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cordonian-literature · 3 years

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Reluctant Reunion

Summary: Olivia reflects on her relationship with Vivienne

Premise: majority of TRH thrown out the window, but some elements are present. overall i’d say this isn’t canon. the MC’s name is Vivienne (nicknamed Vivi). her and Liam have two children: Eleanor and Evangeline. the gang hasn’t seen each other much.

A/N: hi! so i wanted to practice some writing since i’ve been kinda out of it, so i decided to do a @wackydrabbles prompt! i’ve seen some people do it and just wanted to participate :) this week’s prompt is not everything is a joke, and will be in bold

A/N 2: the idea for this fic came from Prompt #1407 (i’ve changed it up a bit though). i don’t know if i’ll continue this or not, but i’ve been playing around with the idea and just might

Word Count: (+/-) 1540

Warnings: none (i think. feel free to call me out if im wrong)

*All characters belong to Pixelberry, except those unique to my story*

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Olivia tried to do what she could to keep Vivienne at arm’s length. But her smile was so disarming, and she was so genuine — how could one help the overwhelming want to get close to her, to be embraced by the soft care she expressed to everyone in her vicinity? Olivia didn’t want the bubbly feelings, the pounding in her chest. She believed that if she kept ignoring it, the emotions would go away.

The isolation of Lythikos allowed Olivia to stay focused; there was always some issue that would occupy her mind long enough so Olivia would not think of Vivienne, and would instead attend to her people’s concerns like the old rulers of Lythikos.

But Valtoria’s issues were not unique to Vivi’s duchy. The smallest familiarity between Valtorian and Lythikosian concerns would prompt a lighthearted, heartbreakingly friendly phone call from Vivienne. The Queen would invite the Duchess over for a discussion, and would afterward ask Olivia to extend her visit, which Olivia never did.

But something she couldn’t ignore was a surprise invitation from Duke Bertrand — “financial proposals need to be overlooked to confirm suitability for all duchies of Cordonia” prompted Olivia to start towards Ramsford. Olivia did not expect that the King, Queen, and their friends were already there.

It had been Lady Hana’s idea for them all to meet and enjoy an evening over tea after having spent months apart. But for the afternoon, the Queen and Duchess Olivia would attend Duke Bertrand’s meeting.

They both sat in front of Duke Bertrand, their chairs some feet apart, a distance Olivia felt keenly towards her left. Olivia’s chair fully faced the Duke, while Vivienne’s was turned so that in one swift glance she secured both their attentions.

Vivi didn’t hesitate in commenting that Bertrand’s proposal would negatively affect more than half the country. She opened up the discussion, allowing Olivia to speak first, then adding in her own opinions.

The three of them formed a rough plan with enough moving elements that at least one was sure to work. Leaving the office, Olivia made a beeline for the front of the estate.

Her heels tap sharply on the wooden floor. Olivia slows her pace so the taps are the same rhythm as the melody of Vivi’s voice, drawing Olivia into tranquil peace.

Unfamiliar tranquil peace. The inclusivity of Vivi’s words were not well-known to the Duchess that had come to terms with isolation. She wasn’t ready to embrace the friendships that she had disconnected from years ago.

She stood in the front of the estate, watching the fog lift and dance around the marble columns. Some puffs of clouds were so large Olivia could put herself in a daze and imagine she had climbed the North-most mountain in Lythikos, her body kindly begging for oxygen, the ghost of Misha just on her heel. Other warm clouds were so small that Olivia could close them in her palm and diminish it from its lonely existence.

And then it was time for tea. When Olivia walked into the sitting room, the soft colors of the curtain compliment the gentle conversation of the friends who hadn't seen each other in a while. Olivia takes a seat on an empty couch, attempting to avoid bringing attention to herself.

Olivia takes a long breath. She smells the scent of the tea on the small table in front of her, the dry lemony tang of furniture polish, and the faint scent of Vivi's perfume, who had come to sit next to Olivia.

Eleanor takes a seat on the gray velvet settee with her father and asks where her sister, Evangeline, is.

As if she'd been conjured by the mention of her name, the girl enters the room and grabs the pitcher off the table. Olivia notices that she is almost as tall as her father. Evangeline stares carefully at everyone's glass as she fills them, the tea pitcher looking like a child's toy in her hands.

She smooths the edge of her rose-colored dress as she sits near her mother, cupping the tea in her hands as if it were a valuable heat source. She looks over at her sister, who converses with Liam and Drake.

After she reached the age of twenty, Liam pulled Eleanor on the front lines of Cordonia’s issues, leaving the girl little time to spend with her family. Many called the Crown Princess rough, claiming her serious exterior was too extreme.

But now, next to her father and his friend, Eleanor is relaxed and leans back against the cushion. Evangeline eyes her sister, her own posture as stiff and straight as a wall. She analyzes the sleeveless, light green dress gently draped over Eleanor.

“Do you want me to put some ice in your tea?” Evangeline asks, motioning towards her sister’s casual attire. “You seem like you feel hot.”

Eleanor drifts apart from Liam and Drake’s conversation, a vacant smile on her face as she answers Evangeline. “No? Why do you ask?”

“Oh, nothing,” Evangeline smirks and takes a calm sip of her tea, a laugh hidden behind every word. “Just that I’ve never seen you wear something so… revealing.” She gives another critical look, her eyes glazing down to her sister’s shoes and back up to her face, giving an angry smile at the last second. “It doesn’t look too good on you. I’ll tell my dressmaker to make something that suits your style.”

“Thanks, but there’s no need.” Eleanor’s face falls as she turns back to her father.

“Oh, don’t be like that!” Evangeline leans over to put a hand on her sister’s shoulder. “I was just joking with you. It’s sarcasm. Ever heard of it?”

“Not everything is a joke just because you say it is. Sarcasm or not.” The sisters turn away from each other.

Vivi gives a gentle laugh in the direction of her daughters. “Drake was your babysitter once and all his sarcasm rubbed off on you.”

Conversations are paused as everyone absorbs Vivi’s words. Olivia remembers the diplomatic trip Liam and Vivi took to Italy less than two decades ago. Eleanor was able to come along, but Evangeline had been too small. Duke Bertrand and Lord Maxwell were also meant to make an appearance, Lady Hana was called to Shanghai to visit her parents, and Olivia had issues in Lythikos to attend to. The only person available had been Drake, and after that one week, he had become baby Evangeline’s favorite person.

When she was a child, she would constantly urge her parents to let her go on camping or fishing trips with Uncle Drake. Liam would always accompany them, but the younger sister had always been cold towards Eleanor, throwing a fit if her parents suggested she accompany them.

The group chuckles when they remember, even earning a smile from Olivia. But the grins dissolve into lost looks. They meet each other’s eyes, and though Olivia remains focused on the tea pitcher, she can sense the sad questions they kept to themselves: where had it all gone wrong? How did we let the distance become so large?

Olivia knows these questions depress those around her, but she has had a lifetime to adapt to them. From her lonely childhood — being her parents’ second priority, then being treated as the traitors’ daughter after they died. To growing distanced from the friends of her youth and her first love — Liam making it clear to her countless times that he would never reciprocate her feelings, and Olivia eventually coming to terms that such a love was never meant to be her’s. To a vast space having formed between her and the only woman that had ever believed in Olivia.

Maxwell gives an audible sigh. “If only my puns rubbed off on Eleanor.”

The girl rolls her eyes, while her sister inspects her freshly painted nails.

Maxwell playfully scolds her: “Were my play on words not good enough for you?”

Eleanor laughs, a bright smile lifting the mood of the room. She speaks of her childhood, everything she remembers and misses, the adults adding in silly details of her childish antics. But Olivia has no memories of Eleanor’s childhood, nor of Evangeline’s.

The friends’ conversations flowed gracefully, but Olivia could not contribute anything.

And so she stood and left, quietly lifting herself out of her seat and spinning towards the door. She wondered if her driver were ready to bring her back to Lythikos.

The fog embraces her, wrapping wet coils of air around her waist, drawing her away from Ramsford, away from memories she wasn’t a part of, away from Vivi.

But before she can lower her head and enter the limo, Vivi’s slender fingers wrap around Olivia’s wrist, drawing her away from the vehicle and slipping an envelope into her hands.

Her disarming smile doesn’t disappear until Olivia has opened the envelope: it’s an invitation to the palace.

Decline it, her head tells her.

Accept it, her heart tells her.

Vivi sighs, holding her arms against herself as if she were about to break.

“You’re cold,” Olivia states.

Again that smile. Vivi agrees to go inside, Olivia agrees to consider the invitation, though she doesn’t want to.

But her incompetent driver leads her to the palace anyway.

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i don’t have anyone to tag - but if you would like to be tagged if i continue this, let me know :)

#wacky drabbles #trr fanfiction #trr au fanfic #the royal romance fanfic #the royal heir fanfic #trr fanfic #cordonia #liam rys #trr liam x mc #trr olivia x mc #olivia nevrakis #choices fanfic #choices fanfiction #choices the royal romance fanfic

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kxhlzn · 4 years

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[iii.] the birdwatcher & his lover.

➳ synopsis: it's the summer of '89, and you discover new things about yourself— some good, and some you wish you could swallow and never see again. dealing with the newfound confusion of sexuality, you must learn the ins and outs of friendship and what it means to grow up.

➳ genre: coming-of-age drama, ANGST, fluff, slight crack.

➳ characters/pairing(s): eventual stanley uris/reader, unrequited!bev/reader, eventual benverly, eventual reddie (possibly unrequited.)

➳ wordcount: 5.9k

➳ warning(s): profanity, sexual comments, ANGST, jokes about 80s AIDS, hurt feelings, fireworks (don't try this at home, kids!)

➳ song rec: flowers in your hair by the lumineers.

➳ author's note(s): sorry i made richie cry, i hate myself too lmfao. also i love stan. that's all. that's the post. give me some recs on what you'd like to see happen to them in the future! :)

July, 1989.

the rain is constant; pattering, almost as if it expects you to open your window and let it sneak into your bedsheets, like a sneaky, horny, little teenager. except, the only teenager creeping through your window tonight is mischevious richie tozier, head full of grand ideas and schemes.

his hair is sopping when he slams on the glass, and you nearly lose ten years of your life at the scare. most of the terror racing through you isn't because you're shocked by his presence, but rather you didn't really want him to see your arms full of letters and graham crackers. he stares at you a moment, his glasses dripping with water, as a single crumb trickles onto the floor from the corner of your mouth. you consider, for a moment, that he didn't see it, but from the small smirk that appears on his lips, you know you were caught. he's crouched on the roof beside your window, tapping his knee patiently.

you don't rush to make a move, either, as you both have a staredown; richie is uncharacteristically patient, you notice, and it makes you loosen your grip on the items momentarily. but then, richie slips, and you throw them all on the bed and make a break for the window. once you've tossed it open, richie is already steady, his hands splayed out at hip height. he's preparing himself in case he slips again.

"what do you want, trashmouth?" you quip, propping the window open. you glance at the surrounding area behind him, and the sky is a deep grey. the trees are heavy with water, puddles scattered across the ground. what on earth could he need at this time?

"so, i got this cool idea," he says, gripping the sill as he slides through the crack of your window. now, he's got water dripping all over the floor, and you scowl at him as he shakes his head like a dog, flinging droplets across your bedroom. "what if we buy fireworks?"

you don't miss a beat. "what?"

"like, you know, fireworks. for fourth of july? i might know a guy."

"seriously? that'd be so cool!" you say, picturing lighting off rockets into the sky, at the quarry. richie nods in excitement, collapsing on the floor beside your bed, leaning his head against your sheets. one knee is propped up, and his arm slings comfortably on it. the water drips onto his (for once) solid color grey t-shirt and plaided black pajama pants.

"right?" richie agrees, "you can thank me later. i already told 'im to buy them. 'said he'll get back to me soon. what are those?"

you blink at him a moment, and draw your attention to where he is focused. he's eyeing the pile of letters on your bed behind him, and he starts to get grabby as he digs through them.

you jolt forward, swatting at his hands. "they're, uh... letters? to? someone?"

"your pops?"

"what? no. well, actually, most of 'em, yeah."

"he ever respond to the ones you sent last year?" richie asks softly, peering at you when you take a hesitant seat on your bed, near richie's mop of hair.

"nope," you shrug, "but it's worth a try to send some more, ya know?"

"nah. you're trying too hard, babyface. you ever think that maybe it's time to toss the towel in?" richie's hand lands on your knee, but you jerk away from him.

"toss the towel in? what the fuck, richie?" you stand, quickly, and take a few cautious steps away from him.

"no, urgh, listen. i just hate seeing you hurt yourself like this—" he stands, too, stretching his long legs in a couple strides toward you.

"what's so fucking wrong with me writing a letter to my dad?"

"it's stupid! i just think—"

"you're just pissed 'cause yours sits a room away from you, and he talks to you less than mine!" you bite, and you immediately regret it, a sour flavor sitting on your tongue.

"fuck you!" richie barks, pointing an accusatory finger at you. his voice cracks in the process. "at least my dad bothered to stay! i wasn't so fucking bitchy that he disappeared into the night, not able to deal with having me for a kid!"

you want to snap back, but you're afraid your voice will betray you, so you merely open and close your mouth like a fish. richie's shoulders are heaving, eyes blown wide enough to rival the size of his actual face, with the glasses magnifying them so much. his fists are clenching and unclenching, consistently while you stand in tense silence.

"you're right," you whisper, mostly to yourself, and you cradle your arms against your chest. you lean up against your wall and slide down until your arms hug your knees. richie gapes, mutters out a few incoherent words, and then collapses in front of you, his hands on your arms.

"no, fuck, no, i shouldn't have said that. i didn't mean it. we're both tired, and hungry, and frustrated. that was such an asshole thing for me to say," he sputters out, and he pulls your head into the crook of his neck while he coos softly.

"it's okay, i didn't mean what i said, either. i think, i just, i know you were right about the tossing in the towel thing, but i.. i just don't think i'm ready to, you know?" you mumble into his shoulder, and he nods.

"that's okay, it was just a suggestion, babyface. you want to send him a letter? fuck it, let's do it."

"okay."

you spend the next ten minutes sealing the letters up, stamping them, and tossing them into your desk drawer for later. you sit comfortably in your chair, finishing up writing the address on the last one, when richie hums to himself.

"what?" you ask, spinning around to face him. he holds a letter up from his seat on your bed, sitting crisscrossed. his magnified eyes are glued to the words.

"nothing, you just missed one. except, it's not for your pops..."

"what do you mean? i didn't write one for anyone e—..." and it dawns on you. "richie, can i have that letter, please?"

"uh, yeah, nope... 'dear beverly marsh—'"

"richie, god, please!" you fling yourself at him, and he screams, throwing his hand up so you can't reach it while you climb over him. there are a few grunts as you dig various body parts into his flesh, grabbing for the paper, but he's not having it.

"why the hell are you— ouch! —writing a letter to bev?" richie questions, shoving at you a bit to get a good look at the piece of lined paper. "is it a looove letter?"

your silence forces you both to stop your movements, and the pink on your cheeks makes richie blink a few times.

"wait..." he begins, "does that.. do you.. do you like beverly?"

"what does that even mean? 'like'? of course i like her, she's one of my best friends! why wouldn't i? she's kind, and pretty, and one of the best people i know."

"yeah, okay, but do you want to stick your hand down her pants?"

"richard tozier!"

"well, you know what i mean."

"unfortunately, yeah, i do. but... that's not.. i can't, you know, like her like that. she's a girl," you squirm, scooting over to the headboard of the bed. richie leans up next to you, his shoulder bumping yours.

"so she's a girl. if she were a dude, would you do it?" richie presses.

"do what?"

"stick your hand—"

"beep, beep, richie!"

"what i'm saying is, if she were a guy, would you like her?"

"uh, i don't know, i guess," you admit, your hands in your lap. you bite your lip.

"then what's it fucking matter?" he asks, brows curved inward, "just admit it."

you blink at him, kind of understanding where he's coming from. you suppose you never could accept how you felt because it's the 80s, and you're in derry, so same-sex relations remain strictly platonic. you wonder if others have felt, or feel, the same way you do. maybe it's not so bad. maybe you can say it out loud, to someone.

"i have a crush on beverly marsh."

it feels empowering. like you could stand on top of your roof and scream it to the entire world, make everyone know that you, a small-town girl in maine, likes another girl. it feels empowering, but also incriminating— like you have something to hide, like you should be guilty for feeling this way.

guilty of what? loving another human being?

"well, shockingly, that's not the most lesbian thing you've ever said to me," richie quips.

"beep, beep, richie."

"anyway," he clicks his tongue, desperate to change the subject, "so the fireworks. what's your game plan?"

"right. well, we'll probably have to ask bill to tell eddie's mom that they're studying. you know how she gets when me or bev call— rant about how he can't hang with us 'cause we'll force him into an orgy 'n shit," you laugh dryly.

"wouldn't mind an orgy with her," richie whistles lowly.

"her, and who else? stan's mom? she's too high-strung for that."

"with my charms? pft, please," he replies, signaling down his body.

you roll your eyes. "oh, for sure, she'll be on her knees in no time."

"nah, she'd break a hip."

you laugh. "okay, focus— so you got the fireworks, bill's got eddie's mom—" ("he'd better share!") and everyone else should be able to make it. bev and ben can sneak out, and mike is pretty much free to go wherever. i can convince stan's mom that we're spending the night at bill's, with supervision. she likes me, but i can't be sure she won't think i'm trying to fuck the jew out of him."

"he wouldn't mind."

"seriously, richie, learn when to shut the fuck up," you scold, and he laughs, "anyways— do ya think mike could scrounge up a picnic again, or should i go over to bill's to make one? i think mike would want to do it..."

"yeah," richie yawns, and he leans on your shoulder. you sigh softly, sweep his hair away from his face, and slip his glasses off, onto the bedstand. "should prolly head home."

"no, it's pouring out. you've stayed here before," you tell him, pushing him off of you so you can turn the light out. by the time you've turned yourself around, he's hogging all of the blankets and you frown. rolling your eyes, you mutter something along the lines of "didn't get to eat my graham crackers", and you stash them under your desk.

crawling beside richie, you kick him with your leg as a sign to scoot his ass over, or else. he doesn't listen at first, but another heel in his side, and he's doing as he's told. (richie won't admit it, but he likes being the little spoon); you wrap your arms around his torso and poke his back with your nose as you prepare yourself for sleep.

after a few minutes, richie turns over slightly, glancing at your face. when he is convinced you've fallen asleep, he sighs softly and bites his lip— there are so many things he wishes he could tell you. so many secrets. after hearing you admit you like bev, he feels safer; like someone can relate to him, like he's not alone. it would be the first time he ever admitted it, even to himself.

richie doesn't know you're even listening, but having you next to him makes it easier to say out loud. "okay, so uh, listen... i think.. i think i'm like you, okay? i think i like..."

he's quiet for a moment, but now you're focused; you hadn't been asleep yet, but this is odd of him. you sigh, and snuggle up against him. "eddie. it's okay."

his breath hitches, and he chokes out a "yeah". you think he's fallen asleep after, but you hear small sniffling, and you can't help but tear up too. your grip on his chest tightens, a sign that you hear him and understand. he flips his body around, and suddenly, rather aggressively, pulls you against him, his face in the crook of your neck. his small tears melt into sobs, and yours soon follow suit.

"it's okay, it's okay," you coo, combing your fingers through his hair. he sounds so hurt, so painfully heartbroken. but, so do you.

"is there something wrong with me?" richie cries, the droplets creating a pool in the skin of your neck, "with us?"

"i don't know," you reply, your shoulders shaking, "oh, god, i don't know."

how badly you wish you did; if not to ease your own pain, but most especially his. richie tozier did not deserve to be crying in your arms in the dark, because he fell in love with his best friend. he deserved a much better love story than that.

—

over cereal the next morning, you and richie don't talk much. you're both reeling from the many emotions that were expressed last night, and you're afraid if one of you speaks, it will spoil everything.

your stepfather and your mother are speaking in the other room, and you hear the pattering of footsteps — loud ones, at that, a sure one it's your stepfather — as he walks into the kitchen to pour himself a mug of coffee. he looks as dead as the two of you.

"hey, kiddo, i need you to take the trash out when you're done," he says, glancing at you. it takes him a moment to register that richie is sitting across from you. he gets an eyeful of him, and shrugs nonchalantly, "hey, rich."

"yo," richie replies, stuffing another spoonful of cereal into his mouth. the two stare at each other briefly, before your stepfather becomes bored and pads off into the other room to inform your mother of richie's presence, as she wasn't aware. you hear her nearly shriek, worried that the house isn't clean enough for guests.

"it's fine, mom, it's just richie," you raise your voice so she can hear you, "he literally doesn't care. like, at all."

she says something back, but you don't catch it, as you stand from the table and put your bowl in the sink. richie follows suit.

"so, um... i'll call bill, you handle the, you know, and then i can head over to stan's to let him know the plan. you got everyone else?" you quip, and richie smirks at you.

"you need to take the trash out, kiddo. but, yeah, i got everyone else."

"okaay," you reply, groaning.

richie leaves a few minutes after, through your window, for dramatic effect. you tell your parents he left through the second living room, a sliding door to the backyard in it. they accept it.

calling bill is easy; he always answers, (as he is always home and his parents don't care much for the phone), and rather quickly, too. it's easy to convince him, as well, as he's kind of excitable. he agrees to free eddie.

you call stanley, next. his mother picks up, and you curse to yourself. she's a hard nut to crack.

"hi, mrs. uris!" you tell her it's you, and you swear her tone becomes a bit sharper, but she stays polite. as is the way of jews.

"hello there, sweetheart."

"is stanley home?"

"yes, he is," she replies, you smile. he's always home, too, if he's not birdwatching.

"... could i speak to him?"

"oh! yes," she says, and she barks his name quietly, a sign that he was probably walking past her when you asked.

you tap your foot as there is brief movement on the other end, and stanley breathes into the phone just a millisecond before he speaks.

"hello," he says softly.

"hi, stanny! you free today? great!" you chirp cheerily, smiling against the telephone.

"o-oh, uh, yeah—"

"i thought we already established that."

"oh. um, yeah, i guess.. we have," he sounds dejected.

"kay. i'm coming over."

"what? wait, okay—"

you hang up, and hop slightly as you turn yourself around to grab your things. once you've gotten them, you head out to the place stanley calls home, a small house right outside of the synagogue.

you knock on the screen door at the back of the house and bounce on your heels as you await stanley. the locks on the door rattle briefly, and he's there, pushing open the door to let you in. you thank him and slip off your shoes in the entrance.

"so, you wanna hear about what we're doing tonight?" you say happily, poking his shoulder with a giant grin on your lips.

he swallows. "okay..."

you capture a handful of his collar, and pull him closer to you; he turns beet red. "we're gonna light off fireworks! but i gotta tell your mom we're staying at bill's."

"what? are you guys insane? that's dangerous!" stanley whisper shouts. he looks at you in complete and utter bewilderment.

"i know!" you cheer, "it'll be a blast!"

"no, i'm not doing that!"

"pleaaaase?" you beg, giving him puppy eyes, "it won't be fun without you."

he rolls his own. "no! that's ridiculous!" stanley crosses his arms, glances at your sweet face, and huffs dramatically. "ugh! fine! only because i don't want any of you doing something stupid. mostly you, because you're accident-prone."

"you know me too well, uris," you whisper sappily, and give him a strong hug. he refrains from doing it back for a second but sighs and wraps his arms around your shoulders.

"stanley!" mrs. uris calls out sharply, and she shakes her head stiffly at him. you immediately take a few cautious steps away from him. "what on earth are you doing?"

"i, uh, was just hugging her because..." he trails off slowly.

"my grandma died," you spit out.

"oh! goodness, when?" mrs. uris asks, putting down her basket of laundry.

"um—" you think of a random time, and say, "last night."

unfortunately, stanley says "this morning" simultaneously.

you glance at each other.

"last night," stanley says, "i forgot, and thought it was this morning."

"oh," mrs. uris mutters, "goodness, child, you almost had me thinking you just hug that girl for the sake of it."

"yeah, nope, i would never," he agrees, "she has like, um, ...cooties."

when the high-strung woman finally skitters away, you and stan release a breath.

you're the first to speak. "cooties, stanley? really? that was your genius idea?"

he throws his hands up in defense. "i'm sorry! it was the only thing i could think of. i couldn't say AIDS!"

"i think AIDS would have been more redeemable."

"hardly!" he exasperates, "'cause then she'd think you're a homosexual man with a sex addiction under that skirt and scrunchie!"

you break out into a fit of laughs and shove stanley's shoulder. he shoves you back, and then you're both laughing.

"what? so how am i supposed to convince her to let you come with me to bill's when she thinks my grandma just died and i have cooties?" you inquire as you both step into the main section of the house and prepare to enter the living room.

"with slow coaxing and distance."

—

somehow, all of the losers are able to come— with slow coaxing and distance.

a symphony of crickets echoes down the dirt path, matched with the small pattering of eight pairs of feet. the bugs' song drowns out eddie and richie's bickering at the front of the group, but soon, stanley's soft voice joins in. the sun has already dipped low past the horizon, coating the sky in a hazy blue-grey, but the large trees block out the color significantly. the greenery tickles at your ankles, sly weeds brushing up against you.

a few feet in front of you, stan's pearly whites sneakers kick up rocks, a thin powdery layer of dust residue sliding around the heels, and coating the sides. his laces are neatly tied, and he has taken extra care to tuck the ends away to avoid them from collecting dirt; a signature, and neurotic, move on his part. his socks are a snowy white, and nearly match the pale tone of his calf. almost as if he might turn suddenly and catch your prying eyes, you scrape them to the heavens, admiring the stars that begin to trickle into the blanket above you. you are startled as eddie shrieks, and you manage to catch a glimpse of richie waving a handful of mud from the mucky dissolve at the end of the path, which must have been created during the rainfall yesterday.

"that's literally so disgusting! no! richie, if you fling that at me, i swear to fuck—!" his voice heightens to a womanly pitch, as he withers back from richie's sopping palm. in turn, he snickers devilishly as he circles around eddie like a vulture, with stanley's disapproving expression prominent on his boyish face.

"do you realize how sick i can get from that, huh? flesh-eating bacteria can get into my fucking cornea if a rock cuts my eye!" eddie nearly wails, throwing his hands up to protect his face. richie makes inhumane sounds following eddie's spring for the opening up ahead.

bill shakes his head contently, mirrored nearly identically by beverly and mike. you glance around at the meadow, and your heart skips a beat when you catch sight of a small glow up ahead, hovering just above a patch of flowers.

you squeal and push past the others to get a closet look at the fireflies now littering the meadow. you like to catch them, but not with malice— you capture them, and let them crawl on your hands until they decide to fly again. you giggle, spinning around, arms wide open, admiring the plethora of them.

they're everywhere, and you're in your own personal utopia. richie appears next to you, and he allows a firefly to land on his finger. "hey, watch this."

you eagerly grin as he moves his other hand over the bug, and then— he crushes it, wiping the glow across his skin. you gape at him, and then scowl. "richie, you're such a dick! it was innocent!"

"yeah, but my skin glows!" he replies, showing his hand to the others. none of them are amused, as they peer at your now heartbroken expression.

"that was harsh, rich," bill says, shaking his head in disappointment.

"i thought it was cool," richie mumbles, adjusting his glasses.

you roll your eyes at his response and continue to gaze off into the dark at the glowing bugs. you manage to capture one and cup your hands as you march over to stanley.

"hey, hey, check this out," you tell him, and he cranes his neck to watch as you open your hands, and show him the lightning bug. he slowly reaches out, and it crawls onto his forefinger. "isn't he so cute?!"

"yeah, definitely," stan agrees. the glow from the bug as he raises it up to face reflects off his nose, illuminating some stray freckles on the bridge. his eyes are lit up to match, and they never leave the insect, even when it ultimately makes its flight elsewhere.

"hey, lovebirds! come help me collect some sticks! or should i wait 'til y'all are done gushing over a bug?" richie barks, raising his arms, which are full of twigs, for what you assume is a fire.

"we're not—" stanley begins, but richie is already turned away and focused on something else.

you toss stan a bashful grin. "c'mon, birdboy. 'm sure mike brought marshmallows 'n stuff for s'mores."

"wait—" stanley says suddenly, voice risen uncharacteristically as he grips your arm. when he's positive he has your full attention, he drops contact with you, and stares at the grass below. "u-um, i got you something. i-it's not like anything big, you know, just like.. i saw it, and thought of you, or, er, us."

you blink at him. "you didn't have to—"

"—no! uh, i mean, no. i wanted to," stanley replies, fishing into the pocket of his khaki capris. there, he turns over two bracelets— they're woven, some sections tan and others colorful. there are two short brown strings at the latch on both of them.

"oh, my god, stan!" you say quietly, sticking your wrist out happily. you're grinning, and you can't explain the butterflies in the pit of your stomach or the heat rising to your cheeks. "they're so cute!"

"heh, thanks," he says, stepping forward to slip the bracelet over your wrist. it feels oddly intimate. "i, uh, it's not much, but.."

"no, no, i love it," you chirp, keeping a hold of his hand while you admire the charm. your grin reaches your eyes as they rise to meet his. the feelings expressed by simply the contact of your gazes sends rushes of excitement into your bloodstream. "i'll never take it off. not once."

then stanley suddenly stares into the sky, his lower lip tucked under his teeth. his brows are now curved in concentration. "d-don't look at me like that."

"like what?"

"like this is the best present you've ever gotten. l-like this is the happiest you've ever been."

"it is," you say softly, "this bracelet means the world to me. i've never felt so cared about, not ever."

you take the second bracelet from his hand that remains stretched out, like he's offering the jewelry. you slip it onto his wrist, and use it to pull him into a warm embrace, your arms wrapped around his neck. your right hand rests on the flesh of it, a few curls brushing against your skin.

"thank you, stanley."

your entire being buzzes incessantly as he accepts your gratitude, and you pull away. the air hitting your chest leaves you chilly, the empty kind; disconnecting with him now feels like abandoning the other half of your body, and leaving it frozen in place. you feel as though without him you will always be cold. the empty kind.

richie makes short work of the fire, relaying a grand story about his survival in the woods at six years old, and his incomparable courage that winter. the flames are low and small, but no one dares tell him to stoke them or toss in some leaves for an extra shove, as he seems so content with the low burn as it is. you all subtly cuddle up next to each other, but bill is the most obvious, physically— he scowls and wraps his arms around himself while eddie is vocally unhappy.

beverly leans into ben, subconsciously, and the sweet boy glows brighter than the fire, his skin illuminating a deep red, like an apple. beverly's scarlet hair, in turn, rivals the fire as it roars. her hair, and the way it is ruffled and sharp with each sliced strand, resembles the flames as they lick up towards the sky. the reflection of the campfire makes it burn ever the more vibrant, and it melts onto the skin of her freckled shoulders and nose.

you're cut from your stupor when richie nudges you, and he whispers, "you're staring", as though you weren't already aware. the others don't catch on, fortunately, as they all listen intently to the process of shelving meat, as expressed by mike. you find it riveting, really — as riveting as the tale of processed and packaged animal flesh can be. a silence ensues once richie makes a horrible joke about vegans, and then he clears his throat awkwardly.

"so, fireworks? who dares me to blow one up eddie's ass? maybe it'll get the stick outa there," he chirps, and eddie shrieks and chucks a stick at him.

richie smirks at him and tells him to follow him so they can fetch the fireworks and eddie reluctantly agrees. they scatter off, and you watch contently as they bump shoulders. your brows draw in, a bit depressed by the two of them— how badly you wished they knew. how badly you needed them to know they were everything you dreamed to be.

while you all wait for eddie and richie, ben and beverly disappear behind the trees to go explore this stream ben had found. he told her he felt very poetic being near it, which he had hoped would signal something to her, but she hadn't noticed. in the meantime, you and stanley stay by the fire and discuss his journal, as he gushes about a ruby-throated hummingbird, and shows you a light sketch of one — he shaded the throat, and it makes you smile. he's certainly improved on his work, and you feel a rush of pride break through the dam of your chest.

"stanley, you've really been practicing," you tell him, running your index finger over the graphite lining the yellow paper, "i can tell it's a bird this time! and it's not having a heart attack!"

he nods in approval, and he takes a second to realize you were referring to the first time you met when you told him his art looked like it was having a health scare. his dull eyes blink at you momentarily, like he's trying to figure you out or understand you— and it dawns on you that he's not thinking about the drawing anymore— but rather, he's trying to understand you as a whole— as though you are some sort of puzzle he can't quite put his finger on.

stan's attention retreats back to the journal, flipping occasionally to the next page and reading the notes he's taken on each bird. when your eyes drag down his face, you feel a twinge in your stomach— there's simply something about stanley uris that you can't quite put your finger on, either, and you rather like that about him; it gives you space to unravel and discover each day. you always feel like you're learning something new and jarring about him, and you like to think that gives him depth.

however, his face holds something harsh and cold— something that remains constant, despite the circumstances of his mystery— and it's the sadness. it's the sadness and the fatigue, written like scars across every inch of flesh, a consistent tattoo of sorrow. he's imprinted with it, as though it's simply the base coat on the canvas of his life— and it hurts you, seeing him sad. and it's worse knowing that you don't think you've seen stanley uris any other way.

and you consider, briefly, just for a striking moment— that maybe he's only sad when he's looking at you.

stan recounts a conversation he had with a girl in your shared english class, persephone— known universally as percy — an introverted blonde girl, who has a curious knack for all things odd and quirky. she likes to wear lacy, flowy dresses, and unusual jewelry. she has a rather soft voice, like listening to a cloud speak— and she too enjoys birds. he says it's been a while since he's had a decent talk with someone about the animals, and that he's happy she appears genuinely interested and engaged in the topic. you aren't surprised, by this, though; you half expect percy to be some sort of angelic tree nymph.

you open your mouth to reply to his story, a bitter tang of jealousy on your tongue you don't recognize, but richie tozier beats you to it. almost to your relief.

"what's up, whores?! you ready to blow this place up?" he calls out, raising some fireworks, with exhausted eddie dragging behind him. he looks like he wants to swallow gunpowder and then a match.

you find yourself beside him, hands on his shoulders. he's too tired to even remove them. "eds, what the hell happened to you?"

his eyes are hazy. "richie thought it would be smart to go through the shit path, and now i've probably got seven diseases, at least."

richie smirks. "didn't want to go the usual way. woulda got caught by the po-po."

"you're a handful, tozier," you say.

"you love it," he replies, blowing you a kiss.

"you got me."

the rest of the night is soft chaos; richie lights off the fireworks, and they burst in bright and vibrant colors, lighting up the night. the air is crisp and free, and the grass between your toes is heavenly. you become drunk on your youth, an alcoholic in your own right. you wonder, briefly, if this is the peak— if this is the highest point of your life, if this is what you're meant for. if you're the peter pan of your successful friends, if they will all grow to be everlasting lovers and soulmates.

if this is where your journey with them ends.

and, by god, watching the way beverly looks when she's in her element, dancing barefoot with the rest of you— the way they all gaze at her like she's some sort of angel, some sort of saving grace. the way you gaze at her. how your chest aches. how it burns, to be amongst her beauty, to be jealous and insecure and in love all at once. your feet buzz with the shake of the earth, the fire in the sky. your skin sears, like ashes racing to compete. at this moment, you swear you feel your entire being burning alive.

and it is exhilarating.

and as you watch them, hooting and screaming and letting their voices be heard, you feel infinite. like the world is putty in your hands, like they are the most exhilarating people you'll ever know and you'll spend the rest of your life just settling. and your heart calms, because suddenly everything is simple; you want to hang out with these people until the end of time.

and stanley, the way his curls glow under the fireworks— the way his skin shimmers in possibility. the sadness so present in his face has faded, like he's suddenly hazy and thoughtless. his movements, they're slow and unsure, like he's seconds away from making a fool of himself. but he's beautiful— like some sort of saint— stanley is the human form of apollo, he's the sun himself. apollo— you crave that for him. and his soil eyes stray from the others and meet your excitable ones; his expression is not blank, but rather glowing. you can't define a single emotion on it, but rather a feeling. one that doesn't have a word. one that just is.

and he's looking at you like you're a goddess— you, with a crown of flowers sewn into your chaotic head of hair, you, with your flowy skirt and bare feet— and you know no one has ever looked at you like that. it sparks something in you, something luminescent and empowering. and god, he glows. that boy glows.

and it hits you both at the exact same time, like a comet striking the earth— an epiphany in the form of a human.

i want to hang out with this person until the end of time.

and maybe, you consider, just for a moment, almost a guilty thought—

he wants to hang out with you, too.

is that so bad to wish for?

a person to spend the rest of your youth with?

a person to spend the rest of your life with?

a person to call your own?

and by god, you want it to be him.

let your cries shake the earth, if it isn't.

[🌿] taglist:

@hannarudick @cedricisnotonfire @russian-romanova

#it #the losers club #stanley uris x reader #losers club x reader #beverly marsh x reader #stephen king #it 2017 #stanley uris #stan uris #it fanfiction #stanley uris imagine #beverly marsh imagine #kassie writes #BW

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grimmpitchftsnow · 7 years

Note

Prompt "Can I kiss you?" For snowbaz?

its now 1am and i haven’t proofread this, its probably also not what you really wanted but it kinda gets there, the end is rushed and i had a million ideas for this but couldn’t plot out any of them. Here we goooo under the cut!!

also there’s underage drinking and alcohol CW for americans bc i placed the characters at around18/19 but this is the legal age in England so im not really sure what to say!!

Word count: 1340

Characters: Penny, Simon, Baz, Agatha

TW: alcohol, underage drinking for Americans

Read on ao3: http://archiveofourown.org/works/10957530

“Can I kiss you?” Bazsmirked.

“only if I can kiss you first” Simon replied, faux smirkspreading.

“You’ll have to beat me to it” “Deal”

“Time?” Baz’s tone flatlined, a stark contrast to the laughcovered seductiveness of the prior sentence.

“2 more seconds” Simon’s mirrored Baz’s own as he mentallycalculated.

“ok

“Time”

They opened the Stairs door and exited, crouching as theywent. Being tall was hard. As they stood up they were greeted with excitedfaces, eager of any news about their 10 second stay in the cupboard. Baz wasthe first to speak, geared up and drunk.

“what?” he eyed everyone. His tone light and hiding anundertone of laughter.

“Well, how was it?” Penny really played the part.

“I don’t know what you’retalking about” a false arrogance aired from Simon as he slumped back down,avoiding eye contact.

“I need a shot” Agatha exclaimed, changing the conversationin a generally well accepted manner. The game of spin the bottle was officiallyover.

Vodka, Tequila, around 12 cans of cider, and a newly bought monopolyboard were scattered around the little room in which they sat, telling tales ofthe night in of 4 teenagers who should perhaps know a little better.

Another round of shots went down, one by one in the circleof 4. Simon first, then Baz, then Penny, then Agatha. Each one quivering andraising the tiny glass in triumph. A loud incoherent cheer followed as they wanderedback to their places from the kitchen.

They were all pretty drunk at this point, the monopoly hadlong since been forgotten, too unable to focus and count the dice, never mindproperly move the pieces and count money.

Simon slumped, his long limbs fell where they wanted and hetried his best to focus on the conversations around him.

“Who wants to play never have I ever?” Penny suggested,slightly slurring as she adjusted her skirt around.

“Bad game, but whatever” Baz perked up.

“How many fingers?” Simon slurred. Thinking hadn’t alwaysbeen his strong point.

“bit personal” Agatha snorted before rolling over.

“shut it”

“waheeyyy” Penny and Baz chorused.

“You know what I meant”

“5”

They now sat around a stained coffee table, cluttered with arainbow of shot glasses, covered in a sea of tequila. Simon sat up alert andready to play, he looked bedraggled - his hair covering his eye in a mess of semidamp curls. He looked around and surveyed the night’s events which included,but was not limited to: the Chinese take away leftovers spread around thekitchen counters, smeared makeup, an ever-growing number of cans and shotglasses, a covering of green monopoly houses as a result of a drunken misjudgementin the living room, a secondary covering of cushions around the settees, and everyone’smessy hair and slumped posture. Though messy hair didn’t apply to Baz. Messyhair was Baz. Simon did have to admit it suited him a hell of a lot.

He remembered Baz’s geeky phase when his hair wasn’t so longand allowed to do its own thing, actually quite the opposite – prim and properwould be a good way to describe it. That was back in first year. His hair was whatdrove Simon to Baz, it intrigued him a lot for some reason and he was drawn tohim.

“Never have I ever…taken food out of a bin and eaten it”Penny started.

Not a single finger was down.

“wow, glad to know I made friends with the right people” shecontinued “Agatha your turn”

“Okay, never have I ever…had a paranormal experience”

Simons first finger went down as he remembered the veil. It wasstrange, he thought, that he was the only one with dead relatives, the only onethat could anticipate a familiar face that night.

“yeah, you guys know mine, the veil last year, that’s it, itis my turn?”

“oh yeah, that was so weird, and yeah it is”

“um… never have I ever” he was bad at this “looked throughsomeone in this rooms phone”

Simon didn’t know if last summer counted. He decided it didn’t.As he looked around, everyone else had a finger down, he eyed them allsuspiciously as a joke. Penny and Agatha started false arguing about what wasright or wrong to do and trying to get the other to crack, meanwhile Baz juststared humorously at Simon.

“Never have I ever injured myself trying to impress theperson I like” Baz continued coolly.

Surprisingly, Baz himself put a finger down without drawingattention to it, strange. Simon, again didn’t know what counted. There was thattime he pulled a muscle trying to run for Baz, and that time he thought itwould be a good idea to climb the old tree on campus. Though he wasn’t sure ifliked Baz, maybe he did, he didn’t have to explain himself. The finger wentdown. Baz looked at him with a puzzled expression. Or maybe it was a smirk.Goddamnit.

The game continued for the rest of the night, it was slowmoving but Agatha ended up losing because she stole a traffic cone one time. Itcame as a surprise to Simon, he thought it would have been Baz. When the game finishedthey assumed their original positions and began talking about life, Watford,the Mage, how unprepared for adult life they were. It was true, none of themhad concrete plans of what they wanted to do after summer. After the conversationdied down Simon checked his watch under the lamp, the face read around 3:34amwhen he stopped seeing double. Agatha and Penny were now yawning excessivelyand making their way upstairs to Penny’s bedroom where they would share thedouble bed. Simon and Baz were to share the living room and blankets.

“You know you snore, right?” Baz started.

“so you’ve told me”

“Well it’s true”

“You’re drunk”

Simon carried on, changing into his pyjamas of choice. They werecheckered navy and red with a plain navy top that had a pocket on the leftbreast. A present from Penny last year. As he changed Baz turned to him, therewas no way he was going to get those jeans off tonight. Simon moved his stuffinto a neat pile the best he could, fighting off sleep from the alcohol, andplaced it in a dry corner, picking up the blankets on his way back.

“Snow” Baz spoke rather quietly, almost hesitant.

“yeah”

“I’m drunk”

Simon chuckled, he never saw Baz drunk, he wasn’t toosocial. It was odd, he looked so open and soft, as though he had actualfeelings.

“I know you are” he replied, slightly unsure about how he wasmeant to go about these things, all he could think about was how gentle Bazlooked half asleep.

“I don’t like being drunk, it makes me open” Baz wasretracting into himself a little, but at the same time edging forward, closerto Simon.

“What does that mean?”

Simon now tried to keep himself busy to avoid eye contact. Hedidn’t know if he liked where this was going. Or if he even knew where it wasgoing.

“It means I like you Simon”

Simon stopped. Baz stared hopefully, scared, sober butdrunk. Simon turned around and looked at Baz, his dark eyes were uncertain andregretful.

“Um” came his reply as he halted.

“Crap”

“No no no, don’t take it like that, in fact- ““in fact what?” Baz slurred.

“I think I might like you too, I don’t know, I”

They were both drunk. Simon knew it. But drunkenness wasonly a pathway to bravery. And confidence. Before he knew it, he was sat nextto Baz on the sofa, his heart beating a million miles an hour he was certain itwas audible. Seconds felt like years. And there was never going to be enough ofthem.

“Can I kiss you?”

“Only if I can kiss you first”

#baz and simon #carry on #fangirl #simon snow #baz pitch #basilton grimm pitch #lust #snowbaz fanfiction #carry on fanfiction #carry on fandom #snowbaz

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