#sorry this is so fucking crunchy i’ll draw something better later
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big fan of the direction they took niigo kaito in
#sorry this is so fucking crunchy i’ll draw something better later#project sekai spoilers#just in case#project sekai#project sekai memes#プロセカ#nightcord at 25:00#niigo#niigo kaito#mafuyu asahina#25時、ナイトコードで。#朝比奈まふゆ#kaito
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always be my maybe
➜ Summary: The one where Zuko and Katara could never quite get their timing right. Especially when the universe throws a lost condom, thousands of miles, and a baby in their way.
“I will literally french braid my pubic hairs and never open my pussy to anyone ever again if this condom doesn’t kill me. Please don’t let it kill me.”
➜ Genre: Modern!AU, Celebrity Chef!Katara, Doctor!Zuko, Love, Rosie!AU
AO3 @zutaraweek
“Go a couple rounds, leave Zuko’s dick up in a casket!” Toph screams into the microphone, undeterred by the various guests who stare up at her, mouth open and half-chewed, dry-as-fuck chicken spilling out. It wasn’t her fault, really! As soon as Zuko handed the mic off to her, he basically gave her free reign to spit a Megan Thee Stallion verse in his honor. “Sing with me, bitches! Look up the lyrics on Genius.com, Cheryl!”
“Sit down !” Katara squeezes out from clenched teeth, ripping the device out from the girl’s grip.
“I didn’t even get to the chorus, you fucking whore .” A bridesmaid nervously plucks the mic from their table and avoids eye contact with both of them. “What’s going on with you, bitch?” Toph asks quietly. She could tell Katara’s been doing her fake smile for the last twenty minutes. The girl was practically going to break her face open with how hard she was grinding her teeth.
“Just thinking.” Katara wants to smack herself in the face, pinch a nipple and bring herself to reality. Everything felt too real, and Toph could sense it. She’s the type to somehow sense when Katara shifts in her seat a certain way to covertly satisfy a cooch itch, and then buys her Monistat the same day.
She hates that she could never hide any emotion from her. Toph could always figure out the puzzle pieces that were Katara. One of the few to know the real her, besides Zuko.
Sometimes Katara thinks the younger girl knows her better than him. At least now. Especially now.
“About?” Toph takes an experimental sip from the wine glass, and gags. The juice tasted like Gatorade and cum. “Why the fuck would anyone want a dry wedding? Weddings are the only time you get to see your alcoholic uncle vomit all over the bride’s shoes, and then your closeted aunt has to wipe up the puke and her reputation from the floor while thinking of her secret girlfriend at home watching Tiger King .”
“That example was extremely specific and extremely unnecessary.” Katara brushes a crunchy curl, doused in hairspray, from her eyes.
“Sorry, I got distracted. I had dick on the brain, or whatever Rihanna said,” Toph mumbles, risking a bite of the chicken.
Katara turns to see him at the couple’s table in the center of the extravagant wedding, and sighs. “And for your information, I was just thinking when will he penetrate my esophagus? You know, just girly things.”
Toph has the gall to slap the girl on the cheek.
Katara holds her stinging face, eyes narrowed in an unspoken threat for fucking up the parts of her face she didn’t set with powder (she was going for a dewy look, sue her). “Not fair! You were the one who called my throat the baby chute earlier today!”
“Ok, throat goat. One, he’s getting married. Two, you’re sick.”
“My therapist will most likely cosign that,” Katara sighs. Toph holds Katara’s hand and leans her head on her shoulder as they watch Zuko mingle with guests.
This is the happiest day of his life.
Her best friend of twenty odd years was getting married. He looked so handsome, so happy. A suit that looked like it would cost someone’s rent and a half casually hugging his muscular frame. A blinding smile on his face, cheeks flushed from champagne and excitement.
When he turns her way, his smile grows impossibly wider. Toph clinks on a champagne glass with a fork, breaking it a la Princess Diaries , and Katara could feel the stares of nearly everyone in the room, ready for her speech.
It should be the happiest day of my life, too.
Right?
Katara thinks she wants to cry.
//
Now, how come none of those Judy Blume, coming-of-age books have a chapter on how to write a Best Woman speech for your best friend getting married to another woman, even when you were struggling with the fact that you might have been in love with him for the past two decades?
Bitch, what the fuck do you even start that Google Doc with?
Does she start at 4 years old? When Katara thinks Zuko is an annoying piece of shit?
But, you know, he’s her piece of shit.
Guys have hepatitis, or cooties, or whatever Sokka said, she couldn’t exactly remember. All she remembered was Zuko sucked. He stole her crayons and made fun of her Hello Kitty backpack on the first day of school. He was the stupid one, not Hello Kitty . Never Hello Kitty . She’d shoved his face into the playground’s wood chips, threatened to cut off his peepee for breathing down her neck with his retainer breath, and even stuck his head in between two slices of white bread and lovingly referring to him as an ‘idiot sandwich’ (Sokka let her watch too many Gordon Ramsey hosted shows while their dad was working late).
Zuko and Katara were practically inseparable ever since.
Or 10, when you were asking for trouble if you fucked with Zuko.
He was a tiny kid, glasses too big for his head. Hair shaggy, clothes too oversized for him (just the way he liked it). His dad had tried beating it into him that it showed weakness by not making waves, not being loud and proud. But, he was quiet by nature. For him, it was just easier.
Not stirring the pot, being the observer, looking in from the outside. He was just Zuko , he liked Wonder Woman comics and figuring out what other words besides BOOBIES he could spell with his calculator instead of actually doing his math homework, because he was bad at math. Bad at everything, really. Everything but band class. Even if he did hate that stupid fucking tsungi horn.
His mom would hide his report cards from his dad, especially the ones noting how shy he was (Mrs. Kim had used the exact words ‘very antisocial, very easy to bully’). Even when Ursa would ask him to try, try to make friends outside of Katara, he was always a stubborn little thing. Something you got from your father , she would say, the smile slipping off her face just the slightest.
It was just more fun being by himself, the only exception he made was Katara. He spent his recess scribbling down a plot for a Love Amongst the Dragons Fanfiction and listening to Katara’s iPod he’d steal from her, just because he could , after she snuck it out from her backpack for the 10 minute break they had. It was the iPod she spent the last two Christmases saving up with Sokka for. Zuko insisted he could master Ludacris’s rap in Usher’s “Yeah!” and practiced the Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays she had custody of the device.
Some days, Katara would sit beside him in her signature puffy blue jacket, struggling to fold herself to fit on the blacktop beside Zuko. The patented jacket her grandmother forced her to wear every single day obstructing her abilities. He snickers, but keeps quiet, content with plotting out a story that he would hopefully get to type out on the school library’s computers if his mom picked him up late again. She usually did, much to the dismay of the ladies at the front office. They typically hissed at him (which made him cry, to which they would have to offer him a cherry Otter pop so they wouldn’t face a lawsuit) and called his mom words he couldn’t repeat without getting in trouble (“Whore”).
Katara would babble on about her day, sometimes thinking of ways for his characters to die a painful death, or cooking up Fanfic plots for Beyoncé and Britney Spears to find love among the chaos of a zombie infestation. She always insisted she brought the creative range to their friendship. Some days though, Katara forgets all about him and plays handball with all the most popular girls in school.
Zuko’s jealous.
(Sometimes.)
She’s my best friend! He wants to scream in their faces. At the end of the day, he thinks he’s going to lose her. The day she realized she was too good, too cool for the likes of him.
“Chan, stop it!” Zuko squeaked, his notebook snatched from underneath his nose. The boy was always picking a fight. Your dad buys you a Motorola flip phone and suddenly you think you’re the shit.
The boy sneers at Zuko, flipping through the pages. “What do we have here? Are you drawing Shrek with boobies? You’re gonna jack off to that later, freak?”
Before Zuko could get a word in and defend his honor, Chan’s entire body was shoved to the ground, a dainty foot cased in a light up, white Skechers sneaker pressing into his face. Zuko couldn’t help his glee as Katara could barely be peeled off and stopped from repeatedly slamming Chan’s face into the hopscotch chalk court. “It’s all ogre now, bitch!”
She made sure to pin her detention slip to her Bratz backpack with pride. Zuko buys two treats that day from the student store before he walks her home.
“You’re my best friend, forever and ever,” Katara declares, head held up high. Zuko saw through it, though. He knows she’s scared of what Hakoda has to say, what Gran Gran has to say. So, he holds her hand tight, trying to relay his gratitude in the touch.
He licks at his Spongebob popsicle. The eyes had melted off and looked more like someone’s worst nightmare than an icy treat. Katara had wanted his cherry Otter pop, and he happily handed it over. “Pinky promise?” He holds out his finger.
Katara hooks her finger around his, dwarfing his tiny digit. Her outstretched smile stained orange. “I’ll break yours if you ever forget.”
At 15, Katara came to the realization that men have the emotional intelligence of a Souplantation crouton (may Souplantation rest in peace).
Growing up, with their dad and grandma always at work at their store, Katara was always in charge of cooking. No matter how many times she’d try to get Sokka to do it, he always insisted he was far too busy with taking out the trash, killing bugs, hating women. So, she was stuck with it, and honest-to-Rihanna, really liked it. Not that she’d ever let Sokka ever get the satisfaction of knowing it. It was her time to be alone, gave her the space to pop in a Cheetah Girls CD and pretend she won Masterchef with the struggle meal straight out of a Spam can she had to pound on a few times to get it to squeeze out from its gelatinous casing, or a whitewashed recipe she tried replicating whenever she catches a Rachael Ray rerun.
Though, Katara’s favorite time was chopping up the green onions under Ursa’s careful eyes, a hand always just there in realign the knife just in case she’d carelessly cut the green onions too big to garnish. Then, Ursa would then take out scissors because nobody had time for that. When his dad wasn’t home, Zuko’s mom opened up their doors across the street to the siblings, rambling about the next big painting she was planning as they scarfed down a home cooked meal.
Zuko was similar to his mom in that regard. They were the type of people who managed to make everyday moments larger-than-life, made it infectious, too. When it’s nighttime and he’s snuck into and snug in Katara’s room, he’d tell her dreams too big for anyone’s comprehension. Sometimes he dreamed he had tits that would leak chunky chicken noodle soup. Sometimes he’d ramble until her eyes are flitting shut and he’s left talking to himself and measuring his hand with hers, securing the leg she instantly throws over his waist. He’d like to think he was her only exception in the Souplantation crouton narrative.
Her bed is starting to smell like him, too. His favorite Costco brand shampoo and conditioner that he leaves in her bathroom, permeating her nostrils when she pulled him close. She even let him put up a Drake poster right next to her plethora of Rihanna ones, but only after he let her draw a penis on both his and Drake’s face. What he didn’t account for was her using a permanent marker, or the fact he couldn’t scrub it away from his cheeks for the next two days.
It was easy like this, just the two of them.
He’s there for all the birthdays and Halloweens and Christmases that left her not quite feeling whole. When things were hard, when things fucking sucked, when she wanted nothing more but to die. He was there, (stupidly) holding out his hand and willing to be the eye to her hurricane.
At 15, Zuko decides Katara feels home.
At 18, Zuko had already been Katara’s many firsts.
He was her first buffet partner, and brought back his Justin Bieber haircut just to pretend he was 12 so they could qualify for children's rates and a complimentary Oreo cheesecake because they were always celebrating his “birthday.”
Her first clubbing partner the second she turned 18, rubbing her back when any Beyoncé song with a Jay-Z feature came on because the second he cheated on Beyoncé, he cheated on everyone in the Beyhive. The first one to have to hold her as she hurled on his shoes, the first one to have to take her to get her stomach pumped.
The first person she tried to roll a joint with.
“I don’t need to learn that.”
Katara purses her lips. “And why not?”
He gestures to his face. “I’m too pretty. Only ugly bitches know how to do that . ”
Sokka thinks he needs to intervene when he hears Zuko’s tsungi horn case being chucked across the room .
The first person she (almost) fucked.
His family life was, for lack of a better word, fucked up. Katara had been witness to the drinking, the drugs, the crying. The nights where she sometimes didn’t know if the person standing in front of her was Zuko. She just wanted one night away from it all, just one night out on the town.
“That was kind of terrible,” Katara admits easily, wincing because she was sure he spilled Papa John’s garlic dipping sauce in his shitty Corolla’s air filter last Tuesday. He tried positioning his arm naturally underneath her head while their half naked bodies were pressed together, but he ended up smacking off her glasses. He even had the audacity to contently sigh as though he accomplished something, rather than just tangle her hair and give her a tension headache.
She felt lied to! Cheated! Bamboozled! Hoodwinked! All the Shrek and Y/N stories on FF.net could not prepare her for the fact that there weren’t any tongues fighting for dominance, or any mouths that tasted like cinnamon or musk or shit like that. It was just retainer to retainer and smelled distinctly of her awkward friend (cheese). It was sweaty and a lot of weird humping and felt like a visit to the gyno.
“Hey! I thought it was pleasantly average.” He clears his throat. “You know, besides the fact you farted mid-insertion and I started crying after 20 seconds.”
“You mean right after you came, right?” She says matter-of-factly.
He glared. “Is it my fault you have a gorilla grip pussy? Is it?”
“Zuko, you’re so fucking — ”
“What happens when you put a hot dog in the microwave for 2 minutes?” He crosses his hands and folds them over his lap like a professor waiting for a volunteer to answer the equation on the board.
“So in this metaphor, are you calling my pussy a microwave?”
But in true Zuko and Katara fashion, it was clumsy and a mess and could be erased with an emergency Burger King outing where they ate in silence and pinky promised never to speak of it again.
She wonders if Zuko should’ve been her first date to prom, too.
She wants to stop feeling so bothered . She couldn’t quite pin it, but lately everything he did frustrated the shit out of her. How he was taller than her now. How he didn’t need her to fight his battles because he goes to the gym now and wears a fake Gucci belt because he’s just so cool (brooding Asian guy is the trend, and Zuko thinks he’s the blueprint). How he said yes to going to prom with Mai, the prettiest girl in their grade.
“Don’t look in there!” Katara yelps, a blush creeping on her cheeks.
“Why?” Zuko questions, taken aback. He was entirely too comfortable in her room.
“Um. Maybe I don’t want a freak going through my dirty underwear pile!” Her eyebrows are halfway done, and she only has one eyelash glued on. She was stressed, scared her dress might not fit with how many of Sokka’s cookies she stress-ate because she just wanted the night to be perfect .
“Relax, what are a few discharge stains going to do to me, huh? If anything, it gives your pussy some much-needed personality.” Zuko wasn’t going to stop until he found his fake Gucci belt in Katara’s closet.
“Zuko!” Katara screams at the top of her lungs.
“Do I have to remind you about the time you broke our friendship bracelet while masturbating and I dug the bead out of your vagina like the good friend I am?”
She shoves him back from the closet, crowding in his space. That belt was going to remain in its rightful place. “Oh, fuck you! I took the fall for you when you opened your laptop in history class and forgot to exit from your “VIBRATING PANTIES” porn tab!” She pushes him before plopping on her bed.
Katara buries her face in her pillow at that point, too entirely embarrassed and body too hot to continue to look at his nonchalant face. He doesn’t quite remember when exactly Katara became so cute .
Pretty? Definitely. Fearless? For sure.
But blushing Katara, embarrassed Katara, cute Katara?
He thinks it’s because they rarely saw each other now, despite his patented place in her bed. His band, Hello Zuko, was aiming for at least a few dive bar performances to build a reputation, especially with their new title track “Tennis Ball.” Katara was a familiar face at their town’s soup kitchens.
“Where are you going?” he would sleepily mumble as he tried taking his midday nap before late night performances.
Katara’s hands are full with ingredients, swaying side to side and eyes red and drowsy. “Trying to temper chocolate. Why? What’s up?”
She never misses a performance, though. Comes to them with a sparkly poster doused in glitter, and t-shirts with his face on them and everything. He never misses a fundraising event, making sure to bring a steaming thermos filled with tea because Katara was never the type to remember to take care of herself, and always buys out her fundraising goodies (even her overbaked brownies.)
He pulls her up by her ponytail, cupping her face in between his hands.
“You look cute.”
“You look like the human equivalent of toeless socks,” Katara mumbles, face squished in between Zuko’s hands. “Why are you giving my clit piercing a kiss kiss right now? What do you want?”
Zuko shakes her head in between his hands. “Pinky promise me you’ll drop all penises to dance with me if they play any Usher song?” It was like he was in fifth grade all over again. “Call me a Nissan because I just want you Altima-self.”
She lets out a cackle, the sound nearly deafening. “Don’t worry, the DJ will get us falling in love again in no time.”
“Do you have to go with Jet?” He asks, pouting. He lays his head in her lap, too entirely preoccupied with picking at her pilling sweatpants to look at her questioning eyes. They promised they were going to be each others’ dates at the beginning of the school year. It was more fun going to dances with Katara. She knew how to do the worm and every lyric to every Rihanna song out there (but she refuses to sing any with Chris Brown parts).
“What? You know I like my men stupid.” She runs her hands through his locks, undoing the crunchy gel job that Iroh had painstakingly spent time on. Zuko didn’t have the heart to tell him it made him look like a youth pastor.
“You do like your communal meat thermometers.” He wants to keep the hurt out of his voice.
She shoves him off her, getting up to put on the dress hanging off her closet’s door handle. “You’re going with Mai, remember?” She yells through the closed closet door.
“But the thing is, I’m not planning to fuck her afterwards at the shitty hotel like it’s some type of CW show with some old bitches playing teenagers!”
“Just say XOXO, Gossip Girl .”
He still resents her for getting him invested in Blair Waldorf’s headband collection. “It’s not my fault Jet looks old. He looks like he’s at least 27 for fuck’s sake!” His face grows more distressed as he spits out each word. He only said yes to going with Mai after finding out Jet asked Katara using some shitty poster that said “my heart is always running when I see you” with a box of Nike outlet sneakers after English class.
“I think you’re just jealous that I emptied my intestines for someone who is about to be in it within the next three hours. When have I ever done that for you?”
Zuko’s about to retort something until Katara slams open the door, flooding his eyes with a dusty blue, curve hugging dress that did weird things to him. Like make his heart beat out of his chest, and his throat all dry when he’s searching for the words to say. Looking for the right words that say he thinks it’s impossible someone’s smile could make sunsets brighter, make the stars twinkle even more, make the unthinkable just a fingertip’s grasp away.
“Can you see the outline of my underwear and/or desperation from the back?” Her spin has him bumbling like an idiot.
//
He wishes it was Katara that night. Letting him shyly press his sweaty fingers into her waist as Katy Perry’s “E.T.” pierced their eardrums. He knows she would have pinched his nipples as punishment, all things considered. But the fluorescent lights of the disco ball would’ve highlighted how her pretty flush would dust her cheeks, and he would hold her close to his beating heart despite her complaining her foundation would stain his Target dress shirt, and everything would make sense.
“Did you cum?” Jet was absolutely pretty with an oh-so fat horse cock. Too bad he was like the Justin Timberlakes of the world, and always spoke unprovoked.
Katara scoffs. “Yeah, I came to my senses.” She flicked his forehead. “How would I do that? Tell me. How the fuck would a few thrusts and you panting your Sweet and Sour sauce breath in my ear get me off?” She shoves the sweating boy off her. “Can I say jk and will it make me a virgin again?” The hotel room had scratchy sheets and smelled like a waterpark bathroom.
He groaned. “I’m sorry .” He’s completely unremorseful. “Your tits smell like Cinnabon’s cinnamon rolls and I couldn’t help myself!” Katara is about to cut his dick off for breathing in the same vicinity as her, before a gasp stops her entire world.
//
“Zuko!” she screeches, opening the hotel door with the same devastation as when Britney Spears discovered Ryan Seacrest wasn’t gay painting her features.
“You know what they say.” Zuko’s smirking, entirely ignoring Katara fuming. “Chlamydia is the powerhouse of the cell.”
“You’re. A. Dick!” She says in between smacks to his head. Jet makes a speedy exit, still pantsless and clutching his suit to his chest, while Zuko mouths a ‘ call me’ to Mai, who amusedly waves goodbye to Katara.
“Oh god, this is exactly like the bead incident all over again.”
“ You’re not helping! ”
“Maybe we’ll find Atlantis up there too,” Zuko murmurs, concentrating on positioning the hotel’s mirror under her legs.
“Please, Rihanna. Have mercy on me.” Katara’s hands are in prayer mode as Zuko turns on his phone’s flashlight. “I will literally french braid my pubic hairs and never open my pussy to anyone ever again if this condom doesn’t kill me. Please don’t let it kill me. All those times I took an extra gummy vitamin were a joke . I never wanted to die, I just wanted to feel a little thrill in my life. Please—”
Zuko screams when the squelch of the condom splatters onto the mirror.
//
“You’re wearing underwear under there right?” He likes the look of his blazer draping over her, buttoned to look like a chic, oversized dress and not because it was the easiest thing to throw over Katara to run and grab Plan B.
“No, because I would obviously let my fat cooter out, cute and bare and vulnerable in a Walmart.”
“A simple yes would have sufficed.”
She’s reaching for the box and wincing at the price when she feels a gentle nudge on her arm. “Ma’am, your entire pussy is out in a Walmart,” the employee breathes out pathetically.
“I am well aware.” She ekes out.
The employee eyes her up and down with a gaze that practically calls her a whore . “Please put her away.” Zuko’s face grows beet red as he tries holding back a laugh.
It was always easy like this. When the world was just Zuko and Katara, holding hands in her driveway while they watched the sun rise in his shitty Corolla. She’s still wrapped up in his blazer, he’s since loosened his cheap tie and his hair is sticking every which way. She likes his smile, especially now that it comes so easy.
He’s smiling a lot more now that his father is gone. Ozai essentially told Azula and Zuko to fuck off , and ran off to some big city to steer a hospital with too many controversies and too many white guys at the helm. Iroh came back from his meditation sabbatical, enthusiastic to take care of the siblings. Zuko seems a lot happier with Iroh around, and even spends nights sleeping in his actual bed. (Katara’s a little hurt, but keeps that to herself).
She wishes she could bottle up these moments with Zuko up and just hold them in her hands. Moments when they were still young and curious and still had time to wait for life to figure itself out. She wants to find a way to make these a permanent fixture, instead of memories that would fade with age. “Let’s get out of here,” he offers up, eyes starry.
“Yeah?” She folds her knees up to her chest, and he taps her under her chin to level their gazes.
“ Republic City . We can make something out of lives. Medical school, culinary school. Get out of this shithole. Get away from our past.” His smile is contagious. “Best friends, forever and ever, right?”
She’s so pretty, her wide eyes sparkling as they take in the rays of sun. She returns his smile. “Best friends, forever and ever.”
Katara remembers how Ursa would say Zuko always dreamt too big, his heart always wanting so, so much .
“It’s a blessing, but more of a curse,” she would note, with the wisdom only mothers are capable of possessing. Sometimes, Katara selfishly thinks the day Ursa left hurt her more than it hurt Zuko. They were impossibly close, to the point where Zuko even had to intervene when Ursa started siding with Katara during their arguments (he knows in his heart his Mother’s Day macaroni portrait of her was better).
She would wonder how the world could let her live like this, dangling something she’s always wanted right in front of her face, only to snatch it away. Wonder if it was easier to die, than live with a hole in her heart that seemingly doubled in size overnight.
//
“Zuko, please look at me.”
He’s mad, she could tell. With his pout and the way he was forcibly trying to squeeze his eyes in a glare. He’s been sitting in the same spot in her bed, eyes trained on tutorials on how to convincingly persuade your doctor to give you an adderall prescription and “who bit Beyonce” conspiracy videos.
“Well, what if I just wanted you to respect my privacy! For the first time in 15 years! Maybe I needed space!” She yelps after twenty minutes of the silent treatment.
Zuko sends her a look that has her freezing up on the spot. “Katara, you had a whole baby .”
She felt thoroughly scolded, but she was stubborn. “And? What about it?”
“You had an entire one, and didn’t even bother to tell the godfather? When was I supposed to find out?”
Katara didn’t think that one through, to be honest. It was easy to forget, in between diapers that smelled like a fish sauce and an expired Vagisil smoothie, and balancing work. She lays down beside him, thoroughly exhausted after putting her little girl, Yue, down for a nap. “One, who made you the godfather? And two, I guess we’re just not close like that.”
“Look, I literally have your social security number memorized, and have practically given you a Pap smear. You really want to say ‘ we’re not close like that ?” He sends her a look that has her resolve faltering the slightest. “You did your pregnancy announcement like a Sailor Moon transformation sequence with before and after pictures of you being pregnant, and you didn’t think to fucking tell me?”
Katara gasps. “I had you blocked !”
“Azula’s a snitch!” He also got a glimpse of the photo of Katara in her hoe time dress that barely fit over her belly with the caption: how the mighty have fallen . He pauses, sucking in a breath of air for strength. The hurt flashes in his eyes and the only thing she could think to do was wrap him up in a familiar embrace.
At 19, Katara is so incredibly lost, and just wants her best friend by her side.
He’s busy, the summer before everything Republic City. Everytime she tries their house, Azula answers, rolling her eyes while clad in a Harry Styles shirt, because it’s a girl’s rite of passage to go through a One Direction phase and wear badly made merchandise from Hot Topic. He’s usually busy packing, or fucking Mai until she sounds like a car alarm during Fourth of July fireworks.
“Azula, no . You cannot kidnap Mai’s younger brother and trade him in for concert tickets to send a message.”
“Not even for floor ones?” Katara’s glare summed up her answer. “I used to look up to you,” Azula retorts, returning to her stan Twitter.
She waits, waits, waits. The moans keep coming and she just rolls her eyes. Her stomach churns, mainly because she thinks Mai called Zuko’s dick The Pussy Penetrator every time he hit her g spot (you know what, good for her). But also because her scholarship to the university was less than she expected, and Hakoda didn’t want to cosign on a loan. She just wanted her best friend to be there for her.
She feels sick, sick enough to vomit in one of Iroh’s plants, while Azula rubs small circles into her back.
“You should’ve swallowed,” Toph reminds, bundling Katara’s thick hair into a ponytail as the girl hurled up her California roll. She’s so exhausted, she even leans her head against the Walmart toilet bowl, five positive pregnancy tests tossed carelessly beside her.
“Think it’s too late for that,” Katara grits out. “What are you doing?”
The last thing she expected was Toph’s hands gathering together in prayer formation. “Praying to Rihanna your period comes.”
Like many people her age, having a mental breakdown during a pregnancy scare and praying for a miracle in a public restroom was normal. But for the first time in her life, besides the time Rihanna willingly twerked on Drake at the 2011 Grammys, Ms. Robyn Fenty herself failed her.
“Fetus deletus that bitch! Fuck them kids !” She brings herself eye-level to Katara’s stomach. “Read the womb, bitch!”
“Did you just call my unborn baby a bitch?” Katara’s eyes are bleary from the smell of vomit and her future going down the drain.
“You should’ve kept that bitch-baby in the drafts,” Toph sweeps the stray hairs from Katara’s watery eyes. “My cousin saved up for her abortion by running a pyramid scheme. I can get you her number.”
Katara wanted to die. “I think I’m just going to crawl in this toilet and die. Call my brother if I don’t get flushed down all the way.”
“Again, I’m just a Walmart employee,” Toph snickers, helping the girl up. She’s rarely left her side since then. Their friendship just works, a pair of fuckups. The girl with the accident baby, and the Walmart security guard trying to figure out her own shit after running away from home.
“I should’ve been there!” Zuko reminds, tone heavy with betrayal.
Katara remembered the few moments before he boarded the plane to Republic City. She wanted to be selfish. She wanted to tell him to not get on the flight, to keep holding her like he did at the entrance of the gate. She had a kiss ready on her lips that he wasn’t ready to give, backing away when their faces were too close, when she was too close. He just couldn’t bear the thought of leaving with regrets.
“I should’ve been there holding your hand, letting you call me names, and fighting nurses if they breathed too close to this precious angel,” Yue holds his pinky with her little fingers, almost as though it was a natural reaction. His heart simply seizes up at the gesture, and he holds her tighter to his body. She was wailing after waking from her nap, colic crackling her throat for the last three months and causing her middle of the night wakeups to be painful and frequent. But with Zuko, she’s all calm and perfect and polite and beautiful and angelic.
“Didn’t know you liked kids this much,” Katara shrugs. She leans in, and Zuko throws his free arm around her.
“I’ll have you know I am the resident expert in telling children’s stories,” Zuko insists.
“Like?” Katara quirks up her brow.
“Like Rumpleforeskin, the mythical man who can weave majestic golden fleece from the ends of his pubic hair.”
She smacks him upside the head. “You’re disgusting .” She curls in deeper into his embrace. He had that twinkle in his eye that could mean he was going to masturbate to this moment in the shower later, or he was in love. It renders her breathless every time
She hopes when he looks at her he doesn’t see the eye bags, or the titty milk leaking everywhere, or the permanent crease in her brow. She hopes he could still see her, underneath it all. When she was just Katara .
“I guess, not telling you was just my way of keeping our dream alive.” She pauses, stroking Yue’s barely there hair. “I keep thinking that one day I could find the time to go to Republic City, and I don’t know. Get a chance to just be me .”
“Do you regret it?” Zuko’s rubbing circles into her back until she gets sleepy and her heart feels too full.
“I don’t know.” She tries, quiet, almost ashamed. “I don’t know.”
//
At 21, Katara feels like she’s at the top of the world.
Not only did she get promoted from girl wearing a dumpling costume outside handing out 15% off coupons that only worked if you left a Yelp review, to a server in a shitty dim sum restaurant, she was also accepted in the culinary program at the local university. It wasn’t Republic City per say, but Yue could attend the nearby preschool and go to the university-run childcare program afterwards while Katara was working.
She even got a hold of Jet, who refused to disclose his location or job. But judging by the copious child support mandated by some judge who hated men as much as Katara did, he was doing well. He sometimes Venmos Katara a few extra dollars on Yue’s birthdays.
Sokka and Hakoda, while hesitant to the little girl’s presence early on, spoil her absolutely rotten. When they think Katara’s passed out after her 14 hour days, they’re red in the face, screaming at Zuko over the phone about who was going to get Yue the Peppa Pig Playhouse (complete with flashing lights) she always talks about.
Hakoda even tries at therapy, wanting to be there for the apple of his eye. Sometimes, Katara’s hurt he never tried for her, tried in her childhood. She’s happy for him, nonetheless.
(Mostly) everything was working out.
“How are both my girls doing?” Zuko would always sing-song during his nightly Facetime calls. Yue would scream and snatch the phone from Katara’s hands, delighted at the sound of her one and only Uncle Zuzu. He’s an extravagant gift giver, regularly sending Yue glittery Hello Kitty and Wonder Woman backpacks. He even buys her a whole iPad for her fourth birthday, already coming with child safe settings on and YouTube loaded with her favorites (namely, Barbie: Fairytopia ). He’s guilty he couldn’t come home, but then again, he rarely ever did. Too consumed with work, grad school applications.
Katara can’t help but feel her heart pulse the slightest bit faster during those calls, even if she shuts it down as quickly as it comes.
He’s so good to her .
She used to cherish those moments he used to tell her secrets, dreams, everything in those hours early in the morning before high school would start. With approximately 3,209 miles between the two of them, she wakes up to texts instead.
**
Zuko: I dreamed that I was being held at gunpoint by one of those thicc caterpillars from A Bug’s Life , and if I didn’t finish the MCAT in approximately 20 minutes, they would shoot me in the face. The dump truck ass of those ants were the bullets
Katara: Please block my number
Zuko: No. <3
**
He’s all gentle smiles and eyes squeezing into little half moons just like Yue’s after he plays a game of Facetime patty cake and messes up on the beat just to hear the little girl laugh.
The next month, Zuko had decided enough was enough . He missed his girl.
His hospital, for the first time in a year, was letting him have the weekend off. So he books Katara a ticket straight away, because he thinks he’s going to die if he has to be around people who don’t know who Megan Thee Stallion is.
“Boys only speak two languages. English and emotional manipulation,” Toph reprimands, hugging Katara so tight she could barely get in a word. “Please remember that.”
It was her first time leaving her hometown in her life, her first time on an airplane for God’s sake. She’s jittery though, the cushioned seats Toph somehow upgraded her ticket to (after covertly whispering with the gate attendant) doing nothing to alleviate her nerves.
When she jumps in his arms in baggage claim, he breathes in deep. Her hugs have always warmed his insides, and he didn’t realize how much he craved it until he was greedy, pressing into her and refusing to let go despite her many protests.
“Come here often?” he mumbles, smiling into her shoulder.
Her cheeks grew hot at his touch. “Occasionally.” She whispers back.
He decided there and then in front of Gate 3 they needed to make up for lost time as quickly as possible.
The college party is entirely too sticky, entirely too messy for a proper (extremely) late 21st birthday celebration. Her crop top and big earrings and glittery eyeshadow and endless curves has Zuko wondering how much he’s missed in the last few years. When she hugs him close to her and screams out Nicki Minaj lyrics, he doesn’t remember her being so soft and even prettier. Beautiful. Breathtaking, knocking the wind out his lungs if she as so much blinked.
She looks like any 21 year old, without a care in the world, just figuring out their life. He wonders what this version of Zuko and Katara was.
Maybe they got to go to Republic City together. Maybe they work in the same building, and are just letting steam off from work. Maybe they loved each other. It was dangerous though. He feels as though she’s caging him in, that grip on his heart sparking up again without his permission. Her fake lashes he saw her glue on in the airport bathroom flutter about, hands coming up to accentuate her words every time she tries to scream something in his ear over the pulsating music. He just grips her waist harder between his hands, holding her tight.
//
In a perfect world, all she saw was him. She wishes it was him. She sometimes thinks she sees Zuko’s eyes in Yue. She sees his smile. She sees his heart.
While they’d spent the entire night stumbling through the city, his girlfriend was home. Barefoot, pregnant. Looking like the cover of some women’s lifestyle magazine, stray curls escaping her bun to frame her face in all its angelic glory. Glowy and flawless and every bit beautiful. Different from the girl Katara caught crying in the kitchen. “You can hate me all you want, you can talk shit about me all you want. But I love him,” Jin insists. “I’m his girlfriend , for fuck’s sake.
Katara has to stop herself from recoiling. She had a specific vision of their future. One that included doing taxes together and matching sweaters and teaching him her new macaroon recipe and Yue balanced on his lap.
But one look at Jin, and it becomes glaringly obvious how little she fit in with his new life.
“I don’t hate you, Jin.” It’s every bit sincere, but the girl doesn’t look convinced.
Jin rolls her eyes. A pointed look freezing Katara in her place.
“Ok, I might’ve complained once or twice about your VSCO filter choice.”
“Yeah, Zuko sent a screenshot of your texts to me instead of you by accident.”
“God, you know he always fucking does that? To be fair though, M05 is too orange and is not a good look on anyone. You can do better, I know you can.” The two girls laugh. It was devoid of any genuine emotion, just meant as an attempt to fill the empty space between them. “If I had known. Fuck, if I had just known, I’m sorry, Jin.” She had no idea Zuko had a kid on the way, that they were still living together and determined to co-parent while their relationship was in a weird limbo. If she was Jin, she would’ve kicked someone’s pussy and made a scene and set something on fire. But Jin wasn’t that type of girl. Jin was soft and pretty and looked like she smelled like an interior designer's perfectly bleached asshole.
“Do you love him?” Jin seemed to shrink into herself, small enough Katara might miss her in a blink of an eye.
Katara couldn’t quite decipher the meaning behind the question. She thinks she’s too scared to.
Katara doesn’t know how to respond. She didn’t trust herself to speak. This Zuko wasn’t the Zuko she knew. She loved the Zuko who would steal people’s Netflix passwords off of 4chan, and cosplay as Todoroki at Anime Con to make a few bucks. Not the one who can afford sky rises in the big city.
He didn’t even tell her that his big internship in the city was for his father’s hospital, and he was next in line to running it. “You’re a lawyer with health insurance and your own Netflix account! You’re good for him, Jin.” Katara falters the slightest. “I just want to see Zuko happy.”
“Me too.” Jin says quietly.
“Whatever, fuck Zuko !” She tries at extending the olive branch. “I can’t believe you’re preggers!” She puts a gentle hand on Jin's belly, and her vagina immediately winces. “You know, your vag will never look the same, and you might grow a third boob in your armpit.”
“You’re lying .”
“Yeah, a lump of breast milk can form there, too!” Katara is about to scroll to the photo in her phone when Jin laughter breaks through the night.
//
“I hope your dick gets bitten off mid-blowjob!” She whisper-screams, struggling with her suitcase until it smacks all at nearly every corner and edge. She was just making noise for the sake of making noise, but it made her feel better.
He didn’t expect waking up to a charge on his card for a flight booked in the last ten minutes, or Katara shoving his good mixer in her suitcase.
“You hate it don’t you?” He always loved it when Katara went into Hulk mode anytime a bully dared test her protective nature. While it was never entirely directed at him, he now understands exactly why Chan peed his pants. Katara was terrifying .
“What?” Zuko’s confused, rubbing an eye booger away.
“You loved it when I’m crying over Jet, crying over something, fucking something up in my life. Being mad at the world. You hate that I’m better, and making something of myself now!” She’s angry and grasping at straws.
Zuko furrows his brows, not sure where to progress from here. “Ok, run that by me again?”
The air vanishes when her stare cools over to absolutely icy. “There’s nothing else I can give. So what the fuck do you want from me?”
He laughs, all hollow and almost mocking . “You know, I was afraid of you coming here.” He lies.
She stops in her tracks. “What the hell do you mean?”
“I thought...I thought you wouldn’t get this new me, because it’s different!” He protests. “See, this is exactly the reason why! You’re mad I can afford real Gucci !”
Katara recoils, looking embarrassed for him. God, were men so fucking stupid, and so proud of it, too. “Are you fucking serious.”
Zuko’s frustrated, running his hands through his hair. “What the fuck are we doing, Katara?”
“You tell me!” She demands. “I’m not that kind of girl, Zuko! I’m not that kind of girl that is going to break up a fucking engagement, or whatever the fuck you weirdos are doing!”
He throws up his hands. “I’m not happy! We’re not happy.”
“What? You think now that you’ve sold your soul to your piece of shit dad and you can buy jewelry that won’t turn your fingers green that I’m going to fuck you?”
“No! I’m not saying that—”
Katara scoffs. “Then what the fuck are you saying? Grow up, Zuko. Grow the fuck up and just leave me the fuck alone .”
“You’re still Katara.” He throws his hands up in the air, trying to stop her. Even if he felt like his entire world was falling apart, there was one thing he would always be certain about. “I’m still Zuko. The same Zuko who loves you .”
Katara turns her head, not willing to give him the satisfaction of seeing her upset. “The thing is, this isn’t you, Zuko.” Katara says with finality. “It isn’t you .”
When she gets home, she spots it right away. On their dining table, white paper folded neatly, Yue was the type of little girl who looked to both sides of the street before crossing, repeating it two more times to be safe. She always took extra care to make everything even, never a wrinkle in sight on her homework.
The Crayola family portrait that brought to life everything she’d imagined and more. Katara doesn’t have the heart to look for longer than a second.
//
At 27, Katara’s pretending that it’s the happiest day of her life.
She didn’t think he would listen to her, you know, men rarely did anything right. Zuko, though, heeds her warning and only calls exactly two hours before Yue’s bedtime like clockwork. There weren’t any surprise texts to wake up to anymore, no more evidence of Zuko in her life. She doesn’t even find out about Jin’s affair with one of those Axe commercial guys until months later.
When she goes to unblock his number and text him, to try and talk to him, she gasps. She sees those grey iMessage bubbles, and she’s ashamed her heart splutters, awakening a feeling she thought she’s dampened. She puts her phone down for milliseconds, before checking it again and again and again. She finally threw the damn thing across the room when a week passed.
She thinks it’s for the better, especially when she was sure she finally got things right with Jet.
“ We’ll make this shit work together.” Jet reassures, gathering her close to him she could see every little detail of him. “Like Kanye said, ‘you’re a MILF, and I’m a mother-fucker.”
She covers her ears, pushing him into the restaurant’s glass door. “No thank you. No more non consensual reciting of Kanye verses.”
“Yeezy, breezy, beautiful, baby. Get into it.” Jet winks, and Katara feels herself gagging again.
Then again, Katara always had a thing for stupid. And for three easy payments of $Penis.99, he had an all access experience to her pussy and her trauma.
“And he bought me those carrot cake cupcakes I always look at when we go to the supermarket but I never want to chance it because it could have raisins instead of nuts and I think I hate raisins more than I hate white men named Nathaniel.”
Toph jabs Katara in the forehead. “Wow, he spared $5 on some dry pastries, and your pussy was suddenly screaming pick me, pick me !”
“They were gluten free, too,” she points out. “Plus, my pussy doesn’t scream!”
“Oh right, my bad! It whispers!”
“ Toph !”
“Last night I heard it go wash me! Wash me!”
It felt good with him, though. It felt good to see him help Yue with math homework, making dinner in their little kitchen, pressing kisses to her in the morning despite her breath smelling like Khloe Kardashian’s earring backing pussy. Someone to come home to.
“Piece of shit, I’ll fucking kill you!” She was punching him over and over again until her knuckles were ripped raw, sitting straight on his throat. Beating him stupid in the middle of her shift. He thought he could get away with it. With Katara now stuck in the kitchen as one of the head cooks, and the fact he had a reservation in one of the private rooms for him and his secretary to go over...numbers, he didn’t think much of it.
Too bad Toph was too invested, and had a friends-to-lovers storyline to live vicariously through.
“Scram, fuglies!” Toph screamed to other customers who had already started chanting “WorldStar!”
Katara lost her job, lost her mans, lost a section of her eyebrow because Toph accidentally tried helping and swung the wrong direction.
“Catch me outside, how ‘bout that!” She yelps triumphantly, despite the fact Katara was cradling her own bloodied face.
And here she was, about to lose her best friend, too.
She accidentally Facetimed his old number, and spent the last hour mulling over her feelings with an executive of a porn studio who picked up mid-shoot. “Just tell him you love him!” The balding man is exhausted.
“What do I even say? Do I tell him, ‘I think I’ve always loved you?’ Is that too cheesy? You know that feeling when your heart just—Oh my fucking god! Is that Sandy Cheeks from Spongebob ?!” She screams, slamming her hands over her eyes. The squirrel’s melons-for-tits would never be erased from her memory.
He only has fear in his eyes when he looks at her. “You didn’t see anything.” Robert bites out, promptly hanging up.
In her post-Jet purge, she realized she wasn’t the type of ex dead set on destroying his things. After all, she was selling his light-up keyboard to pay for Toph’s birthday boob job. Her residual anger was instead, spent hacking away at the drawer he always kept locked. Until she found it.
A letter from him.
“ I’ve always been afraid that our friendship would’ve spilled over until all I could do is categorize it with four simple letters .” Katara whispers, eyes frantically scanning the paper. “And I’m done being afraid .”
“The four letters he’s talking about is D-U-M-B B-I-C-T-H . Dumb bitch. The ‘bitch’ is silent.” Toph insists. “I can’t believe you let a balding bum, whose credit score tanked because he invested his entire savings in Shake Weight Milkshake making machines, knock you up instead of Zuko.”
“It was innovative at the time,” she whispers.
“Fill the void in your heart, not your pussy.”
She's whipping out her shitty MacBook Air, and praying his email still worked. But when she calls all she sees is her.
“You told me to come to Republic City and find him!” Mai exclaims, holding up her hand where a big ring blinding the fuck out of her.
She feels her heart crumble at the same time she crushes the letter in her hand.
“I did do that, didn’t I?” Katara winces. The time the model stopped by in their hometown, Katara was still happy and getting her pussy pounded regularly and let that shit get to her head. She thought it would be a blessing in disguise, and wanted to help Zuko out, too.
"Fuck."
//
Their wedding looked ripped out of a 2014 Basic Bitch Pinterest board, and she’s definitely sure she couldn’t be happier.
“Why is her name spelled like ‘Mai’ and pronounced ‘May?’ Like, shouldn’t it be spelled like ‘Mei?’”
“Katara, you’re just being a bitch,” Toph reminds while Katara stares at the sign with their wedding hashtag in front of the photobooth with all the ‘YOLO’ signs and 2013 mustaches.
“I am well aware!” She asserts, chin jutting out.
Mai’s New York Fashion Week ready body was gorgeous, perfect in Zuko’s hold.
Katara wished life was like a rom-com. Where she could burst through the doors, declare her love, piss on him in her ugly, big bridesmaid dress and mark her territory once and for all.
But life wasn’t a movie. Life was just this shitty piece of dumpster fire shit and was always fucking her over like the Target self-checkout line camera.
What could she do? Deliver some long-winded speech about how she would go to realign the stars in the heavens if it meant a chance to rewrite their fate? That she hoped she visits his dreams before his mind could settle into reality, the same way he visited hers and overstayed his welcome every single time? Make everyone uncomfortable and wonder if they boned?
Then again, she was never going to be the one to block her best friend’s blessings. Not on the happiest day of his life.
“I think this is the happiest day of my life.” Katara says seamlessly.
Zuko sees it though, sees right through her and has to stop himself from reaching out to her.
“It wasn’t ever easy being Zuko’s best friend. I mean look at him now, getting married to someone perfect . He’s not even in the same ballpark, league, or hell, stadium porta potty as her!”
Zuko ducks his head with a brief pout that breaks Katara’s heart. Everyone laughs in spite of him, until he joins in, too. “You know, it’s easy to pretend that finding love is easy. You could find love in all the little things in your life. All the people, all the details. It’s easy to say you always, completely, truly love someone. Because that’s what we want love to be, right? At the surface, sure.” She folds the flimsy paper she had on hand, nothing was written on it anyways. “You want it to be perfect.”
“But the love everyone works so hard to get, is the love that’s hard . It’s the love that isn’t safe. The love that challenges, excites you, the love that will never have limits. The love that’s messy and beautiful all at the same time.” She looks at him, truly looks at him for the first time in years and all she could do was smile.
“It’s easy to find love, but it’s near impossible to find a soulmate.” She raises her glass. “Join me in a toast to the bride and groom. I wish you a lifetime of happiness.”
And while everyone is gathered out on the dance floor, she’s sobbing pathetically and smearing the winged eyeliner she worked so hard to perfect on the car ride there. Trying to stop any of the pain from consuming her.
She’s out on the rooftop of the venue, the cold air whipping her face as she tries lighting up a blunt.
“Are you getting high at my wedding !” Zuko is incredulous, and shocks Katara enough to drop the joint off the roof.
“On all things Fenty Beauty, bitch what the fuck?” Katara wipes the tears from the corner of her eyes.
“The flower girl wanted to see her mommy.” But Katara sees right through Yue’s little act. Pretending to sleep so she could be held by Zuko (me too, girl. Me too).
It felt dangerous, the way she could toy with his heart, his own personal defibrillator shocking it back to life. She’s pretty even with red-rimmed eyes, with the fake smiles he knew was trying to appease him to leave her alone. If anything, all it does is make him want to kiss her until her troubles are gone.
He wanted to do a lot of things at that moment. He wanted to feel the warmth of her skin, tell her that above all else, he missed his girl the most. But, he had everything on his plate and then some.
“The chicken was dry as fuck.” He blurts, wiping the sweat from his face. Only Katara could send him back a few decades. “I wish you could’ve catered it.”
“Yeah?” She laughs and wants to call him out for stalking her company’s Facebook page. “Remember you tried my new recipe and you vomited all over the front row at your fourth ever Hello Zuko performance?” She misses his messy hair, when he didn’t look so clean cut and rich bitchy.
“I didn’t know you weren’t done cooking it!”
She shoves his head, and he joins her, dangling his feet precariously off the roof.
When she’s here with him, when he has her in his hold for the first time in years, he sees his whole life with just a glimpse in her eyes. And all he wants to do is build a machine and reverse all the time that’s passed them by.
“I made a mistake.” Zuko breathes out, eyes nervously darting around.
As sure as he was that Nicki Minaj deserved a Grammy, he was sure he loved her.
“W-What?” Katara blinks at him.
“I made a mistake, Katara.” He laughs nervously, scratching the back of his neck, carding his hand through his hair. Looking every bit devastatingly handsome. “I realized something. After the speech, after just, everything.”
“I realized I just can’t have my cake and eat it, too.”
Just like that, just with the way he built her up, it comes tumbling down.
“So what are you saying?” Her heart was on the verge of cracking in half and he didn’t even know it. Because all he could pin her with a look she couldn’t read, and she thinks if he was a smarter man he would’ve at least pretended that it hurt him to hurt her.
But it did.
It broke him, ripped him in half to see her face turn to steel right before his eyes.
“What I’m saying is, after all these years.” He doesn’t have it in him to face her. “I think I have to finally let you go, Katara.”
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It’s come time for Phil to reintroduce himself to Dan’s family in the proper context, but there’s one member that he’s not entirely confident about connecting with.
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written for pff’s 2019 bingo fest! checks off “in-laws,” “cereal,” and “communication.”
read on ao3 or under the cut
Phil wakes up too early, like he usually does after spending the night in an unfamiliar bed. Not per his usual, though, he remembers where he is before he even opens his eyes, the soreness in his back an immediate reminder that he’s not at home, settled into a nest of warm grey sheets and cushy pillows in a bed with much better support than the double-size air mattress set up on the floor of Dan’s childhood bedroom.
“Uh, it’s not ideal,” Karen had told them while showing them upstairs, pushing open Dan’s closed bedroom door to reveal a large air mattress taking up the majority of the floorspace. “But setting a bed for Phil on the couch seemed a bit stupid, and expecting you both to cram all of your giant limbs into that tiny single bed… seemed even stupider.”
Dan had just laughed and shook his head and tossed his bag lightly onto the center of the comforter spread neatly over their makeshift accommodation. “It’s great, mum. Thank you.”
Phil smiles to himself just thinking about it, still not quite ready to open his eyes. He knows it’s not a big deal, but at the same time it is a big deal - them sharing a bed in Dan’s family home, his mum making one up for them to share without even being asked. Phil knows that it means a lot to Dan, that six months later he’s still reeling from such overwhelming support from the people he’d spent most of his life just trying to hide from. Phil’s happy because Dan’s happy and also because it’s what’s right. That just makes him smile wider and roll onto his other side, reaching his arm out and searching for Dan’s warm body to snuggle into.
When his hand lands on nothing but an empty mattress, though, he frowns, and finally opens his eyes.
*
The house is quiet while he putters around upstairs, which he reckons is because it’s not even gone 7am according to his phone, which also has a text from Dan explaining that his Nana’s called him over to her house with an iPad-related technology issue. Unlike when they’re in London, he can’t quite get away with ignoring her early-morning calls when she’s just a few minutes away.
Phil does his best to stay quiet too, because his limbs are long and clumsy and Dan’s house is old with creaky floorboards so it’s truly a concerted effort, but he does manage to make it to the bathroom and back without a racket.
When he gets back, he perches on the bed - the real bed, Dan’s single bed, which seems so foreign and faraway now even though he’s literally right on top of it - and checks to see if Dan’s replied to his and how’s that going for you text.
He has.
[Dan]: it’s all good she couldn’t connect to the wifi so i reset her router
[Dan]: she’s making breakfast now
Just reading the word breakfast makes Phil’s stomach grumble, and he stares forlornly at his phone screen as if it’ll make a bowl of cereal materialize right in front of him.
It doesn’t, but he does get another text.
[Dan]: have you eaten yet?
He blinks at the message a couple of times. He’d actually thought that he’d wait for Dan to get home to have breakfast with him. But now that Dan’s otherwise occupied…
[Phil]: Um… no? I didn’t know your grandma was gonna keep you, so I was planning on waiting.
[Dan]: just go get something from the kitchen, you dingus. you’re a big boy, you know how to eat by yourself.
Phil rolls his eyes fondly, but he can’t really ignore the tiny, anxious fluttering in the pit of his stomach, as much as he wants to. He feels kind of stupid sending his next response, but it’s the truth.
[Phil] That’s weird though, it’s not my house. I can’t just like… help myself.
His stomach does another nervous little flip when he sees the three little gray dots pop up on Dan’s side of the screen, then go away again, then pop up again. It’s longer than Dan usually takes to type and it doesn’t take that many words to tell him he’s being daft.
He knows he is. It’s just that stupid anxiety that still crops up every now and then, the kind where he’s scared to make phone calls or answer the door or go to big gatherings and Dan covers him, but he’s not here to do that right now. And he shouldn’t have to be.
When Dan’s message finally pops up, he blows out a deep breath before reading.
[Dan]: i go down to the kitchen and fix myself food all the time when we’re at your parents’ house. i know it’s different here but mum wants you to make yourself at home and so do i so go to the kitchen and get yourself a fucking bowl of crunchy nut, i refuse to come home to see you all grumpy and haggard just because you didn’t have your morning coffee and cereal
Phil has to bite back a smile at that. The idea of getting close to Dan’s family, of making himself comfortable in their space, kind of scares him. He’s pretty sure it scares Dan, too, probably even moreso. But the fact that he wants to try - that he wants them both to try - makes him feel warm inside.
[Dan]: srsly tho. go eat, i won’t be that much longer and then we can hide out in my room for a little while before lunch
He smiles because alone time with Dan is always a treat even when they’ve only been in others’ company for less than a day, and because Dan’s voice of reason has gone and made him properly hungry, more than he can ignore, so he’s going to satiate himself and he’s going to not worry about it on the way.
*
Phil’s not really sure where to go from here. He doesn’t want to go back up the stairs, because that could accidentally draw attention, and to be caught fleeing from the situation would be embarrassing.
But, he also doesn’t really want to keep walking into the kitchen.
Karen had told them that Adrian wouldn’t be getting here until this afternoon.
Phil doesn’t have a problem with him. He’s seen him enough times, had enough courteous chats with him over ten years. It’s kind of weird looking at him though, going on 22 years old, remembering how he’d been been scared shitless to meet him when he was just 12. He’d been scared shitless to meet Dan’s entire family, even though there wasn't anything to be scared about. He was Dan’s good friend, as far as they were concerned, and they were good at keeping up that act, at least around the family - his dad, his mum, his grandparents.
His brother.
He’s not sure if Adrian even particularly cares about him or his relationship with Dan. He does know that out of his entire family, he’d been the one that Dan was the least scared of coming out to. Phil doesn’t know if that’s because the emotional attachment there was less strong than to his mum and grandma, or because he was just younger and more likely to understand, or both.
Phil just doesn’t really know him.
It makes him a little sad. Dan and Martyn are such good friends and Phil loves it, how well Dan slots in with his family. It feels right.
He has to remind himself all the time that it’s not the same with Dan. That Dan’s family doesn’t mean the same thing to him, that there’s residual fear and anxiety and they’re all still figuring it out with each other as they go and that Phil’s just very, very recently become a real part of it. Sort of. He’s not sure if Dan’s family really knows what to do with him.
To be fair, he’s not really sure what to do with them either. It’s all new. That’s why spending Christmas with Dan’s family feels so huge, even though they’ve all been acting casual about it. He doesn’t feel casual. He doesn’t think any of them do, but it’s a work in progress.
He thinks back to Karen showing them into Dan’s room the day before.
“Next time you come round, we’ll have a proper double bed. It was probably stupid of me to expect you to fit into that single all by yourself once you hit puberty, anyway.”
He remembers seeing Dan’s dimple cave in the way it does when he’s holding back a little smile, remembers thanking her when she left them to get settled in and Dan practically tackling him down onto the mattress. Remembers thinking how happy he was to have another safe space, that he could hardly imagine how Dan must be feeling, with that safe space finally being his own family.
“Oh shit, Phil!”
*
Adrian’s expression once he’s finally turned around from the kitchen counter is startled, and Phil feels startled in return despite having just been stood there, staring like a freak.
He imagines it’s probably a comical sight from the outside - him standing frozen in his flannel pajama bottoms, Friends t-shirt, mismatched socks, glasses and bedhead, opposite Adrian and his oversized button-up shirt and running shorts, which seems to Phil to be an odd combination, but he supposes he can’t judge. His wrist tattoo peeks out from under the cuff, beside where he’s clutching a glass bottle of ketchup in his hand, and a tablespoon in the other.
“Sorry!” He finally manages, once his initial deer-in-headlights reaction wears off, and he takes a couple steps back. “Didn’t mean to interrupt anything, I’ll leave you to um…” He glances at the ketchup and tablespoon again. “...Whatever you’re doing.”
He’s about to turn back when Adrian sets his spoon down with a slightly-too-loud clamor. “No, that’s alright! I’m just… I don’t need a lot of room,” he turns and pushes the spoon to the side, along with a small bowl and a handful of other ingredients. He’s still gripping the ketchup very firmly when Phil approaches.
“Right, um,” Phil clears his throat a bit. “I just thought I’d come get some… cereal?”
He phrases it like a question, even though it’s not, and quickly follows it up. “Dan’s having breakfast over at your nana’s, I guess, so… he said you guys might have Crunchy Nut.”
Adrian just watches as he opens the cupboard directly in front of him, which contains nothing but bowls and glasses. It kind of hits him then, as he’s taking out a bowl, that he doesn’t really know where the Howells keep anything in their kitchen. He doesn’t know his way around their home the way Dan does with the Lesters’.
Different circumstances, he reminds himself.
He doesn’t overthink anymore, because then Adrian’s handing him a box of Crunchy Nut, which he appears to have grabbed from the cupboard on his right.
“We usually do,” he tells him, before going back to his cluster of ingredients on the counter. “It’s mum’s favorite.”
So that’s where Dan gets it from, he muses.
He thinks about saying as much, but settles instead for a quiet thanks before opening up the box and shaking some into his bowl. He glances over at Adrian while he’s ambling over to put it back in the cupboard, where he seems intently focused on smacking the bottom of the ketchup bottle as he holds it carefully over the tablespoon he’s set out on the counter.
It’s so uncanny to look at him, even still. He and Dan have always looked alike, but the resemblance as they get older just seems to grow. Adrian still looks more like Karen while Dan looks more like their dad, not that Phil would ever bring that up. It’s just one of those things they know but don’t care to acknowledge, because there’s really no point.
It’s not just appearance. Adrian doesn’t just look like Dan, but he talks a lot like him too, he uses the same awkward body language, hand gestures and finger guns, and he’s got a rather foul mouth. Phil assumes he probably picked that up from Dan when they were kids, who picked it up from Karen, who he’s not sure she picked it up from, as their nana’s rather posh and proper and scolds Dan any time he uses a swear word on Twitter.
That particular thought comes to him because Adrian’s currently cursing and mumbling under his breath - another habit he shares with Dan - as he tries and fails to get the ketchup out of the bottle. Phil pulls out a drawer and, relieved to find that it’s in fact the silverware drawer, pulls out a spoon before bumping it closed and looking across the counter.
“Um,” He slides the spoon into his dry cereal. “What are you making?”
Adrian’s head jerks up, as if he’s surprised to see Phil still standing there, before sighing and setting down his bottle of ketchup.
“Making a glaze for the lentil loaf we’re having tonight,” he tells him, and Phil has to do his best to keep a straight face. He knows that Christmas Eve dinner is going to be fully vegan; it’s a deal Karen had made with their grandma, on the condition that she’d be allowed to cook a supplementary turkey and mashed potatoes with real butter for Christmas dinner. He grins a little to himself, knowing that his presence at Christmas this year was a big reason for such a compromise. He knows that were it up to Karen, Dan, and Adrian, Dan’s grandparents might have spent Christmas stuck in Vegan Hell. He likes having that little bit of camaraderie with them, even if that camaraderie is rooted in questionable ethics. “If I can get the ketchup out of this ridiculous fucking bottle,” he glares at the glass bottle in his hand. “I was just trying to save the whales.”
Phil snorts a little, because that’s so like something Dan would say, before glancing between the bottle and the spoon again. “Have you tried putting it in a bowl first?”
Adrian glances at him curiously, and Phil opens cupboard and pulls out another bowl.
“Can I?” He asks, and Adrian wordlessly hands him the bottle. He caps it again, shakes it till the ketchup actually slides down to the bottle opening, before uncapping it and smacking a few globs into the bowl.
“Now just scoop out however much you need, and then you can scrape the excess back into the bottle,” he tells him, and slides the bowl back across the counter. Adrian just stares at it for a second, before breathing out a laugh and dropping his elbows down onto the counter.
“Jesus fucking Christ, I’m so stupid,” he picks up the spoon and measures out one tablespoon into the other bowl, then two, then three. “Thanks,” he adds when he’s finished, glancing back over at Phil as he scrapes the leftovers back, as suggested. Phil just nods.
“I can take that,” he offers, and Adrian hands the bottle over again. Phil heads over to the fridge, setting the ketchup inside and searching for a moment before pulling out a carton of almond milk and pouring some into his cereal. Adrian’s eyebrows shoot up in what seems to be pleasant surprise.
“Oh, did Dan finally get you to go vegan too?”
Phil’s confused for a moment, before he actually registers what Adrian’s referencing and he glances at the carton in his hand and quickly sets it back inside the fridge. “Oh, no. No. Not vegan, just lactose intolerant,” he explains awkwardly, and Adrian gives him a slow nod before turning back to his glaze, while Phil takes his first spoonful of cereal.
“Wait, what do you mean ‘finally’?” Phil asks after a few moments of silence, his spoon suspended halfway between the cereal bowl and his mouth. “Has he been trying?”
Adrian glances up from where he’s drizzling a bit of carob syrup into his spoon, and purses his lips as if stifling a laugh, the exact same way Dan does.
“Not actively, I don’t think,” he tells him, setting his syrup to the side and reaching for the balsamic vinegar. “He just complains sometimes that he can’t stick to the vegan diet when you’re always tempting him with animal products.”
Phil holds his gaze for a moment before they both burst out into laughter, him setting his cereal to the side and Adrian doing the same with his vinegar.
“I’m kidding,” Adrian tells him, leaning his hip against the counter. “He just wants someone to blame for the fact that he loves meat and cheese.”
Phil chuckles and turns back to his cereal, because prolonged eye contact still makes him nervous. “The cheese is all him. If it were up to me we wouldn’t have any in the house, I can’t stand it.”
He takes another spoonful of his cereal and then without really thinking adds, “I did a video taste-testing different kinds once and felt sick for nearly a whole day afterwards.”
Adrian nods, smiles a little, and goes back to his balsamic vinegar. Phil kind of regrets saying anything then, because he’s not sure if YouTube is an okay topic for them to broach. Or social media, or the internet in general. He’s had a number of things he’s wanted to say to Adrian for a little while, many of them along the lines of I’m sorry we kept this huge secret from you for so long, but one of them also being I’m sorry our fans harassed you off the internet, especially when you were just a kid. That one’s been brewing for more than a little while, actually. But he has a feeling he should keep his mouth shut. Some things might be best just left in the past, and it’s not really up to him to decide if this is one of them.
“So anyway-” he starts after a few moments of silence, at the same time that Adrian lifts his head and says, “So you guys-”
They pause at the same time, and laugh awkwardly, and Phil leans back against the counter.
“Sorry,” he says. “Go ahead.”
Adrian turns back and briefly stares into his bowl of glaze again. He’s still stirring it idly when he looks up to make eye contact. “So you guys have kinda been through a lot together, huh?”
Phil feels a bit of a lump in his throat and a squirming in the pit of his stomach because this is a conversation he’s had. He’s had it with Dan, with Dan’s mum, and even his grandma. But he never really thought anything would come from his brother. He figured they might have gotten up to some heart-to-hearts on their family trip to France earlier in the year, but he wasn’t expecting that to extend to him.
“Um. Yeah,” he sighs, and drums his fingers on the countertop to release some of the nervous energy. Suddenly Adrian looks so young. Barely younger than Phil was when he met Dan, and that feels like a lifetime ago. When Dan was so full of pain and sorrow and yearning, desperate to get away from the first eighteen years of his life and start anew.
He knows Dan’s life growing up was shitty for reasons besides the homophobic assholes who made his life a living hell at school.
“You guys too, though,” he finally ventures, hesitantly, questioningly.
Adrian seems surprised, but not offended, which comes as a relief.
“Yeah,” he nods and turns back to his bowl of glaze again, beginning to stir again even though it looks thoroughly mixed. “Lots of levels in Portal I couldn’t have beaten without his help.”
That’s not all there is to it, Phil’s painfully aware, but he doesn’t push it. He knows, and he’s sure Adrian knows he knows, and there’s not really any need to go any further.
And luckily there’s no need to try and think of anything else, because just then they hear the front door swinging open, followed by a couple of happy yips and then Dan walking into the kitchen, bringing with him a gust of cold air and Colin trotting at his heels.
“Oh, good, you found the cereal.” Dan says when he notices the bowl sitting on the counter, and when Adrian’s turned away he rests a hand on the small of Phil’s back and quietly kisses his cheek.
Dan’s lips and nose are cold, but Phil’s cheeks warm up all the same.
He occupies himself with his cereal again, which has gone quite soggy, while Dan reaches into the fridge for some orange juice and then glances over at Adrian’s concoction.
“Whatcha making there?” He asks, and Adrian smiles brightly.
“Glaze for the lentil loaf,” he replies, and holds up the spoon. “Wanna taste?”
Dan strides over, and takes a little lick off the spoon. Phil can tell from his expression that he’s not exactly thrilled, but he nods and gives a thumbs up anyway.
“Tastes great,” he tells his brother. “Can’t wait for dinner.”
Adrian catches onto the bullshit, because it’s not that hard, meets Phil’s gaze and joins him in a fond eyeroll.
Phil waits for Dan to come back and stand beside him, bumps their shoulders together, and takes another bite of his Crunchy Nut.
-
thanks for reading!
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The Wicked House
Prompt for the 31st was: Wicked. Thanks to @thats-amnesty-babe and Morgan E Ashton for the help brainstorming.
Duck whacks his hands together, clearing the dust from them, before raising a hand in friendly farewell to the movers. He picks his way through the boxes, up the stairs, and to his bedroom. Opening the door sends a bolt of dark, fluffed-up fur into the hallway.
“Yeah, yeah. I’m sorry fuzzball, but I couldn’t have you bein underfoot or runnin out the door.” He scratches the cat behind her ears, and her affronted glare gives way to forgiving purrs.
He unpacks for awhile, finds a good luck note from Juno tucked in the winter coat she gave him (“I mean it, Duck, winter up there’s a hell of a lot colder than here in West Virginia”). Orders pizza, gets the kitchen table set up in time to eat it. Flips through his to-do list for the next few days as he does.
ka-BOOM
Winnie yowls and runs from the room as Duck nearly falls out of his chair.
“What the fuck?” He dashes outside, expecting to find an exploded car or downed powerline.
He finds nothing of the sort. None of his neighbors are even poking their heads out. There’s a smaller boom, from the house next to his (his is on the corner, so only has one neighbor).
“Well, Woodbridge finally managed to offload one of these places, huh?”
He turns to find a rather prim looking woman walking a furious looking Pomeranian.
“Beg pardon?”
“You’re the first person to buy any of the houses near that wicked place in years.”
Duck looks around again. Every house on the block, save for his own darkly painted victiorian and the brightly painted one next to it, has a sun-worn for sale sign in the yard.
“What the fuck?”
---------------------------------------------
“Oh, so you’re the guy who bought the house next to Indrid Colds place?” The man at the grocery store asks as he rings him up. Duck was overjoyed to find a real mom and pop place near his house and Leo, the owner, has been chatting with him.
“So it seems.”
“Don’t let folks make you too jittery about it. Indrid’s an odd guy, but he don’t mean no harm.”
“What the hell does he do? All kinds of weird lights and noises and shit coming from that place.”
“Not a clue. Seems like you’re in a better position to find out than most of us.” He tilts his head towards the beer Duck is loading into a bag.
“Dunno, kinda like havin all my limbs. Not sure I’ll keep ‘em all if I go in there.”
Leo shrugs, “suit yourself.”
As Duck walks home with his groceries, he mulls over the suggestion; sure, the loud noises aren’t great, but they no worse and no more frequent than a loud party or a neighbor with barky dogs.
He sets the bags down on his front step, fumbling to find which pocket he put his keys in.
“Don’t move!”
He freezes, finds a tall man with silvery hair moving purposefully up his drive. He’s in a long, silk bathrobe and bunny slippers, bright red glasses perched on his nose. When he places his hands on Ducks shoulders and starts moving him back off the porch, Duck tenses, tries to pull away.
He can’t. The man is surprisingly strong for such a beanpole.
“Hey, pal, look-”
“No, you look.” He points a finger, and Duck squints for a beat before seeing it; a black widow, dangling on a thread as she lowers down from his door frame.
“Shit, almost walked right into her.”
“Yes, you did. I thought you might prefer not to.”
Duck takes another look at the stranger, including the spot where his hand is still resting on Ducks arm. The other man follows the gaze, pulls his hand back apologetically.
“Gonna go out on a limb here and say you’re Indrid Cold.”
“Oh, you’ve heard of me!” Indrid smiles brightly, only to have the expression falter, “oh, ah, you’ve heard of me. I can’t say I blame people for trying to warn you away from me, given my reputation.” The last few words come out so soft and resigned, the kind of vulnerability that’s either a trap or the truth of someone who has gone a little too long without the benefit of the doubt.
“Reputation don’t matter half as much as your actions. Far as I’m concerned, the only thing I know you done for sure is save me from a nasty spider bite.” He smiles kindly, holds out his hand, “I’m-”
“-Duck Newton.” Indrid takes it, shaking it with an oddly wide smile.
“Uh, right. Well, I’m gonna get rid of that widow, but if you wanted to come in for a beer or coffee or somethin I wouldn’t be opposed.”
“That sounds wonderful but, oh, oh dear, um, excuse me something’s just come up. Hope to see you again.” He dashes back down the path, down the sidewalk, and up the steps to his bright yellow door.
“Huh.” Duck watches the door for a moment, then goes to get a broom.
--------------------------------------------------------
The diner smells like eggs, bacon, and butter when Duck steps in from the chill of the early September air.
It’s quiet, but he settles on a spot at the counter all the same, in case they need the booths for bigger groups.
“Good morning,” a cheerful, somewhat crunchy-granola looking blonde woman greets him, pad in hand “any coffee or tea this morning?”
“Coffee, please.”
“You got it.” She spins, grabs the pot, and pours him a mug. Several of the flatops are where Duck can see them, being worked expertly by a man who must be well over six feet tall. Whatever he’s moving about on them smells incredible.
“Ready to order.”
“Whatever he’s cookin right there.”
“Hash it is.” She smiles again.
The cook nods, and as he sets to work he asks, “you just passing through?”
“Naw, moved here a few weeks ago, got a job in the national forest.”
“Right on.”
“Oh yeah.” A voice behind him says, and he finds two older men sizing him up, “you’re the fella who got duped into buying next to Cold’s place.”
“He’s a man, Clarence, not fucking black mold.” The cook grumbles.
“How’s living next to the wicked witch treating you?” The second man, in a red ball-cap, asks.
“Warlock.” Says a clipped voice. It takes Duck a moment to see it belongs to the man going over receipts at the register, slick dark hair flecked with grey and face movie-star handsome, “if Indrid did have those abilities you all seem convinced he does, he’d be a warlock, not a witch.”
“How would you know?” Red cap retorts.
“Ey, shut up Jim, you know the boy was in the CIA. Better not disrespect him.”
“FBI, not CIA
“All I’m saying is that wherever Cold goes, disaster follows. Not to mention the man’s a known f-”
“One more syllable and you’ve got a lifetime ban.” Barclay points the spatula towards the men.
In the midst of the standoff, the bell dings.
And Indrid Cold walks into the diner.
He’s bundled up like it’s snowing, walks up to the counter and pauses when he sees Duck.
Duck pats the stool next to him, “Nice to see you again, neighbor.”
“Likewise.” Indrid gives that odd smile again and sits down, “Good morning Barclay, Joseph.” He nods first to the cook, then the man at the register, “Oh, and hello Dani. The usual, please.”
Dani grins, turns to one of the drink machines and comes back moments later with a cup of cocoa.
“I can’t handle how bitter coffee is, even with sugar.” Indrid says, two seconds before Duck is going to ask him why that drink.
“You’re braver than I am, that much sugar this early’d have me on the ceilin.”
Indrid smiles softly, “Lightweight.”
Duck barks out a laugh, making Indrid snicker as well.
“Any plans for this weekend, Duck?”
“Got some new model ships to work on, might go for a hike, nothin too excitin.”
“You don’t get enough hiking at work?” Indrid cocks his head.
“I mean, not really? It’s different when I’m on my own; I don’t got an agenda or shit I’m supposed to be takin care of. I can just go at my own pace.”
Indrid makes a noise of understanding right as Barclay sets two plates down. Indrids’ is piled with pancakes and strawberries.
Barclay points a can of whipped cream down at the plate, “say when.”
The tower of cream is almost a foot high before Indrid goes, “when.”
As they eat, they chat about this and that, though mostly Indrid asks Duck about his move, and how he’s liking the town. Then he muses, “I’d like to go hiking sometime. I really ought to get out a bit more.”
“You can come with me sometime, if you want.”
“Really?”
“Sure, long as you don’t mind me talkin about trees.”
“Not in the slightest.”
Duck raises his glass in cheers, “well, if you decide you want to, you know where to find me.”
---------------------------------------------------------------
Duck balances the plate of cornbread (his fathers no-fail recipe) in one hand as he lifts the other to knock on the door.
“Come in!” Indrid calls a half-second before his hands meets the wood.
The inside of Indrid’s house is laid out much the same as Ducks own. This is where the similarities end. There are drawings scattered everywhere, pinned to walls and strewn across tables. Art and posters and letters cover the walls, each of which is painted a different color.
As he makes his way into the kitchen he notices chalk and bottles of salt, piles of old books, and many, many, many sweaters.
Indrid is at the sink, filling a kettle with water.
“You’re right on time, I was just making myself some tea. Though I can make something stronger if you prefer.”
“Tea’s fine.” Duck sets the plate down, “figured I oughta make a proper, neighborly introduction.”
He leaves out the part where, in the two days since they spoke at the diner, he’s thought about Indrid quite a bit. And that whenever an explosion or other odd occurrence came from next door, Ducks’ first response is no longer annoyance; it’s worry. What if something bad happened and Indrid had no one checking on him?
“I’ve been thinking” Indrid sets a mug down in front of him, sits across from him at the rickety table, “there’s a little get-together at the Lodge, that hotel on the edge of town, this weekend. If you were interested, we could hike out that way and then stop by after.”
“You know the folks there?”
“I do. Barclay and Joseph live in one of the cottages, Dani lives in the lodge proper, and they were kind enough to invite me to movie night once. I suppose I found my people, so to speak, there even if I still am a bit solitary.”
“Be happy to come, like to get to know more folks in town myself.” Duck glances back from examining some nearby drawings, and immediately knows he gave the right answer. Indrid is looking at him like he hung every star in the sky.
------------------------------
Ducks’ gotten used to the occasional smoke detector cry from next door.
But this one isn’t stopping.
He grabs the fire extinguisher from under his sink and bolts out one front door and into another.
Smoke drifts down the stairs and Indrid is nowhere in sight. So up the stairs he goes, turning into the room where the smoke is the worst. Mercifully, there is no actual fire, just clear signs of one being hastily and messily put out. He opens the windows, and after a few minutes of cross-breeze the alarm shuts off.
It’s only then that he hears a tap running and someone muttering.
He crosses the hall, finds Indrid glaring into the mirror over the bathroom sink, trying to sooth a nasty looking burn on his arm.
“Shit, what happened?”
Indrid stares at the water, “just an accident. I was careless. I’ll be alright.”
“Here, lemme look at your arm-yeah, okay, I’m gonna go grab my first aid kit from my place.”
He’s out and back as fast as he can manage, returns to find Indrid sitting on the toilet lid, sulking.
Duck holds out his hand and Indrid flops his wrist into it. As gently as he can, Duck tends to the burn. It’s not bad enough to need a hospital, but it’s still a nasty looking mark.
“What were you tryin to do?” He asks softly.
“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”
“Try me?”
“I have certain...abilities. Magic. Most of it related to seeing the future. But some of it is more general, or is in other fields of the discipline, and I was trying to use one field to influence a future and it backfired.”
Duck considers him a moment, then gently squeezes his hand, “hey, it’s okay if you don’t wanna tell me. Don’t gotta make a story up on my behalf.”
“I’m not MAKING IT UP!” Indrid shouts, yanking his hand away and standing up.
“Indrid, you don’t expect me to believe-”
“ What? That I’m stuck seeing futures I can’t stop, stuck with powers I still can’t fully control, that I’ve made myself an outcast time and again all because of these blasted things.” He rips off his glasses and chucks them down the hall. Crumples to the floor, head in his hands.
Cautiously, Duck scooches across the hardwood. He wants to reach out, to soothe the tensed lines of Indrids’ body. But he’s not sure that’s what Indrid wants. Not sure if he’s royally fucked everything up.
“Okay, I’m listenin.” His voice, gentle as it is, may as well be coming through a megaphone for how Indrid flinches. Then he looks at his newly bandaged arm.
“Ten years ago, I bought those glasses from a little curio shop. I thought they were stylish. I put them on when I got home and everything changed. Long story short, the glasses are a conduit to a demonish creature. When I put them on, he became my patron. I gained his ability to see the future, as well as some other powers. I panicked, tried to take the glasses back, but the store was simply gone. Turns out if I try to forsake his gift, it will go very badly for me, so I have to wear them all the time, save for sleep and things like that.”
“Jesus.”
“I’ve been trying to use my powers to stop the disasters I see coming but so often it doesn’t work, and then I have to watch it play out in real time after seeing it again and again in my head.” He stands, slowly, and walks to retrieve the glasses, “or when I try to do enchantments, sometimes things go haywire. Did you happen to see the little succulent garden in the living room?”
“You mean the one that’s as big as your coffee table?”
“Yes. That was originally two succulents. I bought them as a housewarming gift for you then decided maybe four was better. So I tried to magic up two more. And got a garden instead.” He’s still as he speaks, glasses held in his palm, “It isn’t all bad. I have been able to stop some things, and I’ve gotten much better at magic. But the failures so often dwarf that.”
“Indrid?” Duck stands in the bathroom doorway, waits for his friend to turn around before continuing, “thank you for tellin me all that. And I’m sorry I didn’t believe you.”
Indrid’s smile is weak, but genuine.
“Are there, uh, things that help when this happens? You seem real upset and if I can help you feel better, I’d like to.”
“T.V, the mindless kind.”
Duck holds out his hand, “C’mon, let’s go downstairs.”
Indrid settles on the violet couch, wrapping himself in a thick blanket as Duck flips channels.
“You’re from West Virgina, right?”
“Yep.”
“Then you may be familiar with my patron. I don’t know his true name, but everyone just calls him mothman.”
Duck drops the remote.
“Mothman? As in Silver Bridge, Point Pleasant, TNT plant, and all that shit?”
“Yes.” Indrid says mildly.
“Holy shit.” He fishes the remote from under the couch.
“That’s a remarkably succinct reaction.”
“Hush you, you know I ain’t a man of many words.”
“Duck, two days ago you talked for half an hour about Kudzu.” Indrid shoots him a teasing smile, and Duck elbows him lightly.
“Oooh, a Halloween cooking championship! Let’s watch that.”
Duck sets the remote down, joins Indrid under the blanket when the taller man opens it for him.
“You doin anythin for Halloween?”
“No” Indrid sighs, “I love it, but after the ‘living pumpkin incident,’ parents stopped letting their children trick or treat here.”
“Hmmmmm” Duck rests his hand just beside Indrids’, strokes it absentmindedly with his pinkie “y’know, Indrid, I think I got a way to fix that…..”
-----------------------------------
Duck waves goodbye to the group of trick or treaters as they scurry back down the walkway. He has to hand it to Indrid: the man really has an eye for decoration.
The yard is strung with glowing cobwebs and purple lights, bats made of purple shadow and glitter flitting through the air. The multitude of Jack’O Lanterns flicker in a rainbow of colors, thanks to Indrid doing an enchantment on the flames.
Ducks house is equally festive, Indrid choosing orange lights and one (magically) large pumpkin to contrast with the dark wood of the building. Currently Aubrey (Dani’s wife) and her giant rabbit (Dr Harris Bonkers, PhD) are seated on Duck’s front step on candy duty. Duck had asked for his new friends help after realizing just how nervous Indrid was that something would go haywire, and decided it was best if he was there to keep him company.
It’s been a successful Halloween so far; no explosions, no disasters, no decorations accidentally coming to life. He and Indrid chat between visitors, The Creature from the Black Lagoon plays in the background, and both of them have eaten more candy than two grown men probably should. Not a single kid who’s come to the door seems afraid of Indrid. Some are curious, and some have parents that definitely watch them closely. But most are just happy to get candy.
Best of all, whenever they’re seated on the couch, or waiting to open the door, Indrid holds Ducks hand, or sighs happily when Duck rests his arm around his shoulder.
The groups are becoming less and less frequent, and stars peek out from behind the clouds, when Indrid turns to him.
“Thank you, Duck.”
“Hey, wasn’t gonna miss an excuse to hang out with you and poach your candy.”
Indrid chuckles, “Not just for that. For everything, for being kind, for getting to know me and not writing me off as wicked. I-” He falters, turns away suddenly.
Duck may not have foresight, but he’s perceptive all the same.
“Want me to finish that sentence for you?”
Indrid looks at him wide-eyed as the ranger steps into his space, “Please.”
“I wanna get to know you better.” Duck grins, moves to pull Indrid to him.
Indrid beats him to it, grabbing his shirt and pulling him into a kiss. Ducks back hits the door, Indrids fingers digging into his hair. He holds him tight, and as demanding as his kisses are the taller man’s whole body is shaking like the last leaf on a tree.
When they pull apart, Indrid rests their foreheads together.
“Yes, Duck, I would very much like to get to know you better.”
Duck kisses him again, keeps him close as he whispers, “well, happy fuckin halloween to me.”
Indrid kisses his cheek, “Indeed.”
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What Happened to Your Face?! (Klance)
My piece for the exchange I did with @kymmo-draws ! I hope you like it~!
Prompt: They would like teen klance (13-17): Teen klance making fun of each other during puberty (voice cracking, acne, etc) then meeting again after like 5 years to see that "oH he's hot".
“Lance, it’s 3 o’clock in the morning,” Hunk announced miserably as his best friend chatted away wildly into his ear. He snuggled under his blanket, his cell phone practically vibrating against his pillow with the force of Lance’s voice.
“Hunk, time is just a concept! Like aliens! Or Keith Kogane’s pride when he realizes that Lance McClain has become the number one bachelor at the Garrison!”
“Number one?” Hunk repeated with a yawn.
“Hell yeah! I can’t wait to see that pizza-faced nerd’s expression once he realizes that he’s been defeated in all manners of seduction and popularity!!”
“I don’t even think Keith was all that popular? His older brother Shiro was, Keith was just super smart, right?” Hunk noted, snuggling deeper into his bed.
“Hunk! You’re ruining it!”
“I mean, he never even dated anyone back then, right?”
“HUNK!”
“Fine, fine,” Hunk yawned again, turning to nuzzle his pillow. “How’d you even know he was back in town?”
“As you know, I am a being of many connections and-“
“Pidge heard from her brother Matt who’s friends with Shiro, right?”
“Hunk!”
“Yeah, yeah,”
“Anyways, Matt and Shiro are going to go to the Arus Diner tomorrow for lunch and they’re dragging Pidge and Keith out as well, we need to be there!”
“For some pizza?” Hunk asked hopefully to his pillow.
“No! Well, I mean, yeah, but after I metaphorically walk all over Keith’s face with how attractive I’ve become.” Lance reasoned.
“Sounds good.” Hunk answered with a yawn of finality. “Don’t forget to put your facemask on for the night.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it, see you, buddy!”
☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆
Keith stared intently at his phone, doing his best to mimic Pidge in ignoring their brothers’ pathetic attempts at flirting.
Matt and Shiro were a trainwreck, but that flaming train was decorated with heart-shaped confetti and good intentions. If your idea of flirting was complimenting someone on their choice of pizza toppings then you needed serious help. Keith and Pidge caught each other’s eye, sending a glance at their idiot brothers as the pair chatted happily about constellations. God, what a bunch of nerds.
Pidge and Keith had a running bet about who’d manage to propose first.
The loser had to wear a dress for the wedding.
Keith managed to sneak another piece of pizza out from between the bubble of love and affection that was Shiro and Matt’s conversation, doing his best to inhale the slice before any more residual affection could infect it.
It wasn’t that Keith didn’t like the idea of love, rather he’d just never been in love. In high school, he’d been smart but not attractive. His grades had gotten him clearance to go on a diplomatic mission with Shiro to another flight program in Asia. It’d been nothing more than a student exchange, but as a result, Keith had learned a lot and made a few friends, like Regris. Regris had given Keith the full Korean skincare routine do-over, at least until Keith had shown zero comprehension of anything concerning makeup. By the time Keith was set to leave he’d narrowed it down to three steps and Keith’s acne had mysteriously disappeared. It also helped that in Asia sword fighting was a perfectly acceptable way to get fit and healthy, he’d gotten a few pounds of muscle to boot. Allura had called it a ‘glow up’ when he got back.
The loud shatter of glassware had all of them jumping, worst of all Shiro who both Matt and Keith placed a placating hand on. Keith sent a glare over to whoever was responsible, blinking when he realized that it was some tall, cute guy that was currently staring back at him. Keith blinked, a small blush dusting his cheeks, at least until Pidge barked out an annoyed ‘Lance!’
Lance?
Lance?
Lance?
Keith was staring back now, flashbacks to the kid with acne and baby fat galore. There was no way. First off, this guy was taller than Keith. Back in high school Keith had managed two inches on Lance and had used both to his advantage in every fight that Shiro hadn’t personally broken up. Second off, this guy’s skin looked nice, like Regris had also shipped him a bottle of Korean skincare magic. Third off, he was fit, and it showed in the line of his jaw and the curve of muscle in along his forearms. Keith felt his cheeks grow redder after noticing that particular bit.
What. The. Fuck.
“Keith?” Lance choked out, sounding like he was the last person he expected to meet here. And suddenly Keith found himself checking himself over and mentally wincing over the fact that he was only wearing a black t-shirt and yoga pants. He combed his fingers through his hair and managed a surly glare in response.
“Oh, hey, Keith!” Hunk greeted, walking up behind Lance with a mouthful (and plateful) of pizza. “How was Asia? Is their program any better than ours?” He asked conversationally, seemingly unaware that his best friend since preschool was having an aneurysm right next to him.
“It was fine,” Keith managed lowly. Shiro had recovered from his small bout of anxiety and looked prepared to dive between Keith and Lance the second one of them threw a fist at the other. Keith decided that it was far too dangerous to attempt eye contact with Lance and instead turned his attention to the glass of soda Lance had shattered across the floor. “Uh, are you going to get that? Or leave it for the waitstaff like an asshole?” Keith cringed after the words left his mouth, even though high school him would have high fived him for it.
Keith didn’t high five anyone, not even Shiro.
☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆
No. Nonononononononono. Lance’s spirit had projected to a plane of existence where he was free to scream about how fucking cruel the world was. It was cruel. Miserable. And, worst of all, it knew Lance’s type.
Lance hadn’t been the only one to change, and in hindsight, he’d know that was a possibility, but at the same time, this was just cruel.
Keith Kogane was gorgeous.
Lance was dying.
Keith was currently watching Lance through thick lashes, lips turned into the cutest pout in this side of town. His hairstyle was questionable, but it somehow suited him, framing pale skin perfectly. His acne was gone, and maybe that’s why Lance was just now noticing that Keith’s eyes were in the spectrum of blue and violet and utterly gorgeous. Not to mention his voice-cracking had left him with a low, raspy voice that did things to Lance’s spine whenever he spoke.
Lance had recently come to terms with his bisexuality, but Keith Kogane was going to make him full on gay.
Hunk would never let him live it down.
Speaking of Hunk, his best friend nudged him hard in the side, forcing Lance to return to his body.
“W-what…?” He croaked, continuing to stare at Keith.
“Oh boy,” Hunk, who had lived through all of Lance’s previous crushes, muttered under his breath.
Keith seemed to not even want to meet his eyes, turning his attention to the glass at Lance’s feet.
“The glass you dropped?”
Lance had dropped a glass? Lance glanced to the floor to see that he had, in fact, dropped a glass of soda.
“Oh!” Lance looked around, finding a waitress that was side-eyeing him thoroughly. “Hey, I’m sorry. Can I get a broom or something? I’ll clean it up.” He offered. The waitress huffed out a breath before walking to the backroom. Lance snuck another glance at Keith, only to notice that Keith was eyeing him back.
This wasn’t what he’d planned at all. He planned to thoroughly ruin Keith Kogane’s life, only now Keith Kogane was ruining his.
With his face.
“So,” Shiro began, looking to play peacekeeper, “how has it been on this hemisphere? Iverson still making freshmen cry?”
“Of course,” Hunk answered when Lance seemed marginally more invested in his staring contest with Keith. “Just the other day he made this poor kid run out of the classroom in tears.”
“Classic Iverson,” Shiro noted.
“What happened to your acne?” Lance blurted out. The table descended into silence as everyone’s attention drifted to Keith.
“What happened to yours?” Keith fired back.
“I outgrew it, obviously.”
“Same. Obviously.”
Lance bristled at the same time Keith stood up and Shiro was on his feet a moment later, a literal wall between the two of them.
“Easy! Hey! Easy you two!” He ordered firmly. “Let’s not start a fight and get kicked out, alright?” He directed this mainly at Keith who sent him a look right back.
“Shiro’s right, Lance,” Hunk muttered under his breath. “This is the only place in town where the cook knows how to probably toast the cheese on their pizza for that nice crunchy char. Do not ruin this for me.”
“I can’t help it that his face looks like that!”
“Like what?” Keith snapped.
“Like it somehow figured out how to become hot?!” Lance fired back. Keith opened his mouth to retort, only for Lance’s words to actually catch up to him.
“W-what?” Keith managed, eyes wide.
“What?” Lance repeated back at him. Keith’s brow furrowed in confusion.
“You just said-”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” Lance cut him off in a panic, looking as if he was prepared to turn tail and run.
“Oh my god,” Hunk muttered under his breath, turning away completely.
Keith glared at him for a long moment, looking as if he didn’t know what to say in response to that.
“Sir!”
Lance jumped, looking to his left to see the waitress from before frowning at him in disapproval. Lance was pretty sure he broke a world record for ‘fastest glass disposal in presence of sudden new crush and various friends’ because under a minute later he was shooting Keith a flustered glare as he grabbed Hunk’s arm and dragged (read: Hunk walked him over) to a booth on the opposite side of the restaurant.
“Okay,” Lance whispered, shooting furious glances over at the booth Keith was still occupying. “Change of plans.”
“Mm?” Hunk hummed, munching at his pizza.
“Only, I have absolutely no idea how to change the plans.” Lance hissed. ‘How did he do that thing with his face?!”
“What thing?” Hunk asked between chews.
“The gorgeous thing!” Lance hissed, crowing in anger when Hunk burst into laughter. “Hunk! Keep it down!”
“Sorry, sorry,” Hunk giggled. “Have you considered asking him out?” He suggested amiably.
“Me? Go on a date with Keith Kogane?!” Lance cried loud enough to turn a few heads. “I can’t do on a date with him, we were rivals for years, Hunk! Remember that one time he was walking down the hallway and I clotheslined him and-”
“Lance,” Hunk said, eyeing his pizza critically before he took a bite. He met Lance’s gaze evenly while he chewed. “What are you going to do if someone else from school sees how much he’s changed and asks him out?” He asked casually.
Lance slammed his hands on the table, scrambling to his feet and all but running over to Keith’s table. Hunk watched him go for a long moment, vaguely wondering if he’d be able to get some sleep tonight.
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so I was actually tagged for like the first time ever I think?? thank you @kerokerobitch you’ve made my day.
1: Are you named after someone?
Well not my first name... My middle name, Diane, was my grandmothers name on my mums side. She died before I was born so I never got to meet her but she sounds like she was a wonderful person.
2: When was the last time you cried?
This probably sounds stupid but I kind of cry all the fucking time planning out stories. I like to plan out lots of emotional scenes and just kind of end up crying over them a whole bunch. I know I’ve cried this week bc of that. Hell I might have even done it last night.
3: Do you like your handwriting?
It can be pretty sloppy but if I take my time and actually put in like the smallest amount of effort its really clean and I swear it practically feels like a font and I like it a whole lot when its like that.
4: What is your favorite lunch meat?
Dude I ain’t gonna like to you here. None. It’s really never worth asking me about favourite foods because the answer will pretty much just be none.
5: Do you have kids?
No. I’m quite sure I’ll never want kids either which really pisses my mum off.
6: If you were another person, would you be friends with you?
I’m not sure? That’s a really weird question. I mean I’m apparently quite easy to get along with? So I guess I’d at least be able to tolerate me?
7: Do you use sarcasm?
I can’t have a conversation with a friend without being at least a little sarcastic. I’m glad my friends give as good as they get so we can just go back and forth being horrible, sarcastic assholes to eachother for eternity.
8: Do you still have your tonsils?
Yeah. The most work I’ve had done on my mouth has been a few fillings over the years. Never had need to have my tonsils out.
9: Would you bungee jump?
lol fuck no.
10: What is your favorite kind of cereal?
Ok, this is a food one that I can actually answer. I don’t really eat cereal any more but fucking Kellogg's crunchy nut clusters clusters with chocolate are a gift from god himself.
11: Do you untie your shoes when you take them off?
No. I just kick those bastards across the room and forget about ‘em. I toss those fuckers off
12: Do you think you’re a strong person?
My physical strength is... weird. Like I feel like I can lift a decent amount of weight without too much issue yet I can’t open a bottle of lucozade? Actually... it really is always lucozade huh? Other drinks are like a 50/50 chance but lucozade, my absolute fucking addiction, I can never ever open by myself unless I use my fucking teeth... weird.
Mentally and emotionally I don’t really know, I don’t recall a lot of my previous thoughts and feelings very well. I can sort of recall highly positive feelings sometimes but anything else is like a swirling void of “these things sure happened huh?”. If I were currently going through a severely distressing situation I’d probably be able to tell you if I felt like I was coping well but right now there’s no distress and I’m in a state of ‘pretty chill’ so sorry fam, idk.
13: What is your favourite ice cream? Ever, ever?
Ok ok, this is another food one I can answer easy. Ben and Jerry’s phish food. I fucking love it. Every time I go to the cinema, they have this fucking stand where the sell fucking Ben and Jerry’s ice cream, I always have that with either chocolate fudge brownie or cookie dough.
14: What is the first thing you notice about people?
I really couldn’t tell you. That’s another thing I can never recall is what I notice first about people. I’ll try and take note of what it is I notice next time I meet someone new.
15: What is the least favorite physical thing you like about yourself?
I’m still sort of getting over the whole “I’m fat and ugly” thing I was going through for years but the only thing I can really think of is that my hair is really fucking flat? Like, there is no volume to it at all? It really bugs me then when people are like “Oh your hair looks so nice straightened!” because I feel like that’s when its at its worst. I love it when the hairdresser curls it though so I guess its and easy fix?
16: What color pants and shoes are you wearing now?
No shoes and these cute ass Bambi pj bottoms
17: What are you listening to right now?
Arctic Monkeys - Arabella honestly I fucking love it so much!
18: If you were a crayon, what color would you be?
Uhhh? Well purple is my favourite colour so I guess I’d want to be some kind of blueish purple?
19: Favorite smell?
Shit man I am a sucker for lavender. Like every time I go to Lush I have to get something lavender. I remember the first time I ordered from their website literally everything I ordered was lavender scented and my dad went to get the package for me and when he got back the smell of lavender was fucking painfully strong. it was fucking absurd.
20: Who was the last person you spoke to on the phone?
I don’t use the phone much, it makes me really uncomfy for whatever reason, but it was probably my grandfather... Yeah, I remember now, he asked me if I had fun when I went to London for Shelter.
21: Favorite sport to watch?
I’m not to keen on sports but roller derby fucking owns.
22: Hair color?
I’m naturally blonde, but like a darkish, dirty blonde, but I got my hair dip dyed purple again on Wednesday and it looks so fucking good!
23: Eye color?
They’re like a kinda hazel green.
24: Do you wear contacts?
No.
25: Favorite food to eat?
I really don’t do a whole lot of eating atm and I don’t like a whole lot of foods but I will chow down on McDonald’s fries for the rest of my life if you let me.
26: Scary movies or comedy?
I don’t really know... I love horror but most scary movies seem to use cheap tactics or just generally be really dumb but I can’t say I’m fond of like pure comedy movies, if its like a comedic action movie then hell yeah. How about just fuck both of those and give me an action movie instead? Or some animated kids movie? That’d be better.
27: Last movie you watched?
I think it was Captain America: Civil War. Spider-man in that movie is a fucking blessing. And Ant-man.
28: What color of shirt are you wearing?
White fucking Bambi pj top to match the bottoms.
29: Summer or winter?
I’d say summer. Its warm and its like the designated relaxation season.
30: Hugs or kisses?
Yes.
31: What book are you currently reading?
I’m like a quarter of the way through Outcast, book 3 in the Power Of Three arc of Warriors. I actually haven’t picked it up in a while. I might get on that later.
32: Who do you miss right now?
Nobody.
33: What is on your mouse pad?
I’m using a fucking laptop.
34: What is the last TV program you watched?
I think it was 8/10 Cats Does Countdown which is fucking excellent by the way.
35: What is the best sound?
You ever turned on a PS1?
36: Rolling stones or The Beatles
No?
37: What is the furthest you have ever traveled?
Spain I do believe.
38: Do you have a special talent?
I say I can draw but I really can’t atm...
I feel like I don’t talk to anyone enough on here for me to tag them without feeling weird about it so I’ll just tag @aclockworkqueer and @theplumps because I know you both in person so it feels less weird to me so if either of you wanna do this then cool but if you don’t that’s cool too.
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