneath the shade of a tree and pretending he was sleeping so that he could listen to Petra talk to Zeke on the front porch. It wasn’t even that he wanted to eavesdrop. He just liked the sound of her voice. Eren wonders if it’s still as wonderfully soothing and soft as he remembers. 

“And what about you?” Mr. Ral asks, snapping Eren out of his reverie. The old man seems to ask out of polite obligation. It figures that he isn’t really interested in Eren’s life. After all, he hadn’t remembered that Eren existed until five minutes ago. 

“I just graduated a few months ago. I majored in child education,” Eren replies. He looks down feeling slightly embarrassed although he’s not sure why. It feels like a step down from Petra’s accomplishments. His sort-of stepmom would certainly agree. She enjoys rubbing Zeke’s doctorate in Eren’s face whenever she gets the chance. Eren clears his throat and adds, “I’ve been working at Liberio Daycare. It’s near Shiganshina Elementary.” 

It’s unclear whether or not Mr. Ral recognizes the name but he nods and reaches over to give Eren a pat on the arm, a grin on his face as if the old man is actually proud of him. “That’s good! Your parents must be proud.” He doesn’t notice the way Eren flinches and carries on. “It’s good to hear that you’ve been well.” 

“Likewise,” Eren says. His eyes wander towards the bakery. It hadn’t occurred to him to look for Petra before, but now that he knows she’s back in town he can’t imagine doing anything else. He half hopes that she’ll be inside, maybe clearing the display for the night or wiping down the countertops, but all he sees is a girl his age at the register munching on some lavender bars that hadn’t sold. Before he can stop himself, Eren finds himself asking, “Is Petra in?” 

“Petra?” Mr. Ral asks with his eyebrows raised. Maybe it does seem out of the blue that Eren’s asking. Petra was always more Zeke’s friend than Eren’s. Mr. Ral gives Eren an apologetic smile and a shake of his head. “I’m afraid not. She told me she was eating dinner at a friend’s house. I’ll let her know you stopped by. Maybe you two can catch up sometime.” 

Eren shouldn’t feel so disappointed, but he can feel himself deflating at Mr. Ral’s words. He really doubts Petra would want to meet up with him. It’s not as if they were incredibly close before. Still, he gives Mr. Ral a gracious smile and says, “That would be great! I should probably get going. I have to, ah, eat dinner…” His voice trails off and he looks to bike only to find the front basket empty. Eyes straying further, he finds that his tub of potato salad had rolled out of his bike basket and onto the ground where it lay pitifully. Thankfully, the tub hasn’t broken and the potato salad hasn’t spilled out, but somehow the salad looks even more pathetic than it did when Eren purchased it. It’s something Eren would have been happy about fifteen minutes ago, but it’s embarrassing now. Quickly, he goes to pick it up and drop it into his bike basket with the slim hope that Mr. Ral wouldn’t think much about it, but Eren has never been that lucky. 

Mr. Ral must find him pitiful because he asks, “Why don’t you take some dessert home?” He’s already heading back into the bakery, gesturing for Eren to follow him despite Eren’s protests. “If you don’t, they’ll just go to waste. Or into my employee’s stomach, and goodness knows that she’s already eaten enough desserts today already.” 

“Thank you so much, sir,” Eren says, humbly bowing his head. 

“Sasha,” Mr. Ral calls the girl at the register. “Could you ring up a few things for Eren?” 

The girl’s head snaps up at the call of her name, her cheeks filled with pastry and crumbs all over her mouth. “Sure thing,” Sasha says, gulping down the last of her lavender bar and wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. She walks over to the side, Eren following her on the other side of the counter, and washes her hands hastily. As she wipes her hands dry with the hand towel, she looks at Eren brightly and asks in a chipper voice, “Do you have anything you want in particular?” 

Eren’s eyes scan over the display, but he doesn’t really look at anything in particular. He just wants to get out of this situation as quickly as possible. He’s embarrassed himself quite enough for today. “Just … whatever you’d recommend,” 

“Alright-y,” the girl hums, taking a bag and stuffing it full with little tarts and tea cakes and croissants. Eren looks at her briefly, realizing that he doesn’t recognize her. She must have moved here sometime during the past six years when he wasn’t around. 

As Sasha finishes preparing the bag, Eren walks over to the register and gets ready to pull his wallet out but Mr. Ral walks over, shaking his head. “No need to pay for it,” Mr. Ral says. He reaches over the counter and takes the bag from Sasha, presenting it to Eren with a smile. “Consider it a treat. Really, you’d be doing me a favor just taking it. They would have gone to waste otherwise.” 

“Ah, thank you,” Eren says, his face flushing once more. He takes the bag from Mr. Ral with a small bow of his head. “It was great seeing you again, Mr. Ral.” 

“Likewise,” Mr. Ral says with that same crinkly smile. He walks Eren to the door, watching as Eren packs the desserts alongside his potato salad. “Take good care of yourself, Eren, and tell your brother I said hi.” He waves as Eren assures him he’ll do just that, returning to the shop only once Eren has biked away. 

This is not how the night was supposed to go. Eren was supposed to be wandering around the neighborhood with his potato salad before waltzing into his father’s house an hour late, his sort-of stepmother silently fuming at the dinner table while the family sat and waited for him. He hadn’t planned on bumping into his childhood crush’s father, and he certainly hadn’t planned on looking so incredibly pathetic in front of Mr. Ral. He can only imagine what Mr. Ral will tell Petra when she sees her dad tonight. Maybe something about how he grew up to be such a loser even though his half-brother managed to graduate with a Ph.D. and is now a successful anthropology professor at the local university. It’s not something that usually gets Eren down, but thinking about it now is making him feel especially miserable. 

Eren’s not sure why the thought of Petra knowing how his life is so embarrassing. He hasn’t spoken to her in years, so her opinion of him shouldn’t matter. And even if she did have an opinion of him, he’s sure it wouldn’t be unkind. Petra had always been nice to him even when he was a kid and just being an annoying third wheel to her and Zeke. When his childish admiration of her turned into puppy love and eventually evolved into a full-fledged crush, she never brushed him off or thought him annoying, although there was a chance that she just never noticed. He couldn’t blame her for that when Zeke, honor roll student and valedictorian Zeke, was always standing right in front of her. He wasn’t even surprised when they started dating. It was inevitable. And when they eventually broke up for some reason that Eren still isn’t quite sure about, Eren knew he’d never be able to compare so he never tried to pursue her. It’s not surprising that he and Petra ended up losing touch. 

As much as he would love to blame Zeke for it (and it would be incredibly easy for him to blame Zeke), he can’t. Maybe it’s strange that he doesn’t harbor a deep hatred for his half-brother. Their relationship has all the makings of a classic sibling rivalry - a complicated family history, stark differences in accomplishments, and affections for the same girl - but Eren could never bring himself to hate Zeke. Even if Zeke’s mother liked to hold all of her son’s accomplishments over Eren’s head, Zeke himself never bragged about them. In fact, he was quite humble and would even offer to help his younger half-brother if he was struggling with something in school. Oftentimes he would invite Eren to hang out with his friends even though their age gap made it a little awkward. He even remembered Eren’s favorite snacks and would make sure they were in supply whenever Eren came over to visit. If Zeke’s mother was an evil Disney stepmother come to life, Zeke was that one fairytale sibling that was kind to the tragic main character, so Eren had no choice but to like Zeke. Even when Zeke broke up with Petra and Eren couldn’t understand why, when Zeke told Eren that it “just happened,” Eren kind of left it at that and accepted that because he couldn’t imagine Zeke doing anything wrong. 

Could Eren be classified with an inferiority complex with regards to his brother? Probably, but most siblings can. Eren would have to challenge whether or not someone with inferiority complexes would admire their brother as much as he does, but they might in a weird way. Eren’s sure that he and Zeke’s relationship would still be complicated even if they didn’t have all the weird history with Eren and Zeke’s parents. 

Eren sighs as he flies down a dip in the road, letting gravity carry him down instead of pedaling. He really doesn’t feel like he’s in the right headspace for this family dinner. Usually, he lets all of that woman’s snide comments ricochet, but his armor has grown weak and he can just imagine her landing the right thinly-veiled insult, her words burying into his skin and hitting right where it hurts. For a moment, Eren considers calling the dinner off with an excuse that will be sure to piss his stepmother off — probably something about how he has to restructure his lesson plan for the upcoming week — but he glances down at the potato salad and bag of baked goods in his bike basket and realizes that he really doesn’t want to eat them all by himself. If he’s going to suffer, he might as well make the rest of his family suffer alongside him. And besides, he’s pretty much already at their house anyway. 

His bike slows as he approaches the white-picket fenced house. He takes the potato salad tub and the bag of baked goods before leaving his bike on the driveway, not bothering to chain it to the fence because nobody would want to steal the old thing he bought from a garage sale anyway. The sight of it lying in front of the house instead of properly locked up will be sure to piss off that woman too, which is just an added bonus. With a sigh, Eren marches up the front steps, shifting the food all on one arm so he can ring the doorbell. The familiar chime rings out, muted from behind the wooden door. A muffled voice mumbles something Eren can’t hear, but he already knows that the speaker has nothing good to say about him. 

The door is thrown open and Eren looks down to see his stepmother glowering up at him, blue eyes a raging storm. “You’re late,” she hisses. She doesn’t even give him a greeting; she just stands there in front of him silently fuming. Behind her stands Eren’s father. As expected, he says nothing to defend his son’s tardiness. The man just stands there, uncomfortable as he quietly observes. 

“Sorry, Dina,” Eren says, squeezing past his stepmother who makes an indignant noise. He dangles the food he brought in front of her face, rolling his eyes when she snatches the bag from him only to wrinkle her nose in disgust when she sees the potato salad. “I brought dessert, too. Do you want me to put it somewhere …?” 

Dina snatches the bag of desserts from him too, still huffing. “We have a guest tonight too. Do you know how rude you’re being?” she says, continuing to nag at him even though Eren has stopped listening to her years ago. 

Eren’s father gently grabs Eren by the elbow, subtly ushering him inside to avoid any more conflict but Eren yanks his arm away. 

“Well, maybe if you told me we were having a guest beforehand I would have showed up on time,” Eren snaps. He sounds angry as he says it, but he really does mean it. It’s one thing to be rude to his stepmother, but it’s another thing entirely to be rude to a guest he doesn’t know. He’d at least wait for introductions before deciding whether or not to show any manners. 

Before his stepmother can say anything more, Eren stomps off into the dining room where Zeke and the guest are waiting. He keeps his head down, cheeks burning, as he pulls out his chair - the one furthest from everyone - and slumps down into it. “Sorry, I’m late,” Eren mumbles, still looking down. 

“Eren,” says a deep voice that Eren recognizes as Zeke’s. Hearing the voice of someone other than his stepmother’s makes Eren relax a bit and he rests with his back against his chair, a little more at ease now. He can hear Zeke’s small smile as his half-brother asks, “Aren’t you going to say hi to our guest?” 

“Uh, yeah. Hi,” Eren says. His eyes flicker upward, first at Zeke who sits across from him, and then at the guest. He looks so quickly at first that he doesn’t register exactly who he’s seeing until he does a double-take, his green eyes widening as they take in the woman sitting there. It’s someone he hadn’t expected to see ever again, much less sitting at his family’s dining table, and he’s so surprised that he almost chokes. For a moment, he thinks it might just be a doppelganger, but there’s no mistaking the soft dimples that appear in her cheeks as her lips curl in a smile. “...Petra?” 

“Hi, Eren.” Petra’s voice is still as gentle and soothing as Eren remembers, the sound of it so honey-sweet that he feels his cheeks bloom a soft pink. There’s so much about her that’s different, but there’s so much more that’s the same. Her hair is shorter now, no longer falling right at her shoulder, but curling right under her chin in a short bob. It’s the same shade of ginger it was when he was a kid. If it’s under the right light, it would probably burn a fiery gold. Her doe eyes are the same pretty amber, sweet and dangerously entrancing at the same time. She’s even dressed differently, her button-up blouse and slick gray trousers such a departure from the casual jeans and t-shirts she wore ten years ago when Eren was still in high school. Eren feels horribly underdressed - his ratty university sweatshirt over a thin cotton tee and his ripped jeans are so shabby in comparison - but a glimmer of silver on Petra’s wrist attracts Eren’s attention to the charm bracelet she wears, jangling with charms that Eren remembers her collecting in her high school days, and he feels a little less like he’s meeting a stranger and more like he’s reuniting with an old friend. 

“How are you?” Eren asks shyly, his smile bashful. 

“I’m well,” she answers, and Eren feels himself melting into her voice the same way he did when he was thirteen. When she smiles, her head tilts ever so slightly to the right just the way it did when he first met her and her dimples deepen into her cheeks. “How are you?” 

“Good,” Eren answers because he doesn’t trust himself to string together more than a word or two at a time. He wonders if she realizes how he’s unraveling at the sound of her voice or if she’s as oblivious as she was the last time. 

“I’m glad,” Petra says, and the warm look Petra gives Eren reignites a flame in the pit of his belly that he had thought he extinguished long ago. Her head tilts a little bit more to the side, her eyes twinkling. “I missed you,” Petra tells him, and Eren finds himself in love once more. 

«────── « ⋅ʚ♡ɞ⋅ » ──────»

There are rules to dealing with your ex-boyfriend after you’ve broken up, Petra knows, but it’s been ten years and she figures that these rules can be bent. So what if the last time she saw Zeke she was broken-hearted, crying in the rain as he turned his back on her? She was younger then, her feelings out of control for someone who didn’t care for her nearly as much as she cared for him. And, sure, maybe it’s terrible that she never received the closure that she deserves, but she can’t hold a grudge against him forever. They work in the same university and cowering behind the nearest trashcan every time they meet doesn’t seem to be a viable option. Petra’s older now and so is Zeke. They’re mature. They can be friends like adults are after they’ve broken up, so the universe should be able to understand her accepting Zeke’s dinner request that evening even if her friends couldn’t. 

She only started to regret her decision when Zeke offered to drive her there after his classes ended - saving gas and the planet, he explained - and she agreed. Although Petra repeatedly told herself that it was a simple family dinner and that such an invitation was extended to Zeke’s other friends on occasion, she found herself sitting impatiently in her office, biting her nails down so close to the quick that her fingers started to bleed. Having to bandage her fingers as she waited did absolutely nothing to soothe her nerves. 

“I don’t see why you’re so nervous,” Levi tells her over the phone. He taught in the mathematics department, but they had met after Petra had nervously stumbled into the wrong building and into his office on her first day at the university. The man has a perpetual scowl on his face, and that very same expression had nearly sent Petra running until she weakly explained that she must have gotten lost and he kindly redirected her to the building her office was located in. She thought that was going to be the end of their interaction until he emailed her shortly after asking if she had gotten to her office alright. Finding him a kindred spirit, he had become her first (and sadly only) companion at the university aside from Zeke. “If you’re friends with him, it shouldn’t be that big of a deal.” 

“Well, it’s just that I haven’t really seen him since we, you know, broke up,” Petra explains, but she doubts that Levi understands. She had told him her history with Zeke a few weeks ago after he asked her why she was so jittery at the faculty luncheon, but he didn’t have much of a reaction. It was sort of nice having someone to talk to that wasn’t as hyperbolically reactive as the rest of her friends, but it was also painfully difficult when Levi didn’t show her any sympathy. 

“You saw him last week when you were at the library to look for reference books,” he reminds her as if it were the same thing. “I don’t know why this dinner has you in a panic. You left me nearly a hundred messages while I was teaching class.” He hadn’t even replied to her texts, the bastard. He had simply left her on read until midnight before sending her a thumbs-up emoji to let her know that he had read her messages, which was not exactly the response Petra was waiting for. 

“This is different!” Petra insists, but she knows Levi will never see it that way. 

“You’re making this a much bigger deal than it needs to be,” Levi says. She can hear him scribbling something on the other end, probably correcting exams for his differential equations classes and marking a poor student’s paper in an abundance of red. “Either cancel or just go to dinner with him. You’ve had family dinners with him even before you guys got together right?” 

“Yeah, but that was back when we were kids,” Petra mumbles, fiddling with the hem of her shirt. 

“Then you’ll be fine,” he tells her. 

“You’re horribly unsympathetic sometimes,” she sighs. 

“If you wanted sympathy, you shouldn’t have called me,” Levi says with a cluck of his tongue, but he chuckles when he hears her groan on the other end. “Really, it’ll be fine. You’re just overthinking it. I’m sure it’ll be fine. And you said the kid will be there, right? His brother, so it’s not as if you’ll be alone with Zeke and his parents.” 

Petra lays with her head on her desk, her phone pressed against her cheek. “Yeah, you’re right,” she mumbles, but her lower lip still sticks out in a pout. The thought of Eren being there, sweet little Eren with his eager puppy eyes and wide smile, does make her feel better if only a little. She probably hasn’t seen him since she broke up with Zeke. She wonders if he’s changed very much. He’d be in college now? Or maybe he graduated. “I haven’t seen him in awhile though. What if he hates me now?” 

“You’re overthinking again,” Levi says. He sighs on the other end. If Petra didn’t know him very well, she would think she was bothering him, but he’s always like this. “Are you going to be okay?” 

“Yes. No. Maybe,” Petra sniffs. She looks sadly at her bandaged fingers and picks at the ends of one of them. “Should I just cancel? Maybe I can tell him I fell down the stairs and had to go to the hospital or something -” Someone knocks at the door and Petra lets out a startled yelp, nearly falling out of her chair because she’s so surprised. When she looks at the door, she sees Zeke’s silhouette against the frosted glass pane. The sight of it makes her want to hide behind her desk. “God, he’s here already!” 

“Too late for you to run then,” Levi says, not even bothering to hide his snickering. He’s such a sadist that Petra doesn’t even know why she’s friends with him sometimes. “Have fun at your absolutely normal dinner with your friend and his family.” Click!

“Asshole,” Petra mutters under her breath before shoving her phone in her bag. There’s another knock at the door — the same long, slow knocks that are a signature of Zeke’s —  and she hastily shouts, “I’ll be right there!” before shoving her papers in her bag and stumbling out of the door, nearly tripping over her own feet in the process. She must look like a mess because Zeke raises an eyebrow at her when she emerges from her office. Petra catches a glimpse of her reflection in the window and winces at her frumpled shirt and the hair falling out of her bun. She mumbles an apology as she pulls the hair ties out of her bun, her hair falling in loose curls around her face. 

“Did I catch you at a bad time?” Zeke asks. 

“No! God, no,” Petra says, inwardly cringing at every word that comes out of her mouth. Even she can tell how awkward her responses sound, a little too quick and desperate. What is she being so anxious for? It’s just dinner with a friend —  an ex-boyfriend, but a friend nonetheless. Petra clears her throat and asks as casually as she can manage, “How are your parents?” 

“Hmm? They’re well, I suppose,” he answers. Everything about him is familiar. He’s grown just a bit taller since Petra last saw him, his shoulders a bit broader and his jawline a bit sharper, but he still wears the same double-bridge glasses and the right corner of his mouth still quirks upward just the slightest bit when he speaks. He even walks the same way, his strides a little too long and quick, and Petra finds that she still has to struggle a bit to keep up. If Zeke notices the same thing about her - how she still wears the same shade of lipstick, how she still has that habit of wrapping her hair around her finger when she’s nervous like she’s doing now, how she bites her lip when she’s not sure what to say next - he doesn’t mention it. “My father’s still working at the hospital with my grandfather. He’s been promoted to director of the orthopedics department.” 

“Oh, congrats!” 

“And you know my mother has been at the hospital now that she doesn’t have to worry about me anymore,” Zeke says. It’s strange how casually he says this, as if he doesn’t remember that the last time he spoke about his mother to Petra was when they were still together. “She really missed being in the OR. Says she’d rather be doing surgeries all day than taking care of me.” 

“It’s nice that she can go back to it.” She nearly stumbles over a step but catches the railing before she can. When she looks up again, Zeke is already on the sidewalk and she hurries after him, a little breathless. “And Eren?” 

“Eren?” Zeke seems a little surprised by the question although Petra doesn’t know why. He leads her to a car - a slick Mercedes with a shining blue exterior and tinted windows that don’t quite match Zeke’s academic profession —  and opens the car doors with a click. 

“Your brother,” she clarifies as Zeke walks over to the driver’s side and slips into the car. She opens the passenger car and slides into the seat beside Zeke, setting her bag down next to her feet. The door swings shut behind her. “He’s coming to the dinner too, right?” 

Zeke turns on the engine and the car comes to life with a pleasant hum. “Most likely,” Zeke says as he checks the side and rearview mirrors before pulling out of the parking space. He even drives the same way, his arm resting on the side with his hand tapping against the door while one hand is on the wheel. Just watching him makes Petra’s chest feel tight. 

“Ah, that’s good. I haven’t seen him in so long,” Petra says. For some reason, knowing that Eren will also be there makes her feel a little more relaxed about the dinner. “Is he still in college? I think he should have graduated by now.” 

“He graduated a little while ago. He’s teaching now. Still on probation, but he says his colleagues like him so he’s not too worried about getting tenure after the probationary period is over.” He slows the car to a stop at an intersection and leans over, fiddling with the radio dial. He sets it to the jazz station and the sound of smooth brass and relaxed percussion fills the car. 

Somehow, driving down the streets with Zeke is far more nostalgic than it ever was when Petra drove on her own. Some nights Petra drove home by herself, and all it ever felt was lonely. Maybe it’s the familiarity of having Zeke beside her like when they were teenagers, driving back home after watching a movie downtown or returning from a basketball game at their high school. 

Petra doesn’t ask any more questions about Zeke’s family. She figures she can catch up with the rest of the Jaegers when she sees them at dinner. Instead, she asks Zeke about his classes and finds that conversation with him comes more easily after she stops stumbling over her words. He tells her a little bit about teaching anthropology (“Far less painful than you think it would be, at least when the kids aren’t just taking it to fulfill their core classes,” he says), his plans for the upcoming week (“It’s midterms, but the students should be fine if they actually look at the study guide.”), and the butterfly exhibit opening up at the museum downtown (“I’m thinking of putting it up as extra credit. Who knows, they might actually look at the other exhibits while they’re wandering around.”). Petra also fills him in on her own life, mumbling about how she still has to make the answer key to her own midterm and expressing interest in the butterfly exhibit Zeke mentions. 

They pull up next to Zeke’s house, the very same one he grew up with. Not much has changed from the outside. The white picket fence is a little worn and the rose bushes have been replaced with peonies. The house is still the same shade of cream, but Petra is sure that the Jaegers had it repainted over the summer like they usually do. She looks up at the second-story window where Zeke’s room should be and vaguely wonders if it’s still his room or if he’s moved out and hasn’t mentioned it yet. 

Walking up the brick steps to the door is a bit surreal. Petra doesn’t realize just how silent she’s been until the chime of the doorbell startles her and Mrs. Jaeger opens the door. As with most of Zeke’s family members, Petra hasn’t seen Mrs. Jaeger since she broke up with Zeke, but she had an amicable relationship with her. She can’t recall Mrs. Jaeger ever being angry, so she’s surprised when Zeke’s mother opens the door with a terrible scowl on her face. 

“Mom, you remember Petra,” Zeke says, moving aside so that Petra can enter first. 

The scowl quickly slips from Mrs. Jaeger’s face, replaced with a smile that Petra is more familiar with. “Petra, of course! I haven’t seen you in ages,” Mrs. Jaeger says, her voice strained. She waves Petra and Zeke in, shutting the door gently behind them. “It’s nice to see you again.” 

“Likewise,” Petra mumbles. She looks at the kitchen doorway where Zeke’s father leans and gives him an awkward wave. The man, just as silent as he was when Petra was young, gives her a polite smile and a nod in acknowledgment. 

“Sorry, we’re a bit late,” Zeke apologizes as he shrugs off his coat. He walks over to the dining room, Petra and his mother trailing behind him. “A student wanted to talk to me and it took a bit longer than I thought it would.” 

“No need to apologize! Eren hasn’t arrived yet anyway. He’ll probably be late. Again.” There’s a harsh tone in Mrs. Jaeger’s voice that Petra hasn't heard before. When she looks up, she sees Zeke’s mother hovering around the table and arranging dishes, the same polite smile on her face as she does so. “Your brother, of course, didn’t bother to send a text to notify us that he’d be late.” 

Petra wonders if Mrs. Jaeger usually speaks about Eren with such disappointment in her voice. Maybe she had always spoken about Eren like this and Petra had never been around to witness it or maybe it’s something that developed while Petra was away. Whatever it is, Zeke and his father seem used to it. Zeke merely shrugs, pulling out his phone to flip through his phone while his mother continues to mutter about how disrespectful her stepson is. Mr. Jaeger continues to stand at the doorway, not bothering to join them at the dining table, his eyes fixed on the carpet. He doesn’t bother to defend his son. 

“Maybe he’s busy,” Petra says, interrupting Mrs. Jaeger mid-rant. She feels rude for speaking while Mrs. Jaeger is talking, but sitting in silence while Zeke’s mother speaks ill of Eren doesn’t feel right either. All eyes are on her now - Mrs. Jaeger a little surprised, Zeke with an eyebrow quirked upward as if in amusement, and his father with a look that’s almost relieved. Petra clears her throat and continues. “He’s a teacher, right? It must be difficult teaching so many children every day — making the lesson plan and everything. Maybe texting slipped his mind. He’ll probably be here soon.” 

God, she hopes Eren will be here soon. Her cheeks are starting to burn bright red and she’s thinking that perhaps speaking up might not have been the best decision. 

“Ah, you’re probably right.” Mrs. Jaeger seems a little more composed now, perhaps remembering that they have company over. She settles down in the chair across from Zeke and flashes a pleasant smile at Petra. “He can be quite forgetful of these things. Of course, you’d never worry your father like this. You’ve always been so responsible.” 

Has talking with Zeke’s mother always been this difficult? Petra’s head is starting to spin, unsure of what response would be appropriate. She feels as if she should defend Eren, but she doesn’t want to make things awkward either. In the end, she smiles awkwardly at Mrs. Jaeger as if accepting the woman’s compliment and reaches out for the glass of water in front of her, raising it to her lips before she can say anything else that she might regret. 

“Dear, come sit next to me,” Mrs. Jaeger calls. She gestures for her husband to join them at the table and Mr. Jaeger stiffly walks over from the doorway before taking a seat at the head of the table. Mrs. Jaeger folds her hands on the table, her gaze still on Petra. “How have you been, Petra? We haven’t heard from you in a while. How long have you been back?” 

The series of questions leave Petra tongue-tied and unsure of how to answer. It’s so strange how casual the Jaegers can be about asking after her, like she hadn’t been such a large part of their lives — or at least Zeke’s life — ten years ago before disappearing completely. As if they didn’t know the real reason she hadn’t kept in touch. She’s not sure if she’ll ever be able to act as oblivious as them. 

“Er, I’ve been back for a while now,” she replies. She bites her lip when she sees the look of surprise on Mrs. Jaeger’s face. When she glances over at Zeke, he doesn’t look back at her. He’s returned his gaze to his phone screen, ignoring her. Nervously, she laughs. “I guess Zeke didn’t tell you, but I’m teaching at the same university he is. A few undergraduate English classes and then a graduate course on nature and romantic poetry.” Petra doesn’t know why she feels a lump at the back of her throat or the sting of tears at the corner of her eyes. She nibbles at her lip again, looking down at her lap so that she doesn’t have to look at Zeke or his family. She doesn’t have a reason to feel hurt or upset. Maybe Zeke was busy and didn’t have the chance to mention it to his parents or maybe it just slipped his mind. It isn’t a big deal. 

“Oh, that must be nice!  Who knew you two would be working together after all these years?” Mrs. Jaeger says. She subtly pushes the cheese plate on the table towards Petra, gesturing for her to take one. 

“Mmm,” Petra says, nodding as if she agrees with Mrs. Jaeger. It’s not as if she’s wrong. Petra certainly didn’t know any of this would happen. She knew some of it would — getting her degree, teaching at a university, eating dinner with Zeke’s parents — she just hadn’t predicted other things like Zeke breaking up with her, not speaking with him for ten years after knowing him her entire life, or having to pretend that she’s okay. 

Petra reaches for a cracker and a spread of raspberry goat cheese and shoves the entire thing in her mouth, hoping that she won’t have to answer any more questions. 

“The university is nice,” Zeke’s father murmurs. It’s the first time he’s spoken all night. The sound of his voice startles Petra, but the other Jaegers don’t seem too surprised. “It’s near the museum too. Very convenient.” 

“Ah, the museum!” Mrs. Jaeger clasps her hands together and looks at Petra expectantly. Petra nearly chokes on her cracker out of nervousness. “Have you been there yet?” 

“Er, not yet,” Petra says hastily, wincing at the pain in her throat. She takes a quick sip of her water to relieve it. “I haven’t really found the time, I guess.” 

“Oh, you should absolutely go!” says Mrs. Jaeger brightly. Petra had never thought Mrs. Jaeger was one to love museums, but there’s probably a lot about the woman that Petra doesn’t know now. All Petra really remembers about the woman is that she stayed at home during the daytime and worked at the hospital at night. She’s bound to have found other ways to occupy her time now that she doesn’t have to worry about Zeke anymore. 

“You sound as if you really enjoy it.” Petra nibbles at another cracker. She feels as if she should smile right now, but she’s not sure if she’s able to. “Are there any exhibits you would recommend?” 

“Oh, they’re all good! The staff especially …,” Mrs. Jaeger gushes, but her voice begins to trail off. Her eyes flicker over to Zeke as if waiting for a sign to proceed, but her son pays no attention to her. He simply reaches over for an almond on the cheese plate and pops it into his mouth. His mother’s smile tightens and she continues, “The butterfly exhibit that’s opening soon should be exquisite!” 

Petra looks from Zeke to Mrs. Jaeger. Aside from Mrs. Jaeger’s forced smile, Petra really can’t tell what’s wrong, so she puts on a false smile of her own and nods. “I know. Zeke was telling me about it on the ride here.” 

There’s a long and awkward silence. Zeke puts no effort in speaking and neither does his father, who still sits and stares at his lap. Only Mrs. Jaeger and Petra seem to be putting in any effort to pick up the conversation, both trying to appear calm as they search for some common ground to work with. Instead, the doorbell rings and Petra swears she hears a sigh of relief escape Mrs. Jaeger’s lips. 

“It seems Eren has finally arrived,” Mrs. Jaeger says, her chair scraping across the floor as she gets up from the table. As she turns to leave, she flashes Petra an apologetic smile. “I’m so sorry you had to wait so long.” Petra is about to tell her that it wasn’t a problem, that she didn’t mind waiting (even if it was a lie), but Zeke’s mother has already disappeared into the next room with Zeke’s father following silently behind her. 

For a moment, Petra wonders if she should try to talk to Zeke so more. It’s not that the quiet bothers her, but she’s never felt comfortable sitting silently next to others unless she was completely comfortable with them. Ten years ago this would have been fine, but now sitting with Zeke beside her without saying a word is making her skin crawl and her throat dry. She glances at him from the corner of her eye, trying to gauge his interest. 

Zeke doesn’t seem to be bothered by the silence at all. He’s still scrolling through his phone, occasionally reaching out to pluck a cracker or another almond from the cheese plate. If he’s fine without any conversation, Petra figures she shouldn’t bother him. She settles down with her back against her chair rather unhappily and tries to occupy herself another way. 

Petra tries not to eavesdrop on the conversation going on in the other room. First, she stares down at the lace tablecloth, gazing at the delicate pattern until the floral designs are burned into her corneas. Mrs. Jaeger’s voice begins to drift into the dining room, her tone just as cold and harsh as it was when she spoke about Eren earlier this evening. Another voice floats into the room as well, a voice like Eren’s but a bit deeper and rougher than Petra remembers. As the two continue to talk, Petra finds herself straining to listen to the conversation, but she can’t quite make out the words. The words exchanged don’t sound incredibly pleasant though. 

“...if you told me we were having a guest beforehand I would have shown up on time,” Eren hisses as he walks into the room. He’s taller than he was when Petra had seen him last — probably as tall as his brother if not taller — but he walks with his head down and doesn’t seem to notice Petra seated at the table even as he pulls out a chair to sit down. Without looking up, Eren mumbles, “Sorry, I’m late.” 

Zeke looks up, his expression amused. “Eren,” he says, setting down his phone for once. He rests his chin in his hand, mouth quirked upward in a smile. “Aren’t you going to say hi to our guest?” 

“Uh, yeah. Hi,” Eren says, mumbling into his lap. His eyes flicker upward, first at Zeke and then Petra, but he doesn’t really register who Petra is until he takes another glance. His eyes are huge like a doe’s. He’s always had big eyes even when he was a child, large and green like gemstones. He’s grown into them more since the last time Petra has seen him, but they’re still enormous, growing wider as he recognizes her. His mouth falls open in surprise. “... Petra?” 

She can feel her lips curling in a smile. “Hi, Eren.” 

Eren smiles back at her, a little nervous but a lot more relaxed than he was when he first arrived. He’s still shy when he smiles, looking up at her before glancing down at his lap again. “How are you?” He sits up straighter in his seat, no longer slouching. 

“I’m well. How are you?” 

“Good,” Eren answers.

“I’m glad. I missed you,” Petra tells him, and she means it. 

His smile is a little wider now and Petra feels the most relaxed than she’s been the entire night. It’s nice to know that, despite everything, at least Eren hasn’t changed and she feels less awkward being at a Jaeger family dinner after ten years of estrangement. 

Mrs. Jaeger puts down a tub of what looks like a potato salad on the table, opening the container with a frown. “At least you didn’t come empty-handed,” she comments wryly. 

Eren winces but doesn’t say anything. 

Petra sits up. “It looks, um, delicious.” It doesn’t. It looks like a pile of mush and not at all like anything edible, but Petra begins to spoon some on her plate anyway out of politeness despite the look of alarm on Eren’s face. “Eren, your brother told me you started teaching recently. Where do you teach?” 

“Just, um, down the street. Not really elementary … it’s a daycare,” he says distractedly as he watches her help herself to his potato salad. Eren hesitates for a moment before taking the spoon from Petra and switching their plates. He does it absentmindedly, almost as if he doesn’t realize what he’s doing until he notices everyone looking at him peculiarly. Flustered, he explains, “It’s not, ah, I don’t think it’s very good. So.” As if to prove his point, he puts a heaping spoonful of it into his mouth, gagging on it as he swallows it down, and scrunches his face up in disgust. 

Mrs. Jaeger looks rather smug as Eren chokes. “I’ll just put this away then,” she says, removing the tub of potato salad from the table. She gestures for Petra to help herself to the other food on the table. “Help yourself to everything else, Petra.” 

“Er, thank you,” Petra says. She does feel bad about not eating the potato salad, but Eren looks pretty relieved. Because she’s talked Zeke’s ear off in the car and doesn’t know how to carry on a conversation with the Jaeger parents, she decides to continue her conversation with Eren. “Daycare seems like it would suit you. I bet you’re great with kids.” 

“I’m alright,” Eren mumbles as he pushes the potatoes back and forth on his plate, but he’s hiding a smile on his face, secretly pleased. He’s never been that good at hiding his emotions, which Petra thinks is an endearing trait. “Teaching at a university is probably harder.” He freezes for a moment and then hurriedly adds, “Your dad told me you work as a professor now. I ran into him before coming here. He mentioned that you taught English …?” 

She doesn’t say anything for a moment, casting a side glance at Zeke. She thought Zeke would have mentioned that they were working at the same university, but maybe it never came up in conversation between the brothers or they just weren’t as close as they were before. Forcing a smile on her face, she nods, “Yeah, I teach English, but I wouldn’t say teaching university is more or less difficult than handling a daycare. They have their own challenges, right?” 

“Yeah,” Eren replies, voice soft. His smile grows wider and, after Petra asks him about what it’s like teaching at the daycare, starts animatedly talking about his students. He seems very endeared towards a young girl named Gabi, a very mischievous but sweet troublemaker, and her companion Falco, a young boy that often has no choice but to be dragged into all of Gabi’s shenanigans. 

Talking to Eren makes the rest of the dinner go by easily. He’s always been easy to talk to even when they were teenagers and she was dating Zeke. Sometimes she would wait at the Jaeger house and talk with Eren while they waited for Zeke to come back from baseball practice. Eren was always so animated when he talked, using his hands and sometimes bouncing up and down his seat when he got excited. He still does that now as he talks about his work at the daycare, listening intently whenever Petra or even Zeke exchange their own stories about teaching. It makes her feel as if the past ten years hadn’t really happened, like Zeke and Eren had been a part of her life the entire time. 

“Oh, I brought dessert,” Eren says brightly. Before Mrs. Jaeger can say anything, he gets up to collect the paper bag on the kitchen counter and plops it on the dining table. He pushes it closer to Petra. “Your dad gave me some while he was closing up his shop.” 

She laughs. “I eat too many of these as it is,” Petra says, but she plucks an almond cookie from the bag. Her teeth sink into the cookie, savoring its subtle nutty flavor on her tongue, and sighs. “Don’t tell my dad. He won’t let me eat anymore when I get home.” 

“Your secret’s safe with me,” Eren grins. 

Petra peers into the bag. “Did he give you any chocolate croissants?” She looks over at Eren. “Those are still your favorites, right?” 

Eren looks surprised. “Ah, yeah,” he replies, blinking. “You remember?” 

“Of course, I remember,” she snorts. She manages to find a pain au chocolat and places it delicately on Eren’s plate. It’s a little smooshed from the ride here, chocolate spilling out of its side, but Eren still looks at it hungrily. “Why wouldn’t I?” 

Zeke leans forward. “I like the lemon bars. Let me know if there are any in there.” 

She laughs and actually does manage to find one, but it’s a lemon-lavender bar. Zeke assures her it’s fine, picking off the little bits of lavender that are on the top of the bar. They eat like that for a moment and Petra feels an overwhelming wave of nostalgia. It’s probably unhealthy to yearn for the past, but Petra wouldn’t mind if things somehow ended up the way they were before. 

When their dishes are scraped clean and the conversations begin to fade away, Zeke pats down the corner of his mouth with a napkin before announcing that they should stop for the night. He has papers to grade tonight, he explains to his parents who nod understandingly. The wooden legs of his chair scrape against the carpet as he gets up from the table and Petra slides out of her own seat, ready to follow him. 

“Ah, Petra,” Zeke says, pausing like he’s just remembered. He looks at her, head tilting slightly. He’s stopped by the door to the living room, his hand resting on the doorframe. “Do you mind calling an Uber to pick you up? I’d drive you home myself but …” 

“I …” Petra blinks, feeling like a deer in headlights. If she looked around, she would see that the rest of the Jaeger family has a similar expression. She’s not sure why she feels so surprised. Maybe it’s because she had expected him to drive her home, but maybe that was too much to ask of him after he had taken the trouble to drive her here in the first place. It’s not even that far of a drive to her house, but it’s probably too cumbersome for Zeke, who’s busy with grading papers and preparing for tomorrow’s lectures. There’s an awful lump in her throat like she had swallowed an egg whole, but Petra forces a smile on her face as she begins, “Sure, let me just call my dad -” 

“I’ll take you home,” a voice says suddenly. Everyone turns to see Eren standing up from his chair. At first glance he looks angry, but Petra blinks again and there’s only concern on his face as he collects his jacket and walks over to Petra. He shrugs it on and smiles down at her, his expression a little apologetic. “Er, you don’t mind riding on a bike, do you?” 

Petra has to lift her head to look at Eren and she wonders when he had gotten so tall. It must have been after she left for college. “No, that’s fine,” she replies numbly, too shocked to really think about it. She shuffles silently after Eren, mumbling a brief “thank you” when he helps her into her coat. 

“It was lovely having you over again, dear,” Mrs. Jaeger says to Petra, a smile pasted on the woman’s face as she saw the two out. She doesn’t say anything about Zeke not offering Petra a ride back. “Do come again sometime.” 

“Of course,” Petra says, although the promise feels empty. She’s not sure if Mrs. Jaeger notices or even cares because the woman shuts the door in her face before Eren and Petra are even out in the driveway. It’s not a cold gesture, but it’s a change from the days when Mrs. Jaeger would wait until Petra was almost out of sight before shutting the door and disappearing into the house. 

Petra shoves her hands into the pockets of her coat and follows Eren down the driveway, watching as he runs to the bike he had carelessly discarded on the ground before entering the house earlier. Embarrassed, Eren hastily picks up the bike, brushing it off and mumbling something about how he had been in too much of a hurry earlier to properly lock up his bike. Petra assures him it’s fine. She’s only half-listening anyway. 

“You can just sit here,” Eren says, patting a padded seat on the back of his bike. He throws a leg over his bike easily and looks at Petra, waiting expectantly. 

She hadn’t objected to the ride home before, but now she looks at Eren’s vehicle of choice skeptically. “Are you sure you’ll be able to pedal with me on it? I’m a whole other person.” Petra hovers beside the bike, but she doesn’t get on. 

“Yeah, it’s fine. It was fine when my boyfriends were riding in the back, and they’re a lot heavier than you,” Eren replies. It takes him a moment to register what he just said and then his face begins to color, cheeks glowing pink even in the dim moonlight. “I mean my ex-boyfriends. I rode around with my ex-girlfriend too, but she was really tiny too. She was …” He probably would have babbled on and on if Petra hadn’t sat down. 

“Your exes?” Petra asks, eyebrow raised. She hadn’t really thought about Eren dating, but it’s funny to think about now. She doesn’t remember if he ever dated anyone when he was in high school. She probably shouldn’t tease, but she can’t resist grinning at the boy and saying, “It looks like you were busy in college.” 

“Not that busy. Just … probably as busy as your average college student,” Eren mumbles under his breath, face still flushed. He gestures at Petra’s hands and then makes a motion around his waist. “You can … around me if, you know, you’re comfortable with it.” 

“Oh, right.” She leans forward and wraps her arms around Eren’s waist and wonders briefly how someone so tall can have such a thin waist. “Do you remember the way to my house?” she asks. 

“Of course,” Eren says. “It’s not that far from here.” 

For some reason, the way Eren answers makes Petra feel warm. Maybe it’s just the heat transfer from resting her cheek on his back. She closes her eyes, feeling the wind rush around her as Eren bikes her back home. 

It feels so comfortable, clinging onto someone so familiar and breathing in Eren’s scent, something like pinewood and a little bit of peppermint. He feels strong too, sturdy like a redwood tree. Petra doesn’t know why she doubted his ability to bike with her additional weight. He’d probably be fine having someone twice her weight in tow. She experimentally gives Eren’s waist a little squeeze. It must have been too sudden of a squeeze because they come to a screeching stop, Petra’s face slamming against Eren’s back and the two of them nearly go flying. 

“Oh, ouch,” Petra says. One arm is still wrapped around Eren’s lithe waist, but she raises a hand to rub her stinging face. “That hurts.” 

“S-sorry!” Eren stammers. He twists around to get a good look at Petra, forehead wrinkling. “I didn’t mean to stop so suddenly I was just … surprised.” He brings his hand down to where Petra’s arm is hooked around his waist, but he snatches his hand away as soon as their skin brushes as if he’s been burned. “Sorry!”

“It’s fine,” Petra assures him. Her nose is throbbing dully, but it’s not bleeding. “It’s my fault anyway. I was just surprised. You’re a lot bigger than you were the last time I saw you.” 

“I’m alright,” Eren says with a shy laugh. He pushes off on the bike and starts for home again, pedaling easily despite Petra’s weight. He doesn’t startle when Petra leans against him again, her cheek rubbing against the cotton of his hoodie. His breath hitches a little when Petra wraps her arms a little tighter around his waist, but it goes unnoticed by her. 

“Were they nice?” she asks. Eren makes a confused noise, and she can’t help but smile. Clarifying, she says, “Your exes. Were they nice?” 

Eren pedals in silence for a while before responding. “Yeah. They were nice.” 

“That’s good.” Petra sighs against his back, not noticing the way he shivers as if he can feel her breath on his skin. “You deserve to date nice people.” 

Petra might have imagined it, but she thinks she hears Eren say something in reply. He says it quietly, though, and the wind carries it away too quickly for her to hear. She straightens her back, lifting her head from where it rests against Eren’s back, but he doesn’t repeat himself and she doesn’t ask. Maybe it’s just one of those things that are meant to be spoken aloud but not heard by anyone. 

They don’t speak much the rest of the way home. Petra figures Eren is having enough trouble biking with two people and holding a conversation would only tire him out more. She just lets herself rest against him, watching as they pass streetlight after streetlight. It probably would have been more convenient to call a Lyft or an Uber, but Petra thinks accepting Eren’s bike ride isn’t bad either. It saved her from having to wait awkwardly for her driver to find the house while Zeke’s parents waited for her to leave. 

She wonders if she should have gone to dinner in the first place. Maybe Zeke had only invited her out of politeness, but she had taken it to mean more than it did. She’s stupid to think that arriving at the Jaeger house meant that things could go back to the way things were. It was noticeably tense in the house. At first, Petra thought it was because of the strained relationship between Mrs. Jaeger and Eren, but now she’s not so sure. It’s not as if Mr. and Mrs. Jaeger had met her with open arms. They hadn’t been hostile, but they were polite in the way that people were polite to house guests and not in the way they would be to a childhood friend of their son. God, she’s so stupid. She should have just declined Zeke’s offer politely and never spoken to him again since he was obviously content with not speaking with her for ten years. 

Burying her face in Eren’s hoodie, Petra gives him another squeeze. Eren doesn’t brake this time. He just lets out a surprised “oh!” and falters for a bit, bike slowing, before picking his pace back up and continuing on their way. 

“We’re almost there,” Eren tells her. As he approaches Petra’s house, the bike begins to slow before stopping completely in front of the driveway. When Petra lifts her head, Eren is looking at her, smiling. “Are you alright?” 

“Yeah,” Petra nods. She gets off the bike and pats down her windswept hair, brushing some stray locks out of her face. She manages to smile back at Eren. “Thanks for the ride back. I hope it wasn’t too out of your way.” 

“It’s fine.” Eren sits at his bike, his smile a little lopsided. He looks as if he’s about to say something, but nothing comes. It’s only when Petra turns around towards her house that he opens his mouth. “Hey, Petra?” 

Petra’s hand rests on the gate of her wooden fence, just about to open it. She looks at Eren, watching as he fidgets with the handle of his bike. “Yeah?” 

“Did Zeke …?” His voice trails off and Eren’s looking everywhere except at her face. He nibbles on his bottom lip and Petra wonders what he’s so nervous about. His expression looks pained as if he’s scared whatever he has to say will hurt her, but Petra’s not sure why it would. After a moment, Eren swallows and forces a smile on his face. “Did Zeke tell you that … I work near your university?” 

“You do?” 

Eren nods. He looks a lot less nervous now, his shoulders relaxed. “Well, it’s not that far by bike.” 

“Really?” Petra hums. “I should come visit you some time then.” 

“Oh, you don’t have to -” 

“Or you could visit me?” she suggests. 

He blinks. “I can?” Eren asks. “Is that really okay?” 

Petra almost laughs. “Of course. Why wouldn’t it be? You should just let me know beforehand if you’re coming,” she tells him. She walks over, pulling her phone out of her purse and handing it to him so he can add his number. “Text me or call me. I might not respond right away because I might have a faculty meeting or a lecture, but I’ll get back to you as soon as possible.” 

“Oh, alright then,” Eren says. He types away on her phone, handing it back to her as soon as he’s finished. He watches with wide green eyes as Petra sends him an emoji — a simple “Hi, Eren! It’s Petra 😊” — and looks back at her with a grin. “I’ll come visit sometime.” 

“That’d be great,” Petra says, and she really means it. “Thanks again for the ride, Eren. I really appreciate it.” 

“It was no problem,” Eren tells her. He waves as walks through the gate and up the steps of her porch. He’s still waving when she opens the door and turns around, his smile a little goofy but cute at the same time. “Have a good night!” 

“You too,” Petra says before shutting the door gently behind her. She takes a peek out the window and sees Eren still on the sidewalk with the bike. He stands there with a pensive look on his face before pushing off his bike and riding off into the night. Petra watches until he’s a tiny speck down the road. When she blinks, he’s gone. 

Petra finds her dad waiting for her in the living room, sleeping because he can’t stay awake for very long after dinner. In his lap sits a half-finished crossword puzzle. Petra smiles affectionately at her father before pressing a soft kiss on the old man’s brow. 

“I’m home,” she whispers as her father begins to stir. 

“Ah, Petra,” says her father. He looks at her, eyes still bleary with sleep, and gives her a drowsy smile. With a hand, he pushes up the glasses that were slipping off his nose during sleep. “Did Zeke drive you home?” 

Her lips press into a thin line. “No. He was busy,” Petra replies, trying to keep her voice as even as possible. “Eren took me home instead.” 

“Eren?” her father repeats, not seeming to remember the name. 

“Zeke’s younger brother,” Petra reminds him. She leans against the back of her father’s armchair as she tries to describe the half-brother. “He was a few years younger than me. Brown hair, big green eyes, kind of gangly.” 

“Oh, Eren,” her father says, nodding. Petra’s not sure if he actually remembers or if he’s just being polite, but then he suddenly says, “I saw him earlier this evening before I was closing up shop. He’s very polite. He’s a nice boy.” 

Petra leans over to rest her head on her father’s shoulder while her arms lay folded on the back of the armchair. She thinks about her ride home, how it could have been cold and miserable and lonely. And maybe her thoughts were all of those things, but the ride wasn’t. She can still feel the warmth Eren emanated from underneath his hoodie, how comforting it was to have someone to hold.

“Yeah. He’s a nice guy,” Petra says softly. 

#eretra #petra ral #eren jaeger #zeke jaeger #big au #ilyitros #i'll love you in the rain or shine series #modern au #snk #damn i love food so much!!!

[sunnypogue]

post grad - part one (jj maybank x oc)

pairing: jj maybank x original character

synopsis: she’s your modern day college graduate: good at school, bad at the whole after-school thing. recent grad margo jean walker was told her whole life she was destined for greatness - straight a’s, top of her class, full ride to columbia - until she graduated. now, she’s hiding out in her grandmother’s outer banks estate, attempting to figure out what her “life plan after college” is supposed to look like. on her journey to self-realization, she finds herself enveloped in the life of jj maybank - a high school dropout, bumming with his childhood friends in a beat up shack on the coast. two people, one town, zero plan.

warnings: drinking/cursing - probably an eternal warning with my writing.

a/n: straight up haven’t written a thing in fandom in like, five years. jj maybank (a perfect character) has singlehandedly dragged me out of my fic writing slump - that’s one inspirational motherfucker.

part one brought to you by that one opening scene where jj was mowing a lawn shirtless. cinematic gold.

anyways, this is a classic “gifted girl is told she’s gifted her whole life and then she gets out of school and realizes she has no idea what the fuck she’s doing so she runs from her problems” meets her antithesis + his pals. there will definitely be some stronger warnings down the line, if you catch my drift. 

I’m also 1000% team “JJ’s name is short for John because it was too confusing having two John’s around so they compromised with JJ and John B” thanks.

pogues + kooks featured are all 21+. it’s called post grad for a reason, folks.

enjoy xx.

_______________________________________________

post grad

--

        “Margo, if you lay out any longer, you’ll freckle up. Your nose is completely covered!”

         Margo hummed, wriggling her body enough to face in the general direction of her grandmother’s voice. She blindly stuck a hand out from her chaise chair, slapping aimlessly until she felt the familiar bill of her worn baseball cap, before dropping it onto her face.

         “Is that better, Mimi?” Her voice, rough from disuse, was muffled from behind the cap.

         “Slightly. It would be nicer if it wasn’t that damn Yankees hat.”

         Margo grinned, hearing the exasperated amusement in her grandmother’s voice. Although a long time resident on the coast of North Carolina, her Mimi still carried a torch for her hometown Boston teams, often recounting fond memories of nosebleed seats at Fenway, or listening to Bruins games on the radio. She claimed one of the reasons she remained on the Outer Banks is that she couldn’t bear to show her face back in Boston, knowing her granddaughter was a Yankees fan.

         Margo couldn’t help but poke fun at her any chance she got.

         “Sorry Mimi. Would you rather I freckle?”

         Mimi peered over the rims of her cat-eye sunglasses, observing from a safe, shaded perch. “You know, neither of these things would be a problem if your mother hadn’t married your father. You’d be freckle-free and a Sox fan, without a doubt.”

         Margo ripped her cap off, squinting towards her grandmother. “My heart would always find their way back to the Yanks. And I think my freckles give me character!”

         Mimi pushed her sunglasses back up, glancing back down at the dog eared book in her lap. “You got the attitude from your father too.”

         Margo grinned, white teeth splitting across her warm face. “Now that’s a bald faced lie, Mimi. You know exactly who I got the attitude from.”

         A loud laugh burst from the older woman, setting her forgotten book to the side. “Yes, unfortunately I do. I was hoping I could pawn another one of your traits off to your father’s side, but I suppose I have no one else but myself to blame for your…,” She paused, looking for the proper words, “…quick wit.” She drawled, her muddled Boston accent blending with the Carolina.

         It was Margo’s turn to laugh, a similar burst to her grandmother. She swung her legs off the chaise chair, before standing and padding over to her grandmother’s shaded spot.

         “I think I got my affinity for gin & tonics from your side too.” Margo quipped, grabbing Mimi’s empty cup. “Refill?”

         Mimi sighed, glancing at the glass tumbler in her granddaughter’s hand. “I suppose. Lighter on the gin this time though, dear. You about knocked me out with that last one.”

         Margo laughed, turning towards the screen door that lead inside, “I got my heavy hand from you, too!”

         She could feel her grandmother’s eyes roll from behind her.

         Margo made her way to the wet bar, a familiar and friendly sight in her grandmother’s home. She quickly went through the motions of making two gin & tonics, mixing Hendricks with Fevertree, before topping with two limes – the only true way to enjoy a G&T. As she moved to retreat back to her sunny spot on the chaise, her stomach grumbled, reminding her it was time to eat something, or her heavy hand might knock her out too.

         She pivoted towards the kitchen, setting the tumblers down on the island before venturing into the walk-in pantry to grab a snack. As she exited the pantry, her peripherals caught something moving in her front yard, relatively unusual for a Saturday afternoon. She turned to face the floor to ceiling windows in the foyer, hands clutching an unopened back of pretzel sticks, before squinting to make out the figure on her Mimi’s front lawn.

         Outside her grandmother’s home, was a man, mowing the space rather methodically. He was tall and tan, and Margo could almost describe his shirtless upper half as glistening, like a bad paperback romance. The arm of his silver aviators were clenched between his teeth, as he pushed the mower through the thick grass, muscles flexing.

         The sound of crushed plastic startled Margo from her gaze. She swiped her forearm across her face almost instinctively, confirming she wasn’t actually salivating from watching the mystery landscaper at work. Tossing the now-crushed pretzel sticks to the counter, she quickly grabbed the melting drinks, and hustled outside to her grandmother.

         “Took you long enough, Margo Jean. I thought college would have made you more efficient in your cocktail-“

         “Mimi.” Margo interrupted, clutching a drink in each fist. “Mimi, who – who IS that outside your house?”

         “What?” Mimi startled, sitting up in her seat. “What do you mean who’s outside my house?”

         Margo sat next to her grandmother, passing her a drink. “The guy mowing your lawn – who is he? I’ve never seen him before.”

         Margo watched as her grandmother sighed, settling back into her seat. “Oh, you mean John.” Her grandmother raised the cup to her lips, taking a long sip.

         “What do you mean, John?!” Margo squawked. “I’ve been living here for a month and I’ve never, ever seen him before!”

         Mimi peered over her sunglasses again, looking at her flustered granddaughter. “Darling, are you alright? You look flushed. Maybe you should stay out of the sun.”

         “I’m fine, Mimi. It just surprised me, that’s all. I wasn’t expecting to see a random man in our front lawn.”

         Mimi hummed. “Honey, he’s harmless. He’s been helping me out for a couple years now – a local boy, from town. He’s usually here on Thursdays, while you’re at work.”

         “Oh.” Margo took a long sip of her drink, relaxing a bit. While she was partially worked up by how upsettingly attractive the landscaper was, she had to admit she was a bit frightened by the sight of a random man on her grandmother’s property. It had been just her and Mimi at the estate for the past month, and a new face was a bit shocking.

         “You know, I think he’s about your age. Sweet boy, always offering to help around the place after your grandfather passed.”

         Margo placed a comforting hand on Mimi’s arm, sensing the distress in her voice at the mention of her deceased husband. Mimi patted Margo’s hand briefly, before standing and clapping twice.

         “Come! Come on, this is a great opportunity.” Mimi flitted into the house.

         Margo scrambled to her feet. “What do you mean, a great opportunity?”

         “A great opportunity to meet some people your age. I know it hasn’t been easy, but John is just the nicest boy, and I think it’ll be good to have a familiar face other than mine on the island.”

         “No! Mimi, I don’t need more familiar faces.” Margo ran to catch her grandmothers’ thin arm, slowing her progression towards the front door. “Please, I know plenty of people here. I have you, and Jennifer, and Mr. Picard. That’s all I really need, for now.”

         Mimi pulled a face. “Sweetheart, I love you dearly, but that was a pathetic showing right there. You’re going to cite your boss and the neighborhood gate guard as your friends?”

         Margo matched her Mimi’s face, scrunching her nose. “Look, I never said they were close friends. But I know people! I know people. I don’t need more people.”

         “Nonsense. Now, come on, let me introduce you. Oh, don’t give me that face, Margo Jean, you won’t be betrothed to the guy after a simple introduction.” Mimi firmly grasped Margo’s hand, tugging her towards the front door. “Now, be nice. Don’t give him any of that New York attitude you love to display towards everyone in this town.”

         “Mimi, I thought we agreed my attitude came directly from you. Don’t blame my – hey!” Margo stumbled through the now-open front door, coming to a graceless stop on the first porch step.

         The mower came to a stop, with the still-shirtless operator turning towards the front door.

         “Mrs. S! Anything I can help you with?” The landscaper yelled from the far edge of the lawn.

         “Oh, no John, thank you! Do you mind coming over here for a second?” Mimi gripped Margo’s shoulders tightly, as she felt her granddaughter jerk away.

         “Jesus, Mimi, you didn’t even let me cover up.” Margo hissed, her eyes trained forward on the male ambling his way up the long path to the front door.

         “Oh stop, you two are practically matching with your outfits right now.” Mimi glanced at her granddaughter’s light blue swimsuit, before looking at John’s outfit, consisting of black shorts and a pair of ratty boots. “Even playing field.”

         Margo huffed, crossing her arms across her stomach. “This is not how I wanted to be –“

         “What’s up Mrs. S?” John asked, stopping at the bottom of the steps. His silver aviators were hooked into the waistband of his shorts. “Everything alright?”

         “Oh yes John, everything is fine. I just wanted to introduce you to my granddaughter.” Mimi squeezed Margo’s shoulders. “She’s in from New York and staying with me for a while.”

         John laughed, his sharp teeth settling into an attractive grin as he glanced at Margo. “And how the hell did you end up with a granddaughter from New York? She not going to let me put up the Sox flag for you this year?”

         Mimi snorted. “Margo’s a good girl, she would never deprive her grandmother of such a thing. We try to forgive her for her New Yorker-tendencies – she didn’t stand a chance with her father’s early indoctrination.”

         “You know, I am right here. Mind if I speak for myself?” Margo huffed.

         Mimi squeezed Margo’s shoulders again, continuing her conversation, “Anyways, John, this is Margo Jean. Margo Jean,” Mimi paused, gesturing to the boy. “This is John.”

         Margo stepped forward, shaking her shoulders out of her grandmother’s death grip before sticking her hand out. “Hi, John. Margo Jean Walker.”

         He grinned, grabbing her hand in his, joining the two for an uncomfortably sweaty handshake. “Margo Jean Walker. That’s a lot of name for one girl.”

         Margo released her grip, looking down her nose towards him. “Well you don’t have to call me all three. Margo works just fine.”

         His grin intensified, as he matched her stare. “Margo Jean Walker.” He repeated. “Alright. I’m JJ. No one around here calls me John. Well, except Mrs. S.”

         “It’s a nice name, John, I don’t see why all of you kids have to go by names that aren’t your given names. It makes things confusing for old biddies like myself.” Mimi looked at the pair in distain. “Margo’s always been Margo – the consistency is nice.”

         “Margo Jean Walker.” JJ hummed, eyes dancing over the girl. “Consistent New Yorker.”

         Margo and Mimi let out their matching laughs simultaneously. “Yeah, that’s it.” Margo giggled. “Consistent New Yorker.” She popped her hands on her hips, offering the boy a toothy smile, her eyes squinting. “Well, it was nice to meet you, JJ-not-John. Thanks for helping Mimi out. Saves me from having to figure out…that.” She gestured towards the idle mower.

         He followed her eyes, glancing back at the machine he left at the top of the lawn, mentally snorting at the thought of the bikini-clad girl pushing the mower across a half-acre of grass. “Yeah, it’s probably for the best that – oh.” He turned back as he spoke, just catching a glimpse of her cheeky bikini bottoms and long hair, as she slipped inside.

         Mimi tutted, waving a dismissive hand in the direction of her granddaughter. “Don’t mind her, she’s just bent-out-of-shape because of the move. She’ll warm up more, eventually.”

         JJ sighed, sliding his sunglasses back on. “No problem, Mrs. S. Need anything else done around here? Just about finished with your lawn.”

         Mimi patted her frosted blonde hair, quickly glancing over the state of her lawn. “Looks great, hon. Nothing else today, but I’m thinking of expanding my garden in the backyard.” She took a long sip of her drink, before continuing. “Are you available to take on a project this summer?”

         JJ faltered, thinking about the time constraints a project would have on his summer. He had to consider things – his friends, his surfing, his three other jobs. “Uh, well –“

         “I’d rather you take the job, John,” Mimi started. “I don’t particularly want strangers around my house, especially if my granddaughter’s going to be frying herself poolside all summer,” Mimi scoffed. “Her poor skin.”

         JJ paused, considering the pros of working in the company of Mrs. S’s leggy, bikini-clad granddaughter all summer. “I mean, that sounds –“

         The older woman shoved her cat-eye sunglasses into her hair, taking three steps down her porch to be eye level with the blonde, who remained stationary at the bottom of the stairs.

         “I’ll pay you double.”

         A tan hand flew out, forearm adorned with tattered bracelets, freckles and the occasional scar. “You’ve got it, Mrs. S.”

         Mimi smiled, primly shaking the boy’s hand. “Great. You’ll start next week, Saturday morning?”

         JJ suppressed a groan, trying not to think about the morning boat ride he’d undoubtably be missing out on. “Sure, sounds great. How long do you think it’ll –“

         “A couple weekends, maybe. I won’t hoard you the whole summer, John. God knows the other ladies in the neighborhood would riot.” Mimi grinned, patting his cheek. “And they already don’t like me very much, so let’s try to keep them on my good side, alright?”

         JJ exhaled, relieved he wasn’t signing his summer away. “Absolutely, Mrs. S, although I can’t think of a single reason why someone wouldn’t like you.” He finished, offering a shit-eating grin towards the older woman.

         She barked out a laugh, flapping a hand around as she turned to open the front door and grab her purse. She pulled a handful of bills out of her envelope wallet, pressing them into his palm. “Here, you kiss-ass. For today and a cash-advance for selling your soul to me for a couple weekends.” She grinned as his blue-eyes widened, staring at the money. “Now get out of here, enjoy the rest of your day.”

         JJ’s feet faltered, as he started walking towards the lawn mower, his head still looking back at the front door. “Th-thanks, Mrs. S! Yeah, I’ll see you next weekend. Thank you! Thanks!”

         Mimi smiled, wiggling her fingers at the boy as he rushed to put the mower away. “See you Saturday, John.”

#outer banks #jj maybank #obx #obx jj #outer banks fic #outer banks imagine #outer banks fanfiction #rudy pankow #jj maybank x reader #jj maybank x oc #outer banks netflix #obx netflix #post grad

[sadprose-auroras]

‘Too Late’ - John DeaconXFem!Reader (Part 1)

A/N: This can absolutely apply to Joe Mazzello’s portrayal of Deacy – whatever floats your boat. It’s also heavily inspired by the structure of the movie Love, Rosie. Also – with regard to the chronology of the story, and characterisation of real people, it’s pretty inaccurate! Pls just take everything with a grain of salt. It’s meant to be an AU.

 I decided to split it into two parts cause it was much longer than expected. Read part 2 here!

Read my other works here

----------

You attempted to suppress the shaking in your hand as you clutched your glass of champagne, composing yourself with a deep breath, forcing a smile.

“I’ve known John,” you began to speak slowly, for fear of falling apart, “for as long as I can remember. We were inseparable after I poured a whole tube of paint on a boy who stole John’s crayons in Kindergarten,” you smiled weakly, grateful for the muffled laughter scattered across the room in response to your lame anecdote. You quickly averted your eyes away from John’s new wife smiling at him, grasping his hand.

“We… we have been through so much together. And I never thought I would be giving a speech as Best Man at John’s wedding.” This threatened to choke you up; you would never admit that you always secretly wanted to be the one marrying him. Luckily, the wedding guests took this to mean you were surprised at the unconventional situation, considering you were a woman.

“I have never seen you as happy as you are with Veronica.” You locked eyes with John, a sweet smile on his face, his eyes glassy. You couldn’t help but wonder what the cause of his tears were; the inevitable sentimental emotions of the most important day of his life, or something else entirely. You snapped yourself out of a dangerous thought path as quickly as possible.

“I would hate to see anything jeopardize that,” you said softly, biting your lip. You were, of course, trying to convince yourself of this.

“I wish you both a lifetime of happiness together. Nothing warms my heart than to see my oldest and dearest friend with such a wonderful woman. Everyone, please join me in raising a glass to the bride and groom. Congratulations you two.” You raised your champagne, hand still shaking. To mask this, you took a large sip and sat down quickly, awkwardly staring at the tablecloth in front of you to avoid meeting eyes with anyone. You knew you couldn’t conceal the pain behind your eyes.

The worst part was, you truly were happy he found someone to make him as happy as he was. You cared for him more than anybody else in the world, and, objectively, it wasn’t fair of you to want them to break up. If you met someone else in your position, you would tell them to get over it and move on. She truly was a great woman, and you hated the small part of you that viewed her as competition, as if women could only see each other as threats. Damn patriarchy. Despite your feelings eating you up inside for years, you had to suppress them. For John’s sake, and for Veronica’s sake. They truly were a great couple, and you despised yourself for harbouring feelings towards him.

It pained you to admit, even to yourself, but a small part of you always thought John and yourself would end up together. You thought he was the great love of your life. From the first moment you realised you were soul-crushingly in love with him, as opposed to just caring for him as your best friend, you never had eyes for anyone else. You truly thought you had been lucky enough to stumble into a clichéd rom-com; inseparable childhood friends fall in love with each other, and live happily ever after. But that wasn’t this story.

6 years earlier

 “Y/N, I think you need to slow down,” John laughed, trying to grab your drink from your hands. “You have to take it easy, this is your first time drinking.”

“Nuh-uh,” you giggled, taking another large gulp and wincing at the burning sensation in your throat. “Tonight, my friend, we are getting hammered. Don’t be a bore, it’s my eighteenth birthday!” You ignored the flip-flop in your stomach when John rolled his eyes jokingly, smiling brightly at you. You had never seen anybody so beautiful. That’s why, when you finally turned eighteen, you were glad to be able to legally drown your sorrows in excessive amounts of alcohol. It was about time, and you were reaching your breaking point; you had been in love with John for two years.

Shaking your head at your thoughts, you smiled back at him, once again ignoring the lurch in your heart. “Let’s dance,” you reached out your hand, dragging him onto the dancefloor of the club.

----------

A couple hours went by, filled with countless drinks, excessive giggling, yelling to be heard over, quite frankly, annoying music, and flashing lights that gave you a pounding headache. You tried to ignore this, along with the sweat dripping down your face. You were sure you looked disgusting. However, you didn’t care, because you were having so much fun with your best friend. The two of you couldn’t stop laughing, at anything and everything, and, of course, were showcasing your best dorky dance moves.

Eventually, your head began to spin, and you yelled, “Let’s sit down for a while,” dragging John by the wrist to a table in the corner. Unfortunately, as you tried to sit down, you missed the chair, falling flat on your bum. The both of you burst out laughing, John feeling slightly guilty. To compensate for this, although still smirking to hide his grin, he offered both of his hands to you. You gratefully accepted his hands, allowing him to pull you up. You stumbled forward, collapsing into him, chest to chest, due to your current state of consciousness.

Now, neither of you were laughing. You were suddenly hyper-aware of John, and everything about him; his hot breath on yours, the feeling of his hands on the small of your back, steadying you, and his intense gaze. Spurred on by your drunkenness and lack of inhibitions, you wrapped your arms around his neck, glancing down at his lips while licking yours. You slowly began to lean in, your heart beating rapidly. You had never wanted anything more than to be as close to him as possible.

“Y/N,” John breathed, taking a step back. “We can’t. You’re, um, we’re –“ He was cut off by you collapsing to your knees, vomiting.

----------

You woke up with a throbbing headache, the morning light too harsh for your sensitive eyes. You groaned, head spinning as you sat up, rubbing your eyes. You glanced over to see John sitting on the other end of the bed, smiling knowingly at you.

“Morning,” he chimed, “how you feeling?”

“Like death,” you scoffed. “Jesus Christ, did I really drink that much?” You racked your brain for memories of the previous night. You remembered drinking a lot, dancing a lot, and laughing. A lot. Then, oh god. You tried to kiss John, and he rejected you. You quickly decided to suppress this forever, for the sake of your friendship, hoping he would either forget himself, or assume you had forgotten; a decision you would come to regret for a long time.

“You threw up on my shoes,” John laughed, the corners of his eyes crinkling adorably. Shit. He was so beautiful, it wasn’t fair. Little did you know, he was thinking the exact same thing about you, and the only reason he didn’t kiss you the previous night was because he wanted to do it right; not in a club when both of you were shitfaced.

“Oh my god! I’m so sorry Deacy!” you groaned, crawling over to him and hugging him, ignoring the pathetic jolt of electricity you felt when he gripped you back, only quickly.

“Your breath stinks, get away from me,” he giggled, pushing you away. You rolled your eyes, trying to hide the pit in your stomach from this all too familiar rejection, despite its playful nature.

2 years later

You twirled the phone cord around your finger, readjusting your position on the couch. Your pregnant belly was causing you so much discomfort; you weren’t sure how much longer you could endure this. Especially as you were five days overdue.

“Yeah, yeah, work’s the same as always,” you lied; you were on maternity leave.

“So there’s really nothing else new? We haven’t seen each other in like 10 months, there must be something to report on!” John teased you. You bit your lip at this; of course there was something new. But, for reasons you couldn’t explain, your pregnancy felt like a betrayal to him.

“Honestly, I’m just feeling a bit lonely,” you sighed, “I miss you.”

“I miss you too, Y/N. But hey, I’ll see you on the next stop of our tour, right?” John’s band, Queen, were touring the UK. You were so proud of him for pursuing his passion and gaining such a strong audience for his music.

“Of course –“ You were cut off by a blinding pain in your abdomen. Holy shit, you were in labour.

“Y/N, are you okay?” John asked, concerned. You couldn’t help but let out a wince at the ridiculously painful contraction.

“I – I have to go,” you quickly hung up. It was time.

----------

As you held your baby girl for the first time, you had never felt so close to another human being. You never imagined you would have such strong maternal instincts, and you never planned, or wanted, to have children. Yet, all you wanted was to protect the baby in your arms. You couldn’t control the tears that streamed down your face, loud sobs escaping your lips; you had never felt so fulfilled or happy. You’d always thought the love of your life was a man, but now, you realised your baby girl was the love of your life. Despite the absence of her father, you knew that as long as you had each other, everything was going to be okay. The only thing missing in your life was John’s friendship, and your irreplaceable closeness.

As if on cue, you heard an all-too familiar voice; “Hi, Y/N.” You glanced up, your vision blurry due to the tears clouding your eyes. But you could pick him anywhere.  

You made eye contact with the nurse in the room, she smiled knowingly, and left the room.

“John,” you breathed. You covered your mouth with your hand, choking up again. “What are you – how? How’d you know?” He bit his lip, hiding a grin, as he walked towards you and perched on the edge of the bed. He was staring at your baby girl in amazement.

“I knew something was going on when we spoke on the phone, so we came here a few days early. I went to your house, and it was unlocked, so I went in and saw the cot. I put two and two together.” He looked ashamed, he was avoiding eye contact with you, fiddling with the blanket. “I hope I’m not overstepping.”

You shook your head rapidly, reaching out and clasping his hand. “There’s no one else I’d rather have with me.” He let out a sigh of relief, smiling back at you.

“Come here,” you beckoned, letting him sit next to you, his arm wrapping around your shoulders.

“John, this is Annabel. Annabel Beth (Y/L/N).” The most loving, curious look overtook John’s face as his voice softened. “Hi, Annabel, gorgeous.” It felt like an invasion of privacy to see him in such a raw, vulnerable state. Annabel opened her wide eyes, glancing up at John. He wiggled his fingers at her, and she gazed at him in wonderment.

“I think she likes you,” you giggled. You glanced up at him, your faces dangerously close. Your heart was beating rapidly, accompanied by an overwhelming sense of contentment and fulfilment. Perhaps it was both of these things, especially as you felt as though everything in your life suddenly made sense and you were no longer so lonely, that caused you to do something stupid. You began to lean into John, breathing heavily. You got so close that you were nose to nose. Suddenly, John turned his face away. Only slightly, but it was enough to make your heart sink. You cleared your throat, readjusting yourself and Annabel so you weren’t leaning in to John so closely.

“So, um, what happened with the tour?” you asked, trying to keep your mind off the fact that John changed it to be here with you.

“Don’t worry, we didn’t have to cancel any shows,” he said, after all this time still knowing what you were thinking, better than yourself. “The boys were fine with coming here a little early. I sent them out to explore the city today.”

“Thank you,” you breathed, tearing up again. Damn hormones. “I can’t believe you did that for me. You didn’t even know what was going on.” Your head was spinning; would a friend act like this? To any outsider, you were the picture of a perfect family. Except you weren’t.

“I’d do anything for you, Y/N,” he said in a small voice, kissing the top of your head delicately, then Annabel’s, making you laugh softly.

----------

“Freddie, Brian, Roger, this is Y/N. Y/N, these are the guys.”

“Nice to finally meet you,” you grinned, shaking each of their hands.

“So glad to meet you too, darling,” Freddie kissed your cheek. “We’ve heard so much about you.”

“Really?” you laughed, glancing over to John and raising an eyebrow. He shrugged adorably, making your cheeks flush, much to your shame.

You then introduced the boys to Annabel; thankfully, they were all great with her, and engaged in conversation and laughter over tea and biscuits. You asked them about their rockstar lives, and they asked you about your life, without prying. You tried to avoid certain topics, such as the absence of Annabel’s father and your own parents.

When you tended to Annabel and the guys cleared the dishes and cleaned up, despite your protests, you could, unintentionally, overhear their conversation from the next room.

“Deacy, she’s amazing. Remind me, why aren’t you two together?” a voice, who you assumed was Brian, asked. You froze, hating yourself for listening. But you couldn’t go in there now; you were never good at hiding your feelings from John.

“Because...” John began. There was a pause, and your breath hitched in your throat as you listened intently, your head spinning. “She doesn’t feel that way about me. We’re just friends, it’s never been anything more.”

“Sounds like you want it to be more.” Roger interjected bluntly.

“I don’t know,” John sighed. “We’ve been friends for so long. I’m so confused. I mean, I know I love her, but in what way?”

#john deacon x reader #john deacon #freddie mercury #roger taylor #brian may #queen #queen band #queen imagines #fanfic #yes i use deacy and not deaky #sorry if that makes u comfortable #joe mazzello #joe mazzello x reader

[jjongorable]

Getting to Know You

pairing: jongkey rating: PG-13 word count: ~2.1k

Jonghyun is anxious on his wedding day. Not because he’s scared, or because he is eager for the day’s events. It’s because he knows as he stands at the alter that the face he will see walking down the aisle will be that of a complete stranger. And yes, he is oddly okay with it.

1 / 2 / 3 / 4 / 5 / 6 / 7

ao3

“So, have you done it yet?”

Kibum doesn’t look up from the stills he’s diligently examining. “Huh?”

“Have you and Jonghyun fucked yet?”

He places yet another photo in the wouldn’t-even-use-if-I-was-on-my-deathbed stack. “No.” Taemin doesn’t even so much as get an eyeroll…yet.

“What? It’s been like three months! You’ve given out quicker than that. Plus, you guys are...”

“I swear if you finish that sentence I’m leaving.”

“…married.” Kibum’s shoulders slump and he huffs out an exasperated sigh, moving to start packing his belongings that are strewn all over the table. Honestly, he’s surprised Taemin has held out for this long. Although, Kibum reasons, this is the first time they’ve been able to actually meet up for a coffee date since the wedding. Which is why his threat to leave seems to get Taemin to behave.

“No. No, Kibum wait. I just…why not?”

Kibum shrugs, furrows his eyebrows.

He hasn’t thought about it.

“There’s no rush to. We kind of have the rest of our lives for that.”

“But, you’re insatiable, Kibum.” Taemin tries to hide his bratty grin behind his venti non-fat caramel macchiato (disgusting) and Kibum doesn’t have the desire to glare at him.

“Shut up.” He tries to refocus his attention on his task. He’s got to have these picks ready for the editor by noon tomorrow. “Anyway, we’re doing other stuff. Like, yknow, getting to know each other.”

Taemin mocks Kibum in a voice that sounds nothing like his and Kibum wonders for a second why his best friend is so childish. Being three years younger does not excuse him either.

“You guys have the rest of your lives for that.”

Kibum adds two pictures to his must-use stack. “Taemin, when was the last time you had sex?”

“Last night, why?”

“When’s the last time you were in a relationship?”

There’s an uncharacteristic pause before Taemin doesn’t really answer. “What does that have to do with anything?”

“It has everything to do with everything.” Kibum makes sure he’s got Taemin’s attention, is looking him dead in the eyes. “Tae, look, I won’t spill some bullshit about relationships you already know. But things happen when they happen, and frankly, I’m not in the practice anymore of trying to speed things up that have no business being so fast in the first place.”

“I’m just gonna nod and pretend like I understand.” But there’s something in Taemin’s voice, in his eyes and in the way his fingers curl around his drink that make Kibum think that he understands perfectly.

“Goodness, Tae. It’ll happen when it happens. And trust me, you’ll be the first to know. Happy?”

“Yes.”

Kibum’s gaze slides from Taemin to the clock right behind him. It’s five till, which means…

“Are you gonna ignore me once he gets here?”

Kibum almost flinches at the amount of sadness he hears in Taemin’s voice.

“I –” He stutters over his thoughts, his words.

“I know he works here, Bum. The change of scenery was very sudden for someone who’s all about keeping traditions.”

“I’m not about ‘keeping traditions.’” Taemin scoffs. “And, no I won’t ignore you Taemin. This is our time.”

“Next, you’ll invite me on your horse and we’ll ride out into the sunset.”

“Taemin stop it.”

“You stop it Kibum! When’s the last time we even talked outside of some random ass text you decide to send in the middle of the day when the thought that you have a best friend actually occurs to you?”

“Taemin, I just got married. I have work, and it’s my busiest season.” Kibum hears Taemin mumble something like it hasn’t stopped you before and Kibum knows his excuses are lame. He knows that if he absolutely wanted to, then he could’ve made time for Taemin. The thing is, he did forget about him sometimes. In the rush of summer photoshoots and Jonghyun, he had forgotten about his best friend since childhood. And he felt like a jerk. He doesn’t take kindly to being made feel like a terrible person, even if it is his fault.

Kibum watches Taemin angrily finish his drink, slam the empty cup down on the table. He’s waiting for Kibum to continue. Come up with a better explanation maybe? Anything but the shit he’s been spewing.

Kibum watches Jonghyun walk through the entrance of the pastry shop that has his family name out front. Knowing that he only chooses to work so lowly in the chain because he enjoys the company of the customers.

Kibum watches Taemin follow his gaze and roll his eyes.

Kibum just watches and wonders how he’ll be able to patch up the last three months with Taemin.

“Speak of the devil.” Taemin barks out when Jonghyun is within reasonable distance of their chosen table, having nearly ran over after spotting them. If Jonghyun hears the malice in Taemin’s voice he doesn’t show it, face only the picture of surprise and happiness.

Kibum watches Jonghyun’s gaze flicker between the two of them, staying on Kibum always a beat longer before finally just choosing to stare. There’s a tiny smile on his lips that Kibum loves to map with his eyes. He thinks he could take breathtaking photos of Jonghyun’s lips if the man ever let him, if he ever asks.

“What are you guys doing here?”

“Just leaving.”

Kibum watches Taemin rise out of his chair, watches Taemin give Jonghyun two friendly pats on his shoulder. He watches Taemin’s lips form the words long time no see. He watches Taemin leave.

He watches Jonghyun take Taemin’s empty seat.

He watches Jonghyun’s eyebrows knit in worry.

“Bummie? You okay?”

He watches the clock tick the seconds by.

He watches a group of customers walk in.

He watches and watches while thinking and thinking.

“I’m the shittiest friend on the planet.”

He speaks and watches his world tip sideways, if only metaphorically.

…

Taemin picks up on the fourth ring. Kibum knows it’s cause the kid wants to make him sweat.

“What fucker?”

“Uh,” Kibum shoots a nervous glance to Jonghyun sitting next to him on their bed. He’s reading a book, trying to give Kibum the sense that he’s not listening in on the phone call. But the book is upside down, this was Jonghyun’s idea, and Kibum is already drowning and it hasn’t been five seconds into the call yet.

“Hello? Bumshit?”

At least Taemin hasn’t hung up.

Kibum kicks Jonghyun to get his attention and waves his phone dramatically once Jonghyun looks at him. Amidst all his anxiety, Kibum notes that Jonghyun looks exceptionally handsome in glasses. Jonghyun motions for him to just say something.

“I’m gonna hang up asshat.” Kibum grabs Jonghyun’s shirt in his free hand, almost frightened by the fact that Taemin still sounds very angry with him. It’s been like seven hours! Tae’s never been mad at Kibum for so long. And Kibum doesn’t know what to do with the thought that this time he might’ve royally fucked up. Normally these situations are reversed between the two.

“Wait, Tae. Don’t hang up.” Kibum’s eyes are wide and he’s practically on top of Jonghyun now, silently asking the man for help. Jonghyun mouths apologize idiot. Kibum’s quite done with all the name calling at this point.

“Tae, I’m sorry. It’s just –” Kibum is interrupted by a very rough pinch to his side. He looks down at Jonghyun confused and a bit upset because it hurt and it was hard enough to leave a bruise.

“Don’t you dare make an excuse. Just apologize! And say you won’t do it again. And mean it.” Kibum finds Jonghyun’s exasperated whisper voice to be very…

“It’s just what?”

“Nothing, It’s just I’m sorry. Really, really sorry that I’ve been such a shit best friend and forgot about you for three months and then tried to make excuses when I should’ve made time and not let Jonghyun and work replace how valuable you are to me and –” Kibum stops to catch his breath, but looking at Jonghyun’s incredibly wide smile isn’t helping. And neither is the man’s hands that are rubbing slow circles into his side as Kibum still sits perched in his lap.

“And?”

“Goddammit, Tae. What else do you want me to say?”

“Say you’ll leave Jonghyun and marry me instead.”

Kibum blanches. Then he freezes, mouth agape.

He can’t be serious.

But he sounded 525% serious.

Beats pass with Kibum’s head completely empty of any thoughts, with Jonghyun’s worry growing, with Taemin staying completely quiet on the other end of the phone.

And then Kibum hears laughter, loud, raucous laughter from Taemin. But he still can’t get himself to breathe, waiting on Taemin’s next words.

“Oh my god, Bumshit, I wish I could see your face right now! Oh god, I was kidding! I was just joking; you can relax. I can practically hear your mind exploding!”

“Taemin you ASS!” There’s more laughter, and Kibum collapses into Jonghyun’s chest. He’s way too emotionally drained right now to do much else. Jonghyun’s heartbeat is soothing, if not a bit too fast. Kibum’s head lolls with his breathing.

“It’s okay, Kibum. I understand about everything. I just didn’t think I wouldn’t see you for three whole months and just. Yeah, you could do a little better for your best friend. Our relationship is important too.”

“Just as important, like we’ve always said.” Kibum nuzzles his way into Jonghyun’s neck. He’s so warm.

“Like we’ve always said.”

“Thank you, Tae.”

“Good night, Bumshit.” Kibum smiles when he can pick out the fondness in Taemin’s words. “And don’t call me so late anymore, I’d think you were looking for a hookup.”

“I’m hanging up now Taemin.”

“Good!”

“I love you.” Kibum notices Jonghyun’s neck twitch and he moves, positions himself so he’s looking at Jonghyun’s face. But the other’s eyes are closed, and if Kibum hadn’t been super aware of his heartbeat and breathing, he’d think Jonghyun was asleep. Kibum pokes his cheek, gets him to open his eyes.

They don’t blink.

“I know.”

Kibum doesn’t know who hangs up, but the line goes dead and he just tosses his phone on the nightstand next to Jonghyun. They don’t look away from each other.

Kibum watches Jonghyun swallow. Feels his fingers tapping a nervous rhythm into his sides.

“So,” Kibum watches Jonghyun pause, collect his thoughts, unsure of what to say, “that went well.”

Kibum lets the silence stretch out a bit as he brings his hand up to trace Jonghyun’s cheek down to his neck, even further to his collarbone exposed by his wife beater. “Yes, it did.”

“You should sleep.” Kibum notes how Jonghyun sounds out of breath, how his fingers are pulling at the hem of Kibum’s nightshirt.

Nervous. Cute.

“Just me?” Kibum is quite enjoying playing with Jonghyun. His gentleman. It’s almost child’s play how Kibum maneuvers through Jonghyun’s slips.

“We. We should sleep.” Kibum nods his head, fingers mapping the lines that make up Jonghyun’s neck, his chest, down to his ribcage.

“Do you want to sleep?”

“I want to kiss you.” Jonghyun barely gets the words out as Kibum’s finger circles his navel. He feels Jonghyun’s stomach tense. And he smiles up at Jonghyun in a way that he hopes looks completely innocent.

“Then do it.”

Jonghyun kisses Kibum not at all how he expected. Kissing Jonghyun is usually slow, sickeningly sweet, almost proper.

But the way Jonghyun loops his arms around Kibum’s neck, pulls him down at a speed Kibum can’t quite catch up with, fixes their mouths together angrily…it makes Kibum a little dizzy, a little surprised, a little heated.

Kibum kisses him back with just as much intensity, brings his hands up to run through Jonghyun’s hair, runs his tongue along Jonghyun’s bottom lip, melts at the way Jonghyun gasps into his mouth.

Sleep my ass.

Kibum pushes himself closer, kisses Jonghyun deeper, basks in the way Jonghyun tries to merge their bodies into one. They really can’t get any closer.

As an afterthought of revenge, Kibum pinches the side of Jonghyun’s neck the same time he bites into his upper lip and pulls away.

Kibum watches Jonghyun come to, eyes fluttering open, breaths slowing down.

“Shit Bummie.”

“Watch your mouth, gentleman.”

Jonghyun’s eyes never leave Kibum’s lips and his hands are still locked tight around Kibum’s neck.

But neither of them move anymore, knowing where this might lead if they continued.

So, Kibum lets Jonghyun calm down fully before pecking his lips, a chaste kiss that Jonghyun tries to lengthen, deepen. But Kibum slowly reaches to remove Jonghyun’s hands from around his neck and kisses each knuckle instead, even sucking a few because, well, he’s a tease. Then he rolls off Jonghyun finally to rest beside him on their shared bed.

“We should sleep, Jjong.”

The soft fuck he hears makes Kibum smile.

#lmao this is the longest cause i wrote it recently #shinee fic #shinee fanfiction #shinee au #my writing #arranged marriage au

[proseofpresence]

Mountain Pose: I’m Practicing Alone

I’m practicing aloneness.  If the physicians ahead of me in the Starbucks line, with their buff arms and tight bums, merely practice medicine after 20 years of grueling training, I can practice changing 20 years of dating preoccupation: I love myself.  I am happy with my company.  As I wait for my tall almond milk latte, I imagine being surrounded in white light and focus on beauty: the pungency of oily beans, the hiss of frothing milk, the gratitude for monks who first pressed beans with water.  I try not to look to see if the tall, dark haired doctor- whom I imagine is as bold as his Sumatra roast- is married. Though he’s the embodiment of beauty and checks out my legs as I stride by, I love myself.  I am happy with my company.

I practice on my mat in a yoga class of married, ectomorphic women in designer stretch pants. Just as a I begin to count my breaths from here to nirvana, chatter rambles between my ears about the petite blond next to me wearing a traceable two karat, breathing heavily during Downward Dog: Does she make those sounds during sex? How did she get a man to commit?   I forgive myself by polishing judgment from the diamond in my mind.  I love myself.  I am happy with my company.

Over organic salads, craft drinks, and beach outings, my married girlfriends dish trite, collective advice, which annoys me enough to induce listening.

“Stop looking.  Joe and I met when I was just happy being by myself.  Just love yourself.  When the time’s right, he’ll show up.  Get off online dating.  Let him find you.  Let go.”

Easy to say when you’re spooned nightly by a slightly rotund, balding, legal devotee.  

Ironically, none of my friends know how to love themselves, as evidenced by their addictive habits, childhood anecdotes rife with trauma, and palpable grief for Netflix characters.  

“If we truly loved ourselves, we wouldn’t desire partnership at all,” I tell them.  

Yet, like the time my college dormmates challenged me to down an entire bottle of Boone’s malt liquor and take photos in my padded pushup with strangers (what happened to that disposable camera?), I give in to peer pressure: this non-doing is another form of doing I have yet to try, so I give it a go.  Desiring to not desire is still desire, my superconscious says, while I consciously roll my eyes at myself, only to hug and rock my singledom from side to side in Knees-To-Chest.  I love myself.  I am happy with my company.    

The only people who don’t give me advice are my parents who, after 43 years of marriage, attest to the power of sensuality.  They met at a high school dance in the late 60s.  As he places Abbey Road on the turntable and sips on chianti, Dad insists, “Mom got fresh and tried to hold my hand on the dance floor.”  

Mom vehemently denies this and rolls her eyes, as she makes him a plate of cheese, olives, and Italian bread, assuring me that, “Your father pursued and wooed and never let me put my hand in my pocket for anything.”  

I smile duteously for the thirtieth time, secretly wondering how I was conceived from such a fairytale, and why I’m relegated to swiping left on Randall, who posts self-aggrandizing shirtless photos in bed and trophies an illegally caught grouper above his head.  Perhaps it’s college karma fifteen years late.  

Staring out the glass sliders to see Dad hosing Mom’s orchids and birds of paradise, I realize no one’s touched my hand in five months. No one’s asked me to dance since last year, when I went out with the red bearded foreman (what was his name again?) who swiped right on me and, subsequently, on my left breast on the dance floor.  A few dances and drinks in, our make out session was unexpectedly interrupted by his ex, a high barfly.  

“You’re so pretty,” she slurred and close talked as her jaw pounded in fast rhythms, “why are you with him?”  

Something in the way she moves attracts me like no other lover, something in the way she woos me...  

Sadness upsurges unexpectedly in my chest.  To avoid crying, I hold a pitted olive between my fingers, stare at its roundness, pop it in my mouth, and revel in its firmness.    I love myself.  I am happy with my company.

At 38, attending a six-week English graduate program on a remote Vermont mountain requires a balance between downsizing and realism.  I’m too old to capsize my mid-maintenance lifestyle into one suitcase, and I’m too lazy to drive from Florida.  Hence, the purchase of an auto train ticket.  I only allow myself two variations of the essentials to fit into three plastic crates and a large garment bag.  I’m sure 19th Century waggoneers seeking squatters’ rights set similar parameters, considering they never knew when a barn dance would occur. This reasonable rule, of course, does not pertain to t-shirts, jewelry, vitamin supplements, or coffee pods.  These items are a form of self-care and facilitate self-love, I tell myself, while trying to puzzle together high heels with a NutriBullet and facial steamer. I love myself.  I am happy with my company.

We introduce ourselves- the “singletons” as the smiling attendant calls us- while the dinner car speeds past hidden inlets and mobile homes of the southern Carolinas.  The two Baby Boomers, about ten years apart in age, are pulled backward by the train, a reversal that would cause me to lose my braised chicken dinner.  John, the older, smaller statured gentleman, sits across from me; and Kent, whose left eye bulges with blood post ocular surgery, sits across from Lin, a disheveled, yawning anesthesiology resident who mumbles as she speaks.  I worry, as she talks the most excitedly and clearly all meal about “having a person’s autonomic functions in [her] hands,” that she might pass out in the middle of the procedure or our dinner.  After Kent starts talking about his drug experimentation in the 60s, which interests Lin because she “aced pharmacology,” I engage John in the hopes that Kent stops obsequiously staring at my breasts.  

With a slight smile, John tells me he’s a Snow Bird returning to upstate New York for the summer until his upcoming trip to Norway, Sweden, and Finland.   Grateful that he’s well-traveled- to divert me from making eye contact with Kent, who’s tried to get my attention a few times- we chat about our favorite places.

“Bora Bora is all it’s cracked up to be,” he says staring out the window in a moment of fond reminiscence.  “I took a cruise to islands in the area with an elite line: only fifty people on the ship.   I got to know everyone.  Good for a single guy.  The food was fabulous.  Not anything like this menu, which hasn’t changed in the eight years I’ve been taking the train.  Pharmaceutical sales- though I was technically a drug dealer- was good to me.”  

I like that he speaks in complete thoughts with a bit of oversharing: he doesn’t make this a working dinner for me. By the time melting ice cream and surprisingly decent coffee rattle in front of us, we’ve effortlessly shared stories about South Africa, southern Italy, and Bavaria.  

“I used to travel with someone,” he admits in growing comfort, “but, it’s actually better being on my own.  I like golfing and history, two subjects most women don’t prefer.  The older I get, the more set in my ways I become.  There are certain things I need to travel with.   Sometimes I like it to just be quiet.   I like my company. I never really hit it off with someone for more than two weeks.  Marriage, it seems, just wasn’t in the cards.”  

For a second, I wish the train was moving us into another timeline, one where we meet in the middle of our loveless histories, two singletons of a similar age looking out windows in search of the other.  Just before the silence goes on for too long, grief wells in my eyes as I think of a man I miss, of a similar name somewhere in Africa, who tinkered around my house for two weeks fixing things and me, who wasn’t in my cards.   I love myself.  I am happy with my company.

“You are just like the shrink on Billions.  I just love her.  So smart and sexy,” Kent interjects, pulling me into the present, as the attendant clangs dirty plates away, and he slurps his remaining chardonnay. “If you want to chat later, I have one of those privacy cots in car 5325.”

“No thank you,” I assert as an unexpected confidence rises in my throat.   “I am happy with my company.”  

All I can think about is his bulging eye and how Paul Giamatti would likely never drink chardonnay.  All I can do is imagine him surrounded in white light and thank him, by touching my heart, for focusing on my beauty.  

I’m living aloneness in my single dorm room, while taking black and whites of deserted churches and barns, in writing at the lone coffee shop, while searching for a meal that isn’t pub grub, in suffering no cell service, while spending $50 on two bags of groceries, in doing laundry from a coin operated machine, while profusely sweating no air conditioning, in missing Dad play dress-up with my nieces, while seeing photos of Mom cradling her new puppy, in lamenting the closest yoga studio is an hour away, while listening to low-maintenance strangers during communal dinners, in reading Titus Andronicus’ bloody demise, while running past Robert Frost’s diverging wood, in letting go of the fantasy of meeting my husband amid fireflies, while breathing out the fear that this is all there is and will ever be.  I love myself.  I am happy with my company.

#modernlove #30sdating #vermont #yoga #selflove #proseofpresence #poetryofpresence

[wellmeaningshutin]

Short Story #51: Funnyman.

Written: 2/25/2017

I’ve always known that I would have a good chance to make it as a stand up comedian, my life is plenty shitty and no matter what happens, I never stop laughing at it. Sometimes people tell me, “Arty, why are you laughing right now? This is serious. Don’t turn such a sad occasion into a mockery.” Or something like that, my memories not to good. Maybe only one person told me that and I applied it to many people who told me many things, haha. You see, my thinking hasn’t been very well (superman thinks good) since the accident, since I was suddenly thrown around in that metal box, and my kids on my lap, ripped open, intestines hanging out and in their eyes I can make out a message, they sent that message from their eyes, and they said, “So this is what dyings like.” Like, “Can you call me in sick, I don’t want this to ruin my perfect attendance, I don’t want the teachers to get mad at me for not turning in homework.” Kids, always saying such funny things. I wish I had kids still, but hey, you gotta play the cards you’re dealt. Some times its a flush, like the way my life went down the toilet, flush!

Okay, I don’t think I said that I was actually funny. I only meant that I’m able to treat my suffering with a humorous nature. Doesn’t matter if what I say can make other people laugh, all I know is that I can laugh plenty and that’s good enough for me.

I remember when the doctor told me that my child doesn’t make it, and I told him, “No shit, and here I was thinking that you just put their guts back inside, sewed them up, good as new.” He didn’t find it too funny, so I said, “Where can I go to buy a new one?” I told him, “I have no time to knock a girl up, I’m supposed to take the little brat to their mother’s in about an hour.” A stern and confused look was all I got back in response, but I didn’t care because my jokes aren’t for everyone, you know? People with good childhoods just can’t understand folks with bad ones, sometimes we have to chuckle at misery, and nobody has a better sense of humor then my kid. Okay, I’m starting to get tired of these kid jokes, I’m just beating a dead kid now.

Okay, I swear I’m done now.

Where was I going with all this, what was the point I was trying to make? Things get a little foggy when I try to remember them, like I can’t remember what my kid looked like, their name, or very much about them. Hell, I remember their insides more than their outs. I know that kid like the back of their liver.

Okay, I’m actually done now.

Hm… Oh yeah, being a stand up asshole. I always thought I could make a career out of jokes, sometimes you don’t have to be funny, or that might just be a lie that untalented people tell themselves, “You don’t have to be good, you just have to want it!” “You don’t need to have anything that requires you to be successful, you can do whatever you want if you put your mind to it.” “The size don’t matter, its how you use it” And whose more unqualified than I am? If I had any talent it, I must have lost it. Mo talent, mo problems. I never bothered with a career as a comedian, though, because I was busy doing other things that I was equally terrible at.

Like, I was married at one point, then divorced, and it seemed like there were identical to each other. There’s no sex, and all you hear is gripes about how they want money and how you’re being a lousy father to your kid. If I started dating again then I would probably have two women who hated me, and I’m not so good at juggling. I’m not so good at anything, except being miserable. I went to the school of hard knocks, and I got a doctorate in being a lousy bum. I did my thesis by.. Uh…

What was I getting at? Oh well, it’ll come back when it wants to. I swear my memory is like Groundhogs Day. I have to wait for the poor bastard to pop out, and if he gets startled by his own shadow its another while of confusion. I don’t know why he’s so easily startled, nothing scares me anymore. If my house was robbed, it would be nice because all I own was crap, it would be like free movers and I wouldn’t have to pay a dime. They’d be the poor saps in that scenario, because at best they could only get a hundred bucks from all of my possessions. Death is no big deal, it seems like it happens to everyone but me anyways. Its like I’m at the middle school prom, and nobody’s asking me to dance. I ask death out on a date, and she tells me that she’s a lesbian. Next thing I know she’s been hooking up with my mother, father, kid, my friends, old teachers, people on the news.. Its like every minute there’s another sex scandal with death, always in the papers, and it don’t matter who she’s hooking up with, all I know is it isn’t me, but I’m used to rejection.

It was like puling teeth to get anybody to go out with me, but without any Novocain. I don’t mean to tooth my own horn, but if I’m pretty great at being rejected. I can make the girl with the lowest standards possible walk out of any date, its like a superpower. They should put me in banks so they don’t get robbed. I could try to give somebody a million dollars and they’d make some brittle excuse to not take it. Some people say my jokes are off putting, and they’re probably right, but I like to think that so much more of me is repulsive. I can never get a confessional, its great. Naturally, when my kid was gone and I didn’t have to deal with my ex wife anymore, I swore off dating because there was nothing to prove anymore. I already showed that everyone has a limit, and that limit is me. I thought about getting a denim jacket with the words “ROCK BOTTOM” bedazzled on the back, but I couldn’t get anyone to agree to make it for me.

My favorite past time had become watching movies. I like dramas because they really tear me up inside, I swear one day I’m going to become mute from laughter. Hell, maybe people will like me if they can’t hear what I have to say, but then again they have other senses that can help them reject me. Checks and balances, I’m just like the government, and I work just as well too. To be honest, I don’t know anything about current politics, and I couldn’t even tell you who our president is.

Stand up comedy! Yes! Now I remember! So, I finally decided to pick up a career in that awful business because I watched so many movies, all I did was watch movies, and I started to get a little interested in that actress, Greta something, and I decided that she had to be the last woman to reject me. I’ve been rejected by all sorts of women, but never by one who is so charming, beautiful, well, basically who is the antithesis to myself. I watched all of her movies, her reality television show, interviews, and even found a bunch of pictures that paparazzi had taken of her. I devoured every little bit of information about her that I could, and it was well documented so if I forgot something I could find it again. I must have learned the same things about her about a hundred times each, every time I saw them again it was like a brand new discovery, but I don’t know if that’s the memory loss, or proof of how much I love her. I’ve never been rejected by a girl I love, either. I guess you could call me a romantic that way. Most guys want to sleep with all sorts of women, but I want to do the opposite. I get rejected by girls when I try to pay them to humiliate me, I’m a real Casanova.

This actress, this wonderful actress, this perfect human being, I realize that she does an interview on the same talk show, on the same date every year, and on that show there’s always a stand up comedian guest. And what have I believed that I can make a living by? No really, I forgot, tell me. That’s a joke. If you have lots of jokes one of them might be good, a broken comedian can get two laughs a day. Remember which jokes get laughs, and then keep trying new ones, and eventually, after months of hard work, you might actually have a good routine. This is what I did, this is what I did to make a name for myself so that I could get on that show and pledge my love to her, so she could reject me, then I could put a bullet in her, so she could never reject anyone else. I’d be the last person she rejected, and even spoke to, so the bond we’d share would last forever.

Those comedy clubs were awful places, and you could tell because they let me do stand up there. Any place that lets me inside is not a very good place. I once gave a very good restaurant a one star review because it was willing to serve me. Waitresses never flirt with me for tips, the trouble they’d have to go through would be more than I could pay. I’d give them an arm and a leg, but that payment would mean that they’d still have to touch me. I give restaurants better reviews if they’re willing to treat me better, like if a chef spits in my burger then I know its a respectable place. Five stars if they tell me I have to leave, and four stars if they say I can’t sit in the restaurant, and have to take everything home in a to-go box. I started bringing my own boxes so they wouldn’t be a hassle, and they made me eat in the bathroom, what a life. Inmates don’t have the luxuries that I have.

I think the only reason I was able to get my career going was because somebody beat the piss out of me during one of my sets, and the wholesome folks of the internet ate that shit up. I realized all I had to do was be so unfunny that people would become aggressive, and they would do all of the comedy work for me. You could say that I’m very good at delegating, and maybe I should run a business…. Into the ground! Haha. So every night I go on stage, say something awful, and then somebody starts to heckle me, and I just make bad jokes back at them. The hecklers are funnier than I am, but that’s what people come to see. I’m so bad I make others look better. I swear, all one guy had to say was “Fuck off” and the whole audience was in an uproar. All I had to do was get somebody to bust my nose open just to get recognition. I’m like a pinata with horrible jokes inside, I’m like a pinata you hate. People love to hate, and it seems like they enjoy it more than love. I love it that people hate me, because of all the strong emotions that I can arise in them.

Eventually, I got a good cult following going with my acts, and sometimes famous comedians would come to my shows to heckle me, and further their own careers. There was a real community spirit, like a lynching or a mob mentality. I should’ve gotten a career as one of Putin’s political rivals, he’d get voted in every time. Wait, doesn’t he already do that? Shit, its like I was lucid for a second and I lost it. Actually, I think that was something that a crowd member yelled at me. They yelled so much at me, it was like being back in my childhood home. Speaking of kids, there was one kid who would set up outside my shows, selling tomatoes for people to throw at me. I didn’t think that people even did that, but at the end of some shows I’d have more tomato sauce on me than spaghetti. You know, cause spaghetti has sauce on it, and the tomatoes would leave mush all over me when they struck my body.

This whole time I kept sending Greta letters, it was nonstop. I’d write about five a day, and then I’d seal them with a little kiss, like I saw her do in one of her movies. I never got an answer, and it started to kill me at one point, because I wanted a rejection of some sorts, and she wouldn’t even bother doing that. It was like she didn’t even know I was writing to her, didn’t even know how repulsive I was, the bitch. It just made my plan more serious, and I became more determined, because she would have to see me eventually. She’d have to reject me at some point, there was no way to escape it. I’d die trying to get her to reject me.

As I started to get well known with my awful shows, and the several good jokes I had now and then, I started to get offered to do stand up on talk shows. I knew which one I wanted, and which date, and it took me so long to negotiate with the show, to get that slot, there was no other way for me to do it. I offered them so much, and they finally agreed when I said I’d let audience members throw nails at me, and a couple big time comedians agreed to be in the crowd during the show. Mocking me on cable was a great career move for them, everyone at home would eat it up, like Thanksgiving came twice that year, they were the pilgrims and I was the good folks who be treated inhumanely. Actually, people call acts inhumane, but if I learned anything, its that everything is a human thing to do, nothing is inhuman. Being a kind person is more inhuman than starting a genocide. Hell, giving away your stuff is considered a warning sign, you have to be willing to die to become generous, what a world we live in. We shouldn’t salute the flag, we should burn it. Hating your country is the most patriotic thing to do, because it shows how strongly you feel about the place.

When I get to the studio they don’t even let me into the room that they have for guests, they make me wait in the alley behind it, and I try to strike up a conversation with a bum, but he keeps telling me he has better things to do. Staring at a wall is better than listening me, at least its well put together, haha. The whole time I’m just feeling the revolver in my pocket, it felt so nice, so cold, so human, I was worried that it would hop right out of my pocket and tell me it slept with my mother. Guns are probably the most human invention, I think most people would want to be guns themselves. Gun rights are like civil rights, guns don’t kill people, they are people. They’re better at being people than some people are, haha. Boner pills and guns have something in common, because they help with impotence. If people can’t get themselves to kill, then they just have to do a gun and its all easy. Bang bang bang, suddenly you’re human again.

So, the best part about all of this is when I finally walk on to do the act, and then I find out that she’s not even the guest on the show. She had to reschedule due to something that I didn’t care to pay attention to, and instead there’s some muscle man there who gets paid because how much girls want to lay with him. When I walked by him, when we were in the same camera shot, I swear I must have made him look like a god. That was probably the high point of his career. And during his high point, I was at my lowest. I’m standing there telling my awful jokes, people throwing nails at me, and their insults are starting to cut through my apathy, my sense of humor. Maybe it was because I felt so terrible about not having the chance to be rejected by the woman I loved, maybe it was because I had that revolver being all heavy in the inside of my jacket, like a physical reminder of how pathetic I am. So pathetic I can’t even be pathetic. There’s that insult, where somebody is so __ that there’s a picture of them by that word in the dictionary, but I’m so awful that my name is in the dictionary, because I’m so terrible that they had to make a new word for it. I was so exceptionally pathetic that didn’t have the proper words to describe it.

Anyways, I felt so crushed in that moment, because I knew I was a failure. I’d always been a failure, but that was the only time I really knew it, felt it, understood it. Humor couldn’t protect me anymore. So, I decided to plug myself in the head, because I didn’t know this feeling and I hated it, but the gun ended up jamming, and I couldn’t even do that right.

#Well Meaning Shut In #Free Write #Short Story #Writers on Tumblr #Comedy #February