#and it drives me nuts that it’s not a confession or plea that they leave each other with | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

hrina · 5 years

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Hanging by a Thread (Thank God for Sewing Needles II)

PAIRING: Harry/Y/N RATING: R WORD COUNT: 9.4k REQUESTED: yes!

hi everyone!!! i finished my last exam not even a week ago, and i’m so excited to start writing again! think of this sequel as me extending metaphorical olive branch, lmao 😘 i worked really hard on this piece, and im v happy with how it turned out! this little series honestly feels like my baby lol. as always, if u like it, please don’t hesitate to leave me some feedback! and here is where you can find the rest of my masterlist. enjoy! 💕

p.s. thank u to the ppl who acted as my betas!!! @yes-daddy-i-willl, @harryonstage and @smokeinherperfume i appreciate u sm!

~*~

The past few months have probably been the best of Harry’s life.

Of course, he’s still got his challenges—snooty events filled with pretentious people, a mother who is just a bit too difficult to please, a schedule that leaves very little room for relaxation and leisure.

But all of that means nothing when he gets you to laugh at his corny jokes and stroke his cheek with delicate fingers. There have been negatives in his life, sure, but they’re greatly outweighed by the newly-offered benefits that accompanied his confession the night of the gala.

Benefits which he’s currently enjoying.

“Fuck, pet,” Harry groans, gripping your hips tightly as he drives into you from behind. Your skin slaps against his, and the obscene sound only adds to the growing fire in the pit of his stomach. His eyes rake up your naked body, from the round perk of your ass to where your fingers are fisting tightly at the silk sheets.

Harry’s pace nearly falters when he realizes just how many times he’d dreamt of having you like this: wrapped snugly around him, in his bed, moaning out his name like a prayer. He digs his fingers into the plushness of your hips, groaning low in his throat when the tip of his cock reaches even further inside of you. Your velvety walls flutter around him and you bury your face into the mattress, whining loudly.

“You’re so deep,” you choke out, subconsciously beginning to move in harmony with him. Each time he drills forward, you push back, and it makes a deep, guttural sound echo in the back of his throat.

“Fuckin’ love this cunt,” Harry swears, wrapping his arm around you so that he can cup your pussy; his fingers split apart around where you’re both joined, and he grinds the heel of his hand into your clit.

You squeal, trying to simultaneously escape the contact while pressing back against him. The both of you are ravenous, hot and sweaty. Harry drinks you in, running his free hand down your soft side, from your shoulder to your thigh. He doles out a quick, sharp spank to your ass, and you moan in affirmation, wiggling your backside to encourage him.

“Knew you’d like that,” he grins, giving in to your pleas. “Always did love it when I pushed you, yeah?”

“Yeah,” you pant, squeezing your eyes shut. Harry has stilled now, allowing you to control the pace at which his cock fucks into you. You work your hips along his length, purposely clenching around him and giggling innocently when he groans. His hands fly out to your waist, steadying you so that he doesn’t lose it and cum right then and there.

“That’s not fair,” he growls, pinching your skin in admonishment. “Don’t wanna nut off just yet, love. Want you to cum with me.”

“Keep doing what you’re doing, and I will,” you moan.

Harry smiles, his fingers finding your clit once more; he rubs quick circles into the nub as he takes back control, beginning to pick up speed again. The wet sound of skin against skin grows louder with each thrust forward until it’s drowned out by your sharp gasp.

“That’s it,” Harry coaxes, watching with dark eyes as the muscles in your back tense up. “Cum for me, darling. Give me a good one.”

His words are enough to push you over the edge, and you cry out as your orgasm washes over you. Harry grunts animalistically, throwing his head back when your cunt spasms around his cock. The heavenly sensation sets him off as well, and he releases a string of creative curse words as his mouth pops open and his eyes flutter shut. The knot in his pelvis explodes, and he hunches over you as he shoots hot ropes of seed into the condom.

For the next few moments, there’s only heavy panting and the shuffling of limbs. And then you laugh quietly, lifting your head from the bed and gazing up at him with twinkling eyes.

“That was really good,” you murmur; your lips curl up into a small, satisfied smile. “Even better than last time, and I didn’t think that’d be possible.”

Harry chuckles, pulling out of you slowly with a devious grin. “I’m full of surprises.”

You snort and push yourself up onto your knees. Your thighs shake a bit—something that doesn’t go unnoticed by him—as you turn around to face him. He’s in the middle of peeling off the condom, but you slip your fingers beneath his chin, angling his face up. He’s sporting a lazy, post-coital smirk, and a light sheen of sweat is apparent on his forehead. Without saying anything, you lean in, capturing his lips in a soft kiss. He sighs happily.

“I’m going to go pee,” you tell him, mumbling the words against his mouth. “And then I wanna cuddle. Is that cool with you?”

“Very cool.” Harry nods, and you grin. You slide off the mattress, your knees quivering slightly as you take a step toward the washroom. Harry bites his bottom lip, watching the way your ass jiggles with the movement and trying to quell the barbaric voice in his head that spurs him on.

He shrugs to himself. Fuck it.

A moment later, you feel a sharp smack on your bum, and you shriek in surprise, your hands flying down to shield the abused skin.

“Hurry,” Harry teases, beaming stupidly when you turn to shoot him an affronted look. You cackle and quickly speed away before he gets the chance to deliver another blow.

~*~

“Christ, woman,” Harry utters, tipping his head back against the wall of the small closet.

He’s not quite sure what’s come over you; fifteen minutes ago, you’d both been joking around, bumping hips while you raced to see who could fry an egg the fastest. The kitchens of the palace were quiet, with all the staff having gone home for the night. Harry knew that nobody would be down in the basement at two in the morning, and that’s why he’d suggested a little competition.

But now, he’s here: trapped inside a small storage room with his hands wound in your hair and your lips wrapped around his cock.

He really doesn’t know how you both ended up here. He vaguely remembers you laughing victoriously, sliding your fried egg onto a free plate and sticking your tongue out at him as he pouted. You’d won, and you’d celebrated by switching off the burners on the stove and grabbing his hand, pulling him into the nearest secluded space before kissing him frantically.

And now your tongue is laving up his shaft and you’re giggling softly to yourself while he grunts in pained delight.

“You gonna cum soon?” you whisper, pulling off of his cock so that you can press a quick kiss to his hip bone. Your hand doesn’t cease its movements along his dick, continuing to stroke him languidly. Harry nods, his lips parting slightly as he feels his thighs tense in anticipation.

“Don’t stop,” he breathes, rubbing his thumb against your temple.

You smirk slightly, opening your mouth and tapping the head of his cock a few times against your bottom lip. You stick your tongue out, dipping it into his slit, and then Harry’s groaning far too loudly as he comes undone. You catch every drop of his release, swallowing enthusiastically before pressing one last kiss to his tip and tucking him back into his pants.

Harry’s out of breath when you stand back up, and he watches with tired eyes as you purse your lips to hide a proud smile. You yelp quietly when he grabs your face in his hands and plants a passionate, bruising kiss onto your mouth. Your fingers wrap around his wrists to keep him close, and for the next minute or so (which then bleeds into the rest of the night), all he can think about is how hard he’s fallen for you.

~*~

“We’re going to freeze to death, Your Lavishness. I hope you know that.”

“As long as we’re together, right?”

You scoff and roll your eyes playfully while Harry just grins at you. Two towels and a few blankets are bundled up in his arms, and you’ve got an extra few coverings draped over your left shoulder. You walk side-by-side, trying to appear as casual as possible whilst strolling through the basement halls. Harry nods graciously whenever a staff member from the kitchen passes you by.

You finally reach that same little nook in the wall. Harry peers around, making sure that no one is watching before he ushers you through the narrow door. You cough quietly when you step into the dark, dusty stone corridor.

“Ever think about renovating?” you joke, fumbling for your cell phone so that you can illuminate the way. You jump slightly when Harry’s right hand falls to your hip, guiding you along. Your cheeks warm at the contact and you smile to yourself, grateful that he can’t see your face from where he’s following behind you.

When you both finally reach your destination, you don’t miss the chill that bites at your skin (but of course it’d be a bit cool; it’s nearly February, and there’s a massive hole in the ceiling of the cave).

“We’re going to freeze to death,” you repeat. Harry shakes his head and laughs quietly. He makes his way over to the small pond in the middle of the cavern, dropping all of the fabric in his arms onto the ground. You snicker and do the same. Together, you both splay out the blankets and towels so that you’ve got a massive covered space onto which you can settle down. Once you’re just about finished, you stand back up, placing your hands on your hips and observing your handiwork.

“’S good, I reckon,” Harry says, smiling up at you. You return his dopey expression before crossing your arms over your body and tugging your shirt up over your head. Once you’ve successfully freed yourself of the material, you glance shyly down at him and bite your lip to conceal a giddy grin.

His eyes have gone wide, and his jaw is locked tightly in place. You cock an eyebrow, shooting him an expectant look.

“I thought we were getting naked.”

“Bleedin’—,” Harry doesn’t finish his sentence, instead scrambling to his feet. His fingers fly to the first button on his shirt, and he makes quick work of undoing each clasp. You watch with excited, hungry eyes as the expensive white fabric falls to the ground.

The two of you remove the rest of your clothes, shedding your pants and undergarments frantically. You’ve just unclipped your bra when Harry stumbles over to you, wrapping his arms around your waist and pressing his lips to yours. You both giggle into each other’s mouths, nearly tripping over a fold in the blanket below your feet.

“C’mon,” Harry murmurs, gently flicking your chin with his index finger. “I’ve already got goosebumps.”

“How unfortunate,” you reply dryly. “Whose brilliant idea was it to go skinny dipping in the middle of January?”

“It was brilliant, wasn’t it?”

“Shut up.”

Harry grins boyishly at you before pinching his nose dramatically and leaping straight into the pond. Your jaw drops, and you dodge the droplets of water that have gone flying thanks to his theatrical display. Harry’s head appears from beneath the surface and he stands up, splaying out his arms as though he’s expecting some sort of praise. The water reaches just beneath his pectorals.

“How is it?” you ask nervously.

He shrugs his shoulders. “It’s actually fine, love. C’mon in.”

And he honestly doesn’t look cold or uncomfortable, so you take his word for it and jump in.

You soon realize that you’ve made a grave mistake.

“Holy fuck!” You shriek as soon as the water surrounds you. It’s freezing.

And Harry’s grinning.

“You dick!” you accuse, splashing him before wrapping your arms around yourself in a pathetic attempt to keep warm. “How did you manage to keep such a straight face?”

“It’s one of my many talents,” Harry replies smugly, and you scowl. You’re about to splash him again, but he quickly wraps his fingers around your forearms, stopping you before you succeed. “Smile for me,” he tells you, pressing his forehead against yours; he’s beaming like an idiot.

“Fuck you.”

“If you insist.”

You squeal with laughter when he grabs your thighs, wrapping them around his waist with ease. You’re still as frozen as ice, but Harry’s body heat is radiating off of his skin and lessening the chill.

“The water’s so cold,” you tell him, a mocking lilt infiltrating your words, “I’d be surprised if you were able to get it up.”

“Is that a challenge?” Harry asks, the corners of his mouth quirking up slightly. His eyes flick downward for only a moment, and he wiggles his brows at you. “’Cause you seem to be doing just fine.”

You follow his gaze, only to find that he’s staring at where your nipples have hardened and pebbled from the low temperature. As if to prove his point, Harry pinches one of them softly, and you yelp, batting his hand away.

“My boobs aren’t the same as your dick!”

“Right about that, love.” Harry snickers. “They’re much, much better.”

“You’re—,” you break off when he ducks his head, beginning to pepper soft kisses to the skin of your neck. “You’re too cheeky for your own good.”

“But you like it,” Harry laughs hotly into your throat, squeezing you closer to his body. His lips are soft as they sponge pecks along your jawline, and you can’t stop the content sigh that escapes your mouth. You jolt slightly when you feel him begin to stiffen against your thigh, and your eyelids flutter shut.

“I’ll be damned,” you murmur, mostly to yourself. “You’re hard.”

~*~

When his sister had told him that there were ongoing preparations in the ballroom for the dinner, Harry hadn’t expected much. Perhaps a few members of the staff polishing the floors and dusting off the walls. He’d tried to wean more information from her, but Gemma had simply pursed her berry lips and shot him a look, as if telling him to go see for himself.

Once he pushes through the grand doors of the hall, however, he finds that his predictions had been very, very wrong.

There are several dozen employees milling around, setting up tables with crème-coloured sheets and sparkling silverware. Matching chairs are brought out and arranged in groups of eight around each placement. Harry looks to his right, watching as a team of individuals work together to roll out a velvet red carpet and smooth away any bumps and folds; the material spans from the very top of the staircase to about a quarter-way down the length of the room. There’s a tinkling sound from above, and Harry cranes his neck, his eyes going impossibly wide at the sight.

Oh, God.

They’ve brought out the good chandelier.

He hears a familiar laugh to his left, and his gaze falls on his mother, who is chatting casually with—of course—Marina.

“Mum!” Harry’s voice is uncharacteristically high as he makes a beeline in her direction. Anne catches sight of him and waves him over warmly, holding out her arms as he approaches.

“Hi, dear,” she says. “How are you?”

“I’m fine, thanks,” Harry rushes out, forcing a smile (though he’s pretty sure it resembles more of a grimace). “Hi, Marina,” he greets the other woman.

Marina curtsies deeply, brushing her short black hair away from her face once she straightens back up. Today, she’s wearing a red dress with a slightly puffy petticoat and thick straps that rest on her shoulders. Naturally, her lips are painted the same shade of red, and when she beams happily at him, there’s that same smudge of lipstick on her teeth.

“Er,” Harry gnaws on the inside of his cheek, shuffling a bit awkwardly. He directs his next words to Marina. “Do you mind if I borrow my mum for a second?”

“Take your time.” She nods and curtsies yet again as she makes her exit, her short black heels clicking on the shiny floor.

Once she’s out of earshot, Harry turns to his mother, trying to decide how to properly articulate his thoughts. “Mum…,” he starts, but then his mind goes blank. Eventually, he sighs and regresses to the simplest question possible. “What’s all this?”

“What on Earth are you talking about?” Anne places a dainty hand on her chest as she laughs. Harry mimics her, though his chuckle is far less carefree, and he knows that he must look absolutely lost.

“I just—,” he gestures to the commotion around the ballroom, “Is this all for my birthday?”

“You only turn twenty-five once, love,” Anne smiles, one of her eyebrows kinking up amiably. “I just wanted this dinner to be special; plus, it’s only a few weeks away! I thought we could get a head start on the preparations.”

“And I appreciate that, I really do,” Harry says quickly. He reaches for his mother’s hand and gives it a light squeeze. “But don’t you think it’s all a bit…too much?”

“Nonsense,” Anne chuckles, placing her fingers on his biceps and giving his arms a few reassuring taps. “It’s your birthday, dear. And it’s quite the milestone, too. Won’t you give a poor mother the opportunity to arrange a nice dinner for her son?”

Harry smiles slightly, leaning in and kissing her cheek. “I’m sorry,” he says once he pulls back. “I—thank you for all of this. I’ll let you get back to it.”

She beams and nods. Harry returns her expression, but his chest is tight and there’s an anxious knot beginning to form in the pit of his stomach. He backs away from his mother, and his grin slides from his face as soon as he turns around. His feet carry him out of the ballroom quickly, and he pauses just outside the double doors to gather his thoughts.

She’s good.

Harry shakes his head, running his hands through his dark hair. He subconsciously begins to fiddle with a strand that curls right below his ear, twirling it around his index finger.

The dinner is going to take place in just over two weeks, and he still hasn’t told you how he truly feels about you.

A maid pushing a cart of cleaning supplies passes him, bowing her head dutifully in greeting. Harry does the same and tries for a smile, but it’s not sincere.

He’s pretty sure that he’s fucked, and unless he can come up with a quick yet effective solution, that’s how it’s going to stay.

~*~

When Harry phones you later that night, you’re hunched over your bathroom sink, scrubbing the remnants of a charcoal exfoliator from your face. You accept the call and immediately put it on speaker, squeezing your eyes shut and bending back down so that you don’t drip water onto the floor.

“Hey,” you say over the sound of the faucet. “Sorry, I’m just washing my face.”

“How very sophisticated of you.” Harry’s voice is deep and thick, as though he’s only minutes away from falling asleep. You laugh quietly and rub your palms over your cheeks one last time before turning off the sink and reaching for the small towelette next to you.

“Okay, I’m done,” you tell him, pressing the soft fabric against your skin to dry off. “How was your day?”

“Was alright,” Harry says simply, and though you can’t see him, you know he’s probably shrugging his shoulders. “Found out that Mum’s throwing a massive dinner for my birthday—I tried telling her that it was all too much but then she pulled the whole ‘it’s a milestone’ card.”

“It is a milestone.” You smirk, and Harry groans.

“Christ, you sound just like her.”

You giggle, wiping any excess water from your hands before chucking the small towel down onto the counter. “I think it’s nice that she wants to do this for you,” you say, reaching for your phone. “Before her diagnosis, my mother threw me a huge party for my twenty-first birthday. It was actually a lot of fun.” You smile fondly at the memory.

You make your way into your bedroom, tossing the device down onto the duvet and pulling your shorts down your legs. One of the straps of your tank top has slipped off of your shoulder, and you quickly yank it back up before tugging at the covers and sliding into bed. You set your cell phone onto the pillow next to your head before reaching over to flick off your lamp. A moment later, everything is dark.

“That sounds nice,” Harry replies; you can hear the smile in his voice.

“It was,” you agree. “My uncle’s turning fifty this year, and I’m pretty sure she’s already planning something big for him. She wants it to be a surprise, but I don’t know how well that’s going to turn out, considering she’s staying with him. It’s kind of hard to pull a fast one on your sibling when you’re both, like, living under the same roof.”

Harry snickers, and you bite your lip. “Sorry,” you tell him, squeezing your eyes shut. “I’m rambling.”

“No, no,” Harry says. “It’s okay, love, I don’t mind. How was your day?”

“Same old,” you hum. “But it wasn’t too hectic, which was nice. Although…,” you grin deviously, “I did get a call around noon asking if there was space for a very last-minute booking for tomorrow.”

Harry chuckles sheepishly. “I’m a bit of a procrastinator, alright?”

“Really? I hadn’t noticed.”

“Piss off.” He laughs, and you join in. After your giggles have trailed off into silence, he speaks again. “Can I take you out for ice cream tomorrow night? I can wait while you close up.”

“You won’t have to wait long,” you jest. “You’re my last appointment.”

“Really? Brilliant, then.”

You snort quietly, unable to stop a smile from curling along your lips. You turn onto your stomach, folding your arms over the pillow and settling your head down over your wrists. The screen of your phone has gone dark, but you still stare at it dreamily, wishing—more than anything—that you could have Harry laying here, instead. You can picture his boyish grin, his sparkling eyes, his messy hair. He’d probably want to cuddle and force you to spoon him, and you’d pretend to protest for a few moments before inevitably giving in.

“I miss you,” you say softly, the words hanging in the still air of your room. There’s a beat, followed by a second of shuffling on the other end of the line, and then Harry sighs.

“I miss you, too.”

You purse your lips.

“I just saw you a couple of days ago,” you say plainly. You’re trying to make light of your words, trying to disguise the painful pressure that’s suddenly formed in your chest. “It’s kind of stupid that I’m already missing you, isn’t it?”

“No,” Harry tells you. The sincerity in his voice is nearly tangible. “No, it’s not stupid at all. I promise.”

You nod, reaching back to pull the duvet up over your shoulders. Harry exhales quietly, and you close your eyes as you ask, “You tired?”

“A bit,” he purrs. “You?”

“Same.”

Harry hums faintly. “You should get to bed, darling. I’ll see you tomorrow, yeah?”

“Yeah,” you say, inhaling deeply. “Goodnight, Your Lavishness.”

He chuckles. “Goodnight, my love.”

~*~

“I really like this pattern on you.”

“Find it sexy, do you?”

“Honestly, yeah.”

Harry groans. “Don’t do this to me. Not here.”

You flash him a wicked grin, running your fingers up his thighs and batting your eyelashes innocently. You’re on your knees in front of him, and your behaviour isn’t making it any easier for him to keep himself in check. He’s fully aware of the handful of stoic men standing just outside the door, and as much as he would love to show you off, he’s decided that he wants your moans to be reserved for his ears only.

“We could be quick,” you murmur, hooking your thumb into the dip of one of his pockets. “I could be quick.”

“You’re killing me,” Harry says, grimacing dramatically. You giggle quietly, securing a sewing pin in place and pushing off from your knees. Harry holds out his hands and helps you stand, and you curtsy teasingly once you’re properly on your feet.

“Thank you, Your Lavishness.”

He just smiles, folding his thumb beneath your chin and guiding you into a long, sickly sweet kiss. You cup his cheeks in your hands and grin against his lips, tucking a strand of hair behind his ear with your pinky. Harry’s free hand falls to your hip, and he pinches your skin lightly over the material of your jeans. He laughs when you squeak and stiffen.

“Let’s go,” he tells you, peppering a few kisses to your forehead and along the bridge of your nose. “Gimme just a minute to get changed and then we’ll be on our way. I’m craving some of that cookie dough ice cream.”

You throw your head back and make a delighted sound. Your fingers run along the fabric of his lapels, tracing the design of vertical red and black stripes. “That’s the best one. Didn’t know I’d gotten myself a man of taste.”

“A man of impeccable taste,” Harry corrects. You snicker.

“Let’s not push it.”

~*~

“Oi, you had yours!” Harry lifts his ice cream cup out of reach when you try to jab your spoon into the cold treat. You laugh loudly, the sound echoing through the staircase of your apartment complex. Your place is located on the third floor, and you and Harry had both agreed to take the steps rather than the elevator (Harry’s telling himself that it’s because the pair of you need to work off the calories you’d just ingested, but in reality, he knows that it’s only because it allows him to spend a bit more time with you).

“I can’t help it!” You protest, grinning widely. “It was so good, I’m addicted now.”

“That sounds an awful lot like what you said after you first fell into bed with me.”

“Oh my God!”

“I’m joking, bleedin’ hell!” Harry races up the remaining few stairs while you chase him, swatting half-heartedly at his bum. You’re both in stitches and out of breath when you reach your door, and you fish your keys out from your purse while trying to curb your laughter.

Eventually, you manage to unlock the entrance. Harry’s still wheezing quietly when you tumble through the threshold and into the front hallway. You quickly remove your shoes and hang your purse and jacket against the wall before ushering him to do the same.

Your keys jangle when you set them down onto the kitchen counter. Harry takes a seat at the small island in the middle of your kitchen, placing his elbows onto the smooth surface and digging his spoon into what’s left of his ice cream.

“Want something to drink?” you ask, already beginning to rifle through your cabinets for glasses.

“Water’s fine, love,” he replies. “Thanks.”

“All that cookie dough got you thirsty?” You quip, shooting him a lopsided smirk. Harry chuckles when you slide a glass of water over to him. He picks it up and takes a hearty gulp before holding out the remainder of his dessert.

“Here,” he says. “Finish it off.”

“Are you serious?” Your face splits into a grin, and he can’t help but to return your happy expression. Your smile is just so goddamn contagious.

“I’m serious,” Harry affirms, laughing softly. “Take it, go on.”

You squeal joyfully, circling the island so that you can accept his offering and simultaneously press your lips to his. The action catches him a bit by surprise but he definitely isn’t complaining. You pull back slightly, littering small pecks against his Cupid’s bow and letting out dramatic smacking sounds with each kiss.

“You’re the best.”

“Am I?”

“Mm-hm. The finest man I’ve ever met.”

“Oi. Better stop that before I take you to bed,” Harry warns, feeling his cock give an admonitory twitch in his trousers. You simply smile, licking a scoop of ice cream off your spoon before flashing him a mischievous look.

“Is that a promise?”

Fifteen minutes later, you’re sat in his lap, your hips moving in slow undulations as his hands stroke up and down your back. Harry feels you shiver beneath his palms; his hands are a bit cold, contrasting dramatically with the warmth of your skin beneath your knitted sweater. You cup his face sweetly in your hands, your lips moving unhurriedly against his. He’s not sure if he wants to get you naked or if he wants to just stay like this, with his fingertips dancing along your skin and your satisfied sighs floating in the air.

“Do you wanna fuck?” you whisper, and Harry freezes, because…no.

He doesn’t.

He doesn’t want to fuck. He doesn’t want to make you cum and then pretend as though his feelings don’t run so much deeper than what’s been established. He wants to be able to whisper words of adoration against your skin and profess his feelings for you after the whole ordeal is over. He wants to tell you how much you mean to him. He wants to finally end a bloody phone call with, “Love you, bye.”

“Actually,” he grunts, his voice slightly hoarse. He places his palms on the cushions, pushing himself up a bit. “I was kind of hoping to first talk to you about something, if that’s alright.”

“Sure,” you reply easily, shrugging. You brush a strand of hair away from his forehead and poke the space where his dimple usually appears. “What’s up?”

“I told you about my mum throwing me that birthday dinner,” Harry starts, and you nod. “And I was just wondering…would—would you wanna go?”

“Okay,” you say, but Harry knows that the true intentions behind his request haven’t fully settled in.

“No,” he says slowly. “I mean…would you wanna go…as my date?”

You tense.

“As your date,” you repeat, as though checking to make sure you’ve heard him correctly.

Harry nods, chewing on his bottom lip anxiously. You sigh quietly, sitting back a bit and running your fingers through your hair. The expression on your face is indecipherable, and Harry thinks that seeing you wear a mask of indifference is far worse than any amount of anger that could warp your features.

“Harry…,” you begin softly. Your eyes are sad, and he already knows where you’re going with this.

“You like me, don’t you?” He rushes out, nearly biting his tongue in his haste. When you hesitate, his heart drops into his stomach. “Don’t you?”

“I do,” you whisper; there are tears slowly gathering along your waterline. “I just—I don’t think I’m ready for that.”

“For what?” He questions, nearly begging. “How’s it any different than when I took you to the gala?”

He doesn’t understand. It suddenly feels like someone has set his whole world on fire, and he can’t do anything but watch as the flames mount higher and higher and burn everything to the ground.

“It’s very different and you know it,” you say thickly. Air escapes from your mouth in a trembling exhale.

Harry wants to argue, but he recognizes that you’re right. The circumstances aren’t the same. His intentions aren’t the same. And he knows that the potential repercussions won’t be the same, either.

“I’m not ready to be in the spotlight,” you elaborate; your voice wavers slightly. “I—I’ve seen how the world works, Harry. They’d tear me to shreds.”

“It’s none of their business, is it?” Harry tries again, reaching for your hips, but you quickly slide off of him and stand up.

He watches as you step back, trying to put as much distance as you can between the two of you. It makes his chest ache, and he feels like he’s choking, his throat closing up when he tries to regulate his breathing.

“It’s not,” you agree, sniffling gently. “But that doesn’t stop them, does it? And what about your mother? Your sister?”

“Gemma loves you,” Harry implores. “C’mon, love, you know that.”

“And Anne?” Your laugh is hollow as you shake your head sadly. “I’m no idiot, Harry. I know that she’s got her own opinions, and I don’t think she’d be very happy to hear that you’re fooling around with someone like me.”

“What do you mean, someone like you? What—?”

“Someone normal! Someone average.”

“Average,” Harry echoes; the word tastes vile on his tongue. “Love, you’re—you’re anything but average.”

“That’s not how she’ll see it,” you tell him, hugging yourself tightly.

Harry’s heart is pounding erratically beneath his ribs. He places his palms on his knees and stands up, hoping that the abrupt move won’t scare you away. He’s half-expecting you to take another step back, but his veins flood with a touch of relief when he sees that you’ve stayed rooted to the spot.

“You’re not average,” Harry insists, raking his fingers through his hair. “And I’m not just ‘fooling around’ with you, Y/N, I’m bloody in love with you!”

And then it’s there, out in the open, available for you to dissect and analyze as you please. Harry’s eyes widen slightly when he fully processes his words, but it’s too late. The syllables hang in the air like dusty cobwebs; Harry feels like they’ve been printed out onto a piece of parchment and taped onto his forehead. You’re staring at him with parted lips and terrified eyes, and when you choke on a sob he wants to punch himself in the face.

“Stop,” you croak, shaking your head and holding up your hand. “Please just—stop.”

“I’m sorry,” Harry says, but it feels like he’s underwater, the words wobbling from his lips and muffled in his ears. “I didn’t mean to—”

“No, I’m sorry,” you say, wiping at your wet cheeks with the back of your hand. “I just—I can’t do this right now. It’s not a good time.”

“Is everything alright?” Harry’s brows cinch together.

You wave off his concerns, trying to speak through your tears. “Everything’s fine. But I��I need some time alone right now, Harry. I’m sorry.”

He nods dejectedly, swallowing down the lump in his throat.

“’Course,” he mumbles. He’s trying to hold in his own emotions, but his eyes are itching with sadness and humiliation. “I’ll go.”

“I’m sorry,” you repeat, a fresh wave of tears spilling over your waterline. You cover your mouth with your hand to keep your cries at bay as you watch him walk away. “I’m so sorry.”

Harry doesn’t respond, because he doesn’t have to; the sound of your front door opening and closing rings louder than anything that he could’ve ever said.

~*~

“Hey.”

Gemma knocks after she’s already opened the door, which Harry finds silly. He turns over so that he doesn’t have to face her, instead giving her a wonderful view of his back, which is covered in a periwinkle silk pajama top. He grunts softly as he pulls the duvet up his body, clutching the luxurious fabric to his chest and smothering the left side of his face into his pillow.

“Hey,” he croaks back.

Gemma bites her lip before deciding to take the plunge. She slips through the gap in the door before shutting it quietly.

“You weren’t at the brunch,” she states. “One of the duchesses asked about you, but Mum said you weren’t feeling well, so…I just wanted to check in.”

“I’m fine,” Harry mutters. “Thanks.”

Gemma hesitates before barrelling through, because she’s never been one to avoid a problem.

“Did something happen?” she asks gently. She knows better than to confront him with a hard tone, because her brother has always been a sensitive grump. When he gets like this, it’s very easy to say the wrong thing and have him close up quicker than a beartrap. So, she chooses her words carefully, speaking them with delicate prose and never pressuring him to answer. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“It’s nothing.” His reply is muffled and monosyllabic. She’s about to give up and leave, but then he adds, “Just did something stupid, that’s all.”

That’s a good sign, Gemma decides, and she presses subtly.

“I’m sorry things are hard right now,” she starts. “If you need to vent, I’m here.”

“It’s alright,” Harry shakes his head slightly. “Don’t wanna waste my breath. It’s been a week, and she’s not called, so I’d say it’s a lost cause.”

“‘She’?” Gemma questions, taking advantage of her brother’s small slip. “Are you talking about Y/N?”

The stiffening of Harry’s shoulders tells her everything she needs to know.

“Did something happen with her?” Gemma probes, digging deeper. She understands that she’s treading far too recklessly; if Harry’s worries are uncharted waters, she’s navigating with a flimsy paper sailboat. Still, she persists. “Is she alright?”

“She’s fine.” Harry sighs before adding, “Least, I think she is; I dunno. She’s refused to talk to me, hasn’t she?”

“H,” Gemma says quietly, closing her eyes and rubbing at her temples. “What did you do?”

“Nothing,” Harry grumbles, curling into himself, and his sister knows that he’s through with their conversation. “I’m done talking about this,” he states, as though he needs to drive home his point. Gemma steps back and nods, even though she knows that he can’t see her.

“Alright,” she concedes. “I’m sorry, I won’t pry.”

“It’s fine,” Harry replies, his voice low and scratchy. “Can you please tell Mum that I’m still feeling shitty?”

She nods, because it technically wouldn’t be a lie.

“H,” Gemma calls out once she’s got one hand on the doorknob. “I wouldn’t worry too much, you know. She really fancies you; I can tell.”

At that, Harry peers over his shoulder, gracing his sister with his side profile. His eyes are inquisitive, and his lips are pursed into a fine line as questions whirl around in his head. He eventually settles on the simplest query imaginable. “You knew?”

Gemma snorts. “Of course. You lot really aren’t too subtle with how you ogle each other.” She pauses for a moment. “Pretty sure Mum’s caught on, too, but you know her. She likes to wait for confirmation before jumping to any conclusions.”

“Mum knows?” Harry’s voice rises an octave; his sister shushes him.

“Relax,” she says, “She hasn’t thrown a fit about it—at least, not to my knowledge. You really are quite dense, aren’t you?”

“Piss off,” Harry grumbles, but—to her surprise—he doesn’t turn back around. In fact, Gemma thinks that she may have even seen the hint of a small, relieved smile pull at his lips. She nods soundly before pulling open his bedroom door.

“You can mope around for the rest of the day, but tomorrow I want to discuss with you the guestlist for your dinner.” She fixes him with an expectant glare. “I’m assuming you want me to leave Y/N’s name on it, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Harry echoes. There’s a hollowness to his voice, but also a hint of something else—gratitude, maybe.

“Gem,” he speaks up quickly before she can disappear. “Thanks.”

“No problem,” Gemma replies. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

And then she’s gone.

~*~

Your day starts off exactly how it had the day before…and the day before that…and the day before that.

You wake up and for the first minute or so, you’re blissfully oblivious. You stretch and squeak and sigh contentedly when your joints crack. The past few mornings have been unusually nice, and you relish in the sunlight that streams in from your window. The space beneath your blankets is warm, and you wiggle your toes to urge some feeling back into your feet. A few inches away, your phone is charging on your bedside table (you know that you’re not supposed to leave it plugged in for the entire night, but it’s easier that way).

And then the memories from a week ago come rushing back, and you feel like you’ve been punched in the gut.

I’m not just ‘fooling around’ with you, Y/N, I’m bloody in love with you!

You squeeze your eyes shut, groaning loudly and burying your face into your pillow. If you could somehow strangle yourself with your own two hands, you would. You deserve it, anyway, you think.

You remember the night before everything had crumbled, when you’d asked him over the phone if it was stupid that you were missing him after only a few days apart from each other. Even then, the pair of you had been messaging back and forth and clinging to some sort of communication. You hadn’t been truly prepared for what it would be like to not speak with him at all for a full week.

You despise it, though. That’s a given.

You roll out of bed and decide to take a quick shower before pulling on your clothes for the day. Under the warm spray of the water, you soap up your body and watch childishly as the white lather drips from your fingertips. You hate that it reminds you of the way Harry would constantly shake out his wet hair whenever you both crept away to go skinny dipping. After the first instance, you’d both agreed to make it a habit, and you’d stuck to the resolution with a worrying amount of willpower.

You shake your head free of the recollection, quickly rinsing off and shutting the water.

As you rifle through your closet, your eyes land on the red gown you’d worn to the gala all those months ago. You freeze, trying to compose yourself. The lump in your throat proves difficult to swallow but, nonetheless, you manage. With a gentle sigh, you tear your gaze away from the ruby-coloured fabric and settle on a plain white V-neck and a simple navy blue cardigan.

You’re in the middle of tugging your jeans up your legs when your phone chimes with a notification. Leaning over, you unlock the device, and you swear quietly upon discovering that it’s a reminder from your calendar.

One week until His Royal Lavishness’s birthday!

You’d added a few emojis after the exclamation point, and with each party hat, balloon, and crown that your eyes skim over, a new crack forms in your armour. You quickly swipe your thumb to the side and disregard the reminder, turning off your phone and clearing your throat when the screen goes black.

That’s enough of that.

~*~

You’re just pencilling in a follow-up appointment for your last client of the day when the small bell above the entrance of the shop jingles pleasantly.

“I’m so sorry,” you call out politely, keeping your gaze trained on your computer screen. “I’m about to close up for the evening.”

“Of course, dear.” The woman’s voice carries a delicate lilt, and your eyes widen in shock. “This will only take a minute.”

Anne is quite literally glowing when you meet her gaze. You stand abruptly and bow your head, feeling a warm flush creep up onto your cheeks. “Your Majesty,” you say quickly, feeling your heartbeat accelerate beneath the cage of your ribs. “Hi, hello. Good evening. How are you?”

You’re rambling, and you couldn’t be more embarrassed. Anne laughs softly.

“Enough of that, darling,” she tells you. “Come here. Give me a hug.”

“I—okay, sure.” You gnaw anxiously on your bottom lip as you slip out from behind your desk. She holds her arms out and flashes you a warm smile. Despite the tension in your shoulders, her embrace is calming, and you feel yourself relax in her hold. She smooths her palms up and down your back and tilts the two of you from side to side. You giggle.

“How can I help you?” you ask, glancing nervously as a handful of men pile into the store. They’re all wearing black suits and dark sunglasses, and a coiled wire hooks a small device into their right ears. Their faces are unreadable, but being around Harry so often, you’ve learned that they’re fully capable of cracking a joke or two when the situation allows for it.

You shake your head slightly, trying to eradicate all thoughts of Harry from your mind. Now isn’t the time.

“Just felt like paying you a short visit,” Anne answers, pulling back and staring at you with piercing green eyes. You try to avoid shifting uncomfortably under her gaze. Not only does it feel like she’s peeling back every layer of your being, but her irises are identical to those of her son.

“How’s your mum?” Anne continues, oblivious to your internal turmoil.

“She’s good,” you reply, nodding. “Doing better than ever. How are you? How’s your family?”

How’s Harry?

It’s the only thing you care about, the most pressing question on the tip of your tongue. But you clamp your mouth shut before the words can escape, reeling in your yearning and trying to keep a level head. If you were alone with her, you might have dared to ask. But standing in front of several resigned, apathetic—and frankly, intimidating—men, you feel far too naked already.

“I’m doing alright.” The queen’s lips quirk up into a small, clever smile. “I’ve got nothing to complain about, really. Gemma’s wonderful, but she says she misses you. Harry does, too.”

Your eyes drop to the floor and stay there; you’re too ashamed to meet her gaze. Anne notices your sudden apprehension—humiliation is written all over your face. She steps forward, her fingertips brushing your wrist before she sets a comforting hand onto your arm, just above the crook of your elbow.

“I’m not one hundred percent certain of what’s going on with you and my son,” she starts. Your heart plummets, and your shoulders tense up as she continues. “But I do know that you haven’t been coming around as much, recently. And—coincidentally—Harry hasn’t been in too much of a chipper mood these past several days.”

You gulp.

Anne holds up her hands in mock-surrender. “I know it’s none of my business,” she says gently. “But I…I would like to see the two of you on good terms again. You lot were quite precious, if I’m being honest.”

You laugh softly, but it feels like there’s an elephant sitting on your chest. “Thank you.”

“Of course.” She smiles. “And just know that you’re always welcome to attend Harry’s upcoming dinner, whether you want to or not. I hope to see you there.”

You flash her a small smile, gratitude and pain evident in your expression. Anne pulls you in for one more hug before bidding you goodbye, and you watch with stinging eyes and a tight throat as she exits the shop. The room suddenly feels impossibly tiny, and you glance quickly at the walls to make sure that they are, in fact, not closing in on you.

When the last of the queen’s guards slips outside, you’re left alone, standing in the middle of the small lobby and trying to keep yourself from falling apart.

~*~

Harry’s admiring himself in the massive, three-faced mirror in the corner of his bedroom when the door cracks open slowly. He watches through the reflection as Jeff pokes his head into the room while tightening the black tie around his neck.

“H,” he says gruffly, his expression unreadable. “You’ve got a visitor.”

Harry nods at him and leans in, skirting his thumb along the corner of his lips to make sure that there’s no excess lip balm gathering along the edges of his mouth. There’s a dull pain thrumming beneath his sternum, but it doesn’t worry him as much as it normally would. In fact, he’s pretty sure it’s one of the side effects of a broken heart.

He had been trusting that this past week would be easier without you, but his hopes were dashed quite rapidly. Everything reminded him of you.

He’d scrolled through his phone for hours, one night, reading over your previous conversations and trying not to let his tears drip onto the screen. He hasn’t even touched the playlists you’d previously shared with him, knowing that he’ll end up associating every song with some part of you. He’d lied to his mother about feeling sick for five days straight, but he’d finally called off the ruse when she’d declared that she was going to head into town herself and return with some medication. And he hasn’t been back down to your “spot” since the night everything went to shit, leaving the small cave abandoned and alone.

Harry sighs. He’s obviously no good at dealing with breakups.

Does this even count as a breakup?

He honestly doesn’t know.

He’s fiddling absentmindedly with the lapels of his pinstriped suit when a slight movement in the mirror catches his attention. His breathing stops, and his eyes grow unfeasibly wide as he watches someone step into the room.

Speak of the fucking devil.

“Hi,” you say quietly.

You’ve definitely achieved a perfect score with your outfit, decked out in a pretty black dress that reaches a few inches above the knee. The long sleeves are lacy and end right at the crook of your arm, leaving your shoulders bare. In one hand, you’re gripping a small silver clutch; in the other, there’s a bright yellow gift bag with blue tissue paper sticking out of the top. Harry watches you shuffle nervously in your black, strappy heels, his heart hammering wildly beneath his ribs. You’re gorgeous. You’re absolutely beautiful.

And you’re here.

“Hi,” he chokes out, meeting your gaze in the mirror. He quickly realizes, however, that he’d very much prefer to see the real thing, so he spins around and faces you properly.

You approach him slowly, stopping when your bodies are only a few feet apart.

“How are you?” you ask, gnawing anxiously on your bottom lip. Harry opens his mouth to respond, but then you shake your head and squeeze your eyes shut, seeming to silently reprimand yourself. “Sorry. Stupid question.”

And then you’re thrusting out the hand that’s carrying the gift bag, the action robotic and abrupt. The sheer blue tissue paper crinkles with the movement, and for a few long seconds, it’s the only sound in the room.

“Happy birthday,” you whisper, the words feeble as they roll off of your tongue.

Harry clears his throat, tucking a curl behind his ear and gingerly taking the present from you. He tries to ignore the way his skin tingles knowingly when his fingers brush against yours. “Thank you,” he murmurs, gently toying with the edges of the bag.

“You can open it,” you tell him, and Harry’s worried that your lip is going to split open from how hard you’re biting down on the soft flesh. You continue, beginning to ramble. “I wasn’t really sure what to get you, because how do you shop for someone who’s already got everything, you know? So, I—,” you shrug, “I just figured I’d make it myself.”

He pulls the tissue paper to the side, fumbling for a fleeting second before his hand bumps into something soft. Harry grasps it and pulls it out, studying the object carefully.

Clutched in his fingers is a small throw pillow, no bigger than his hand. It’s rectangular in shape and ivory in colour, so pale that it’s almost white. Along the edges, you’ve carefully sewn a simple lace trim. And in the middle, embroidered in red, the word LOVED stands out in capital letters.

Harry stays silent, admiring your handiwork. It’s clear that you’ve dedicated a lot of time and effort into the cushion—each stitch is perfectly placed, and the needlework is meticulous and nothing short of impeccable. He runs his fingers along the lace border, marvelling at the softness of the material. There’s a lump in his throat, and try as he might, he can’t seem to swallow it down.

You take his silence as disappointment.

“I thought you might like it,” you say hastily, playing with the silver bracelet on your wrist. “I know you’ve got those pants with that same design—and you wear them all the time—so I just assumed…yeah.” You catch your breath, fixing him with a fretful look. “You hate it, right?”

“No,” Harry says immediately, his head snapping up. He stares into your eyes, shaking his head earnestly. “No, not at all. It’s—it’s incredible. Truly.”

“I just thought you should have something else,” you start, swallowing heavily. “Something else that reminds you of—of how loved you really are. Anne loves you; so does Gemma.” You inhale shakily. “And so do I.”

The little bit of air residing in Harry’s lungs is quickly lost when he processes your words. His breathing hitches quite audibly in his throat, and he studies you with intense, piercing eyes. You stare right back, and he finds nothing but sincerity beneath your gaze. He’s never seen you so vulnerable.

“You do?” he asks, but the question actually sounds like more of a statement. You nod vehemently—your eyes shine with unshed tears—and bless him with the confirmation that he needs to hear.

“I do.”

And then he’s kissing you, and you’re wrapping your arms around his neck and whimpering against his lips and trying to get as close to him as possible, and everything is perfect. Harry’s got your face in his hands, your mouths convening with a bruising force. He swallows down your soft cries of relief and fights to keep his own tucked away. Your fingertips dig into his back and you pull him in until there’s not enough room to slip even a piece of paper between your chests.

When you both finally break apart for a much-needed gulp of air, Harry presses his forehead to yours, squeezing his eyes shut. He’s trapped in his own head and then promptly wrenched from his thoughts when he realizes that you’re speaking.

“I’m so sorry,” you’re prattling; he doesn’t miss the crack in your voice. “I just—I needed to think. I’m sorry it took so long; it’ll never happen again—”

“Shh.” He soothes you, stroking your cheekbones with his thumbs. “It’s alright, love, I promise.” He shakes his head, chuckling in disbelief. “God, I missed you.”

“I missed you too,” you confess, playing inattentively with his hair. You reach up to wipe a smear of lipstick from his mouth. The plum colour stands out against his pink lips, and he nips teasingly at the pad of your finger, making you giggle softly. A long beat of silence ensues, and neither of you bother to break it, basking in the solace of the other’s proximity.

Eventually, you’re the first to speak up, but your voice is gentle, as though you don’t want to disrupt the serenity in the room.

“Thanks for leaving my name on the guestlist, by the way,” you murmur. “I would’ve looked really stupid, otherwise, just standing outside with a gift bag and this whole speech ready to go along with it.”

He snickers, shaking his head. “Was praying you’d show up. Last hope and all.”

“I’m here,” you tell him, squeezing his shoulders. His warm breath fans out onto your chin—a gentle reminder that he’s here too—and you sigh in delight. “You look so handsome.”

Harry can’t keep the smile off of his face. “Thank you. I’ll give your regards to the tailoress, yeah?”

You chuckle bashfully.

“You look absolutely magnificent,” he continues, his words keen and ardent. “Took my breath away the second you walked in. Can’t believe you’re mine.”

“I am.” You nod, pulling back and gazing up at him with heartfelt eyes. His palms find your cheeks again, and he feels your jaw move beneath his touch as you speak. “I love you, Your Lavishness. I’m yours.”

And Harry really doesn’t know how to convey his newfound joy, so he just kisses you again.

~*~

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#harry styles smut #harry styles imagine #harry styles one shot #harry styles blurb #harry styles fanfiction #i think this is the quickest i've ever churned out a fic of this caliber and length!#im so excited for yall to read it you have NO IDEA!!!! i really hope u like it as much as i do #harry writing

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kaibacorpintern · 5 years

Text

@emblematik requested “yuugi + datebook” and i was like “hm interesting” and then a few minutes later i was like “oh shit... IDEA.”

no joke: i wrote 90% of this on my phone. i just checked the word count and it’s 2000 words. lol. casual rivalshipping, but it’s not about that. post-DM. enjoy the feels x

MONDAY, 8:26 AM

Yuugi sat cross-legged in the soft, shallow cradle of his bed, half-asleep, phone in his hands. Anzu was on the other end of the video call, wandering through the New York apartment she shared with four other girls.

“ -- so they come bursting out of the egg, and that's just how the show starts. It gets loonier from there. But it means every week, she has to make another big-ass papier-mâché egg for her guest performer, and this week, that’s me. Hey Tiff, love the space buns,” Anzu said, turning to someone out-of-sight, and Yuugi heard a voice call back, in a cheerful sing-song, thaaank youuu!

“So you're helping her make the egg?” Yuugi said.

“Yeah, she calls it 'laying the egg.’ Performance artists are so weird,” she said, as Yuugi grinned with delight. “Anyway, gotta run. Can you do next Sunday?”

“Let me see,” Yuugi said, leaning over to swipe his weathered datebook off his night stand, the pages dogeared with almost a year's worth of use. A blank datebook he'd filled out from June to June with every notable hour of his life, using a pen he kept tucked in the binding. He'd spilled water on it a few months ago and the pages had crinkled as they dried. Now it refused to sit flat, with gaps that rippled between the pages.

He held the phone in one hand and flipped clumsily through the datebook with the other, spreading it open on his thigh. After that Sunday, there was one blank week left in the datebook. “Nope, I'm booked. Let's just do Monday again.”

“Works for me,” Anzu said. “Love ya! Bye!”

“Love you too, have fun laying your egg,” Yuugi said, and she flashed him an exasperated grin. The screen went black, and a dreamy silence descended on Yuugi’s bedroom once more. Yuugi flopped back down into bed with a contented sigh, tossing the phone onto the nightstand. He held the datebook over his head, his week carefully penned in. Class, his shifts at the game shop, and on Tuesday, he was seeing…

TUESDAY, 6:37 PM

“Fuck,” Jounouchi said, staring in bafflement at the cards lying face up on the playmat between them. They sat at a long, wooden table on the airy patio of a cafe, with vines flowing thick along the walls, the cards illuminated in the soft, inviting light of the lanterns strung across the space. “How did you win? When did you win?”

“A few turns ago,” Yuugi confessed, idly churning the ice of his Italian soda with his straw. “But you had me on the ropes for a while there. If you played your Time Wizard combo a turn earlier, I would've lost.”

“Damnit! I knew it,” Jounouchi said, thumping his fist firmly on the table. “I keep forcing myself to wait. I just don't wanna blow it again, like Nationals.”

“I think your nerves are making you doubt yourself,” Yuugi said. “Your instincts are strong. Just listen to them, and you'll do fine.”

Jounouchi, gathering up his cards from the playmat, glanced up at him, the lantern light giving his faint blush a rosy glow.

“See, how the heck am I supposed to attack you when you say things like that?” he said. “Maybe I should get a practice duel with someone who actually pisses me off. Hey, ask your pal if he'll duel me.”

“My pal? Is that what he is?” Yuugi said, lifting an eyebrow as he reached for his phone; then he changed course, tucking his hand into the messenger bag at his feet and ferreting out his datebook. He checked the date. “I'm seeing him tomorrow, actually. I'll just ask.”

“Perfect. How's your Sunday looking? Honda said he’ll have my Duel Disk fixed by then.”

“I have plans already,” Yuugi said, dropping the datebook back into his bag and leaning back in his chair.

“Oh, okay, Mr. Popular. Don't forget I leave for the tournament Friday after next. That's in your book, right?” Jou said, and Yuugi hummed in reply. Mm-hmm. Then Jou leaned forward, resting both elbows on the table and his chin atop his hands, fixing Yuugi with a roguish look. “Who is Kaiba, if not your pal?”

Now Yuugi couldn't help but blush, his skin warmer than the summer air. “Uh, he's…”

WEDNESDAY, 9:57 PM

Sitting next to Yuugi on the couch, one bent leg tucked underneath him and one arm slung over the back. Studying the screen of Yuugi's laptop as Yuugi scrolled through the lines of code he'd abandoned, several days earlier, at dawn, surrendering to the frustration of a long and fruitless all-nighter. Lucky for him, Kaiba liked nothing so much as telling people they were wrong, why they were wrong, and how to stop being wrong.

Kaiba leaned closer, frowning intently, his force of presence buffeting Yuugi like a wave. A good wave, dense and heady, fragrant with his cologne. He had many, many things to say about object-oriented programming, all of which Yuugi had listened to very carefully, and none of which he'd actually heard.

“I found your problem,” Kaiba declared.

“Thank God, this assignment is driving me nuts,” Yuugi said, sighing with relief. “What is it?”

In response, Kaiba reached out and shut the laptop with a firm whap. “You’re distracted.”

“I am not,” Yuugi said.

“Tell me what I just said about using global variables.”

Yuugi bit his lip, scrambling through the last five, ten, fifteen minutes for whatever Kaiba had said about global variables, and found… nothing, except a keen awareness of the way Kaiba was staring at him now, leaning his cheek against his loosely curled hand, a wry smile tugging on his lips.

“Uh,” Yuugi said after a moment, realizing he’d fallen neatly into the usual trap. “Don't?”

Kaiba snorted. “When is this due?”

Yuugi leaned forward, momentarily escaping the weightless swell of feeling in his chest, and plucked his datebook off the coffee table from where it lay beside his textbooks. “In a week.”

“Alright. I have a few hours on Sunday or Tuesday. When would you like to waste my time next?” Kaiba said, with a sort of laid-back disdain.

“I think I’ll squander your Tuesday,” Yuugi said, tugging the pen free, scribbling a note. He set both laptop and datebook on the coffee table and settled back, deeply, breathlessly aware of Kaiba's gaze on him, tracing lines of fire up and down his body.

“So,” Kaiba said, a low, teasing growl, his mouth inches from Yuugi's ear. “What is so distracting to you?”

“Nothing,” Yuugi said, smiling, about to vibrate out of himself with impatience. “You have my full attention.”

“Good,” Kaiba said, and the next thing Yuugi knew he was swept up in a dark rush of warmth, Kaiba pressing a kiss like a hot, wet star to the curve of his neck. He fumbled blindly with one arm, catching Kaiba by the back of his head, pulling him down as he twisted and fell backwards along the couch.

He huffed, a wordless plea for mercy, as Kaiba mouthed along the shell of his ear, making scandalous suggestions with his tongue, clearly enjoying himself.

“Problem solved,” he said smugly, and Yuugi groaned, laughing.

FRIDAY, 4:13 PM

A gentle chime broke through the cool, quiet air of the game shop. Yuugi, wandering the shelves with his scanner, conducting inventory, pulled his phone out of his back pocket.

RYOU: finished writing my new campaign!! want in?

YUUGI: duh

what days are u thinking?

RYOU: sundays? that's when everyone else is free

YUUGI: i can do sundays, but not this sunday

RYOU: not a problem. we can start next week. any plans?

The question turned over in his chest like a stone, a tremendous weight, heavy and slow and dull. Yuugi stood motionless, staring down at his phone, the scanner dangling in his limp hand and the silence of the store falling over him like a shroud.

But he shook it off. Ryou had given him the idea.

YUUGI: I’m going to the park with my datebook, you know the one

RYOU: oh

please send him my best

YUUGI: i will!

is this the space campaign you were telling me about?

Pulling out of the subject like pulling a boot out of the mud, with staggering release. Yuugi resumed his task of taking inventory, stopping every so often to answer Ryou's excited texts about Eldritch horrors and homebrew campaigns.

That night, he lay in bed and discovered the stone was still there, cradled in his straining ribs. So he opened the skylight in his bedroom, inviting the summer night to flow in. It sprawled open above him, hot and dark and flecked with stars, vibrating with the hum of cicadas hidden in the trees. The summer spinning its promise into a refrain. Every new day, each blank page of his datebook, beckoning him forward.

SUNDAY, 11:00 AM

Yuugi awoke to a bright, beautiful June morning, sliding his feet into the secret pockets of cool still tucked away between the sheets. The skylight in his room revealed a clear, hot sky.

He flew through the rest of the morning, as light and taut as a kite, unburdened by exhaustion or idleness. On a whim, he opened his laptop, giving a quick eye to his assignment; Kaiba wouldn't bring up global variables for no reason… and the solution presented itself, like a closed fist turning over to reveal the prize in its palm.

He didn’t cancel on Kaiba. They’d waste time some other way.

Buoyant, he left the house, with his datebook and a lighter in his bag. There were two stops to make before the park: first, a cafe, for an iced coffee, and second, the neighborhood bookstore, where he bought a brand-new blank datebook.

Then he began the long, pleasant walk down to the park, his phone on silent. The whole of Domino was cast in a drowsy summer light so smooth and liquid he wanted to cup it in his hands and drink it, to feel it run sweet and pure through his veins. Neither his mind nor his route wandered from their destination: the plank bridge in the park.

It sat in an isolated corner of the park, a leafy, overgrown grotto dappled with sunlight. The long pond slowed to a mirrored stillness here, cooled by the shade of the trees. Insects hummed in the foliage. As Yuugi stepped onto the plank bridge, the hollow thunk of his foot sent some small, shy creature plunging for safety into the water, leaving only ripples behind.

He knelt on the plank bridge and opened the old datebook, taking a moment to transfer the last remains of his schedule into the first week of the new datebook. His class schedule, his work schedule, his weekly call with Anzu, Joe's tournament dates, the new campaign. All of it carefully penned in.

Then he leaned over the edge of the plank bridge, seeing his reflection on the surface of the water. It was harder with mirrors: they were too crisp, too defined. They showed him nothing but his own face. But if he unfocused his eyes a bit, if he took a deep breath and snapped the last piece into place and made a wish, the face on the water wavered. Just enough to believe.

“I miss you,” he said, to the water. “I miss you every day. I still feel you… gone, here.”

He made a fist, motioning to the center of his chest. An absence with weight; a nothing and a something all at the same time. The kind of puzzle Atem would love.

There was nothing else to add. He’d said most of it already, last year and the year before. They would see each other again, some day, and he had long since understood that he was not meant to wait and he was not meant to run. He was meant to stay right here, in the heart of his own life, and feel it beating.

Yuugi readjusted, sitting cross-legged on the bridge. He flipped through the datebook, going backwards to the beginning. The memories burst open inside him, as raw and fresh as a ripe fruit, swollen with color and feeling. Deadlines for that art history class. Flying out for Anzu’s solo show in December. His first date with Kaiba, sometime in March, although neither of them realized it was a date until the morning after. CHAMPIONSHIP!!, on a weekend in September, when Jou had swept the Pan-Pacific. The pages were as crisp and dry as autumn leaves; they'd burn well.

He turned to the first page.

“Here’s what you missed,” Yuugi said, and began to read.

#intern memo #emblematik #/#//#///#fanfiction #can you tell i'm desperate for summer to arrive

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