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buddie-buddie · 1 year

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be the lightning in me (strike relentless)

co-writer: @princessfbi 6x12 coda - 1.3k - g - read on ao3

“You died, Buck. You’re gonna feel a lot of different ways about that. Sometimes all at the same time. I found the best way to process it is to… allow yourself to feel it.”

“How do you feel about that?” The question’s been burning at the tip of Buck’s tongue since he first woke up, since he came out of the coma. Since he first saw the darkness hiding beneath Eddie’s relieved smile– lingering in his features, clinging to the shadows beneath his eyes and the stubble across his jaw.

Ever since, the question’s been swimming in his mind, itching at his skin, begging to be asked. To be answered.

Eddie sighs, suddenly very much occupied with trimming the crusts off of Christopher’s sandwich. “Buck–”

“No, I– I’m serious,” Buck presses. He has to know. He can’t bear it any longer. “E-Everyone keeps asking me how I feel. But who’s asking you?”

Eddie sets the knife down on the counter with a small huff. He walks over to the fridge, completely dodging the question. “You think Chris would rather have blueberries or grapes?”

“Grapes,” Buck doesn’t miss a beat. “Eddie.” Buck pushes because Eddie is the one person who pushes back and Buck doesn’t know why Eddie won’t even look at him.

“Don’t ask me that, Buck.”

It isn’t a request.

Buck’s breath hitches, trapped somewhere in the back of his throat because it isn’t a request. It isn’t a command. It isn’t anything more than a raw, unfiltered plea from somewhere deep in Eddie’s chest.

Buck doesn’t move. Moving feels dangerous. Like he’s waiting for lightning to strike again, but instead of him, it’s Eddie up on that ladder.

But he needs Eddie to push back. How else is Buck supposed to remember that any of this is real?

“Why not?” He asks, just as raw. Just as much of a plea. Maybe even a little more desperate.

There’s something unreadable in Eddie’s expression. His voice is quiet when he speaks, rough in a way it only ever gets when thick with emotion. “Because I don’t want to lie to you.”

“Then don’t.” He swallows around the dryness that’s suddenly appeared in his throat. “I died.” Saying it out loud, saying it seriously , for the first time makes his heart slam into his ribcage.

“Yeah.” Eddie draws in a long, shaky breath, He scrubs his hand over his face, his chest rising and falling slowly. He doesn’t say anything for a moment. A moment Buck clings to because he’s starting to understand just how much can be missed in a moment. Eddie braces himself against the countertop, fists clenching so tight his knuckles turn white. “It felt like a part of me died, too.”

The push. Buck feels it as the words nudge against his chest and find their way in between his ribs. The words are frank, strong. But they feel like they could shatter any second anyway.

“Why?”

“You know why.”

Buck holds his breath. “Pretend I don’t.”

“Because when your heart stopped so did mine.” Eddie says, brave and heartbroken all at once. His gaze cuts to Buck and it’s like being struck by lightning all over again. “I love you.”

Eddie’s never said that before. Not without man or dude tacked onto the end of it. And never with such a softness to it. Never with the words dripping with reverence. Never like this. It sends Buck into a tailspin, his chest squeezing and his heart pounding as he replays the three words over in his mind. His pulse hammers in his ears.

“Eddie,” he breathes.

Eddie’s chin trembles before he bites his cheek and looks away. “You were just hanging there and I– I couldn’t pull you up.” His voice breaks.

“I’m sorry.” The shaky edge to Buck’s voice wasn’t there a minute ago.

The sound Eddie barks out is harsh and catches in his nose as he shakes his head. “You don’t—”

He stops himself with a hand to his mouth, pushing away the bite of his words. Eddie curls his arms around himself like he’s trying to hold himself from splitting in two and it makes something in Buck ache.

“You don’t have to apologize for being struck by lightning, Buck,” Eddie says, softer, gentler but just as certain. There’s forgiveness in his eyes all the same.

Buck rises from his barstool, walking around the island until he’s closed the distance between them. He reaches for Eddie’s hands, taking them in his own as he meets Eddie’s eyes. “And you don’t have to blame yourself for what happened to me.”

Eddie’s gaze drops and Buck knows what Eddie’s instincts were telling him. He knows because his own are screaming at him to do the same, begging himself to stop exposing the throbbing live wire of a nerve they’d bandaged and pretended wasn’t hurting.

Eddie barely gets the space to swerve before Buck is grabbing onto the first thing he can reach. Eddie’s hips are warm and soft beneath the harsh fabric of his jeans, giving to the slight pressure of Buck’s fingertips as he holds on.

Eddie swallows, trying to back away, but Buck follows because if he doesn’t, he doesn’t think he would be able to find this moment again. The counter keeps them pinned and Buck dips down to catch Eddie’s eyes again.

“Eddie,” he breathes. He’s too close. Close enough that he can count the number of endless lashes framing those hazel eyes. Close enough he can see the heartache swimming behind them. The hope, too. “I’m right here.”

Eddie’s mouth trembles. “But you weren’t.”

“I know,” Buck says. He has the sore chest and the bruises and the lightning branded into his skin to prove it.

“Three minutes, Buck,” Eddie says, his words wet and thick with emotion fighting to break free from his resolve. “For three minutes you weren’t here. And I-I-I can’t…”

“I love you,” Buck says. Pushes because maybe that’s what they both need. Eddie’s eyes flutter closed as he exhales and Buck pushes again. “I love you, too.” The words roll off his tongue effortlessly, like they’ve been waiting a lifetime for the chance. Maybe they have been.

Eddie’s face twitches before he opens his eyes again. Strong, shaky fingers tangle in his t-shirt, holding him there like Eddie doesn’t want Buck to float away.

Not even a hurricane could’ve made Buck move then.

Eddie’s eyes shine as his fingers brush against Buck’s cheek. He touches him like he’s special, not like he’s fragile. Like he’s something precious.

Buck presses his forehead against Eddie’s and a small breath from Eddie ghosts across Buck’s lips. The moment stretches between them like infinity and Buck breathes through the tension of it.

“Please,” Buck manages, the word hanging between them in the space between their lips.

Eddie kisses him and everything settles. The uncertainty snapping like static at the base of his spine softens and the low hum that’s been buzzing beneath Buck’s skin goes quiet.

His blood sings as he melts into Eddie’s touch.

A low sigh escapes his lips as Eddie pulls away too soon and Buck can’t help but chase after him.

“I love you,” Buck murmurs. He doesn’t think he’ll ever tire of saying it, doesn’t think he’ll ever lose sight of the wonder that comes from being in love with Eddie and from being loved by Eddie in return.

Eddie kisses him again and Buck’s breath hitches, warmth exploding behind his chest. He makes a tiny, contented noise in the back of his throat. He’s never felt more alive.

Buck was dead, but Eddie brought him back. In more ways than one.

Eddie breathes life into him in a way he hadn’t realized he so desperately needed, clinging to the inside of his lungs and permeating his soul on the deepest level. They’re two halves of one whole.

Eddie brings their joined hands to his lips and lets his lips ghost across Buck’s knuckles. And with that, the last of the ache in Buck’s chest ebbs away like the tide beneath a full moon, his heart called home to Eddie’s like waves to the sea.

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suddencolds · 2 months

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The Worst Timing | [5/5]

we made it!!! part 5/5 + a mini epilogue (5.6k words) at long last 🥹 (aka the installment in which i remember that h/c has a c in it in addition to the h, haha.) [part 1] is here!

this is an OC fic - here is a list of everything I've written w these two!

Summary: Yves invites Vincent to a wedding, in France, where the rest of his family will be in attendance. It's a very important wedding, so he's definitely not going to let anything—much less the flu—ruin it. (ft. fake dating, an international trip, downplaying illness, sharing a hotel room)

—

The world comes back to him in pieces—first the wooden panels of the ceiling, the sloped wooden beams. The coldness of the room, the slight, monotonous whir of the air circulating through one of the vents overhead.

He’s leaned up against the wall, seated on the floor in the hallway, and Vincent is kneeling beside him, his eyebrows furrowed.

It takes him a moment to realize where he is. He had been about to head back to the courtyard, hadn’t he? He doesn’t have much memory of anything that happened after, but judging by Vincent’s reaction, he thinks he can probably guess.

“Hi,” Yves says, for lack of a better thing to say.

He watches a complicated set of expressions flicker through Vincent’s face—relief, first, before it turns to something distinctly less neutral.

“You’re awake,” Vincent says. He turns away, for a moment. Yves notes the clench of his jaw, the tightness of his grip—his fingers white around Yves’s sleeve.

“Was I out for long?”

“A couple minutes.”

Yves wants to say something. He should say something. Anything to lighten the tension, anything to get the point across that this is all just an unlucky miscalculation, on his part. It really isn’t something Vincent should have to be worried about.

“I’m sorry for making you wait,” he starts. Really, what he means is, I’m sorry for making you worry about me. “I promise I’mb fine.”

The look on Vincent’s face, then, is something that Yves hasn’t seen before.

“Why do you have to—” he starts, frustration rising in his voice. He sighs, his jaw set. “I don’t understand why you—” He drops his hand from Yves’s sleeve, and it’s then when Yves notices the stiffness to his shoulders, the tension in his posture. He runs a hand through his hair, lets out another short, exasperated breath. “You’re not fine.”

It’s strange, Yves thinks, to see him like this—Vincent, who usually never wears his emotions on his face, looks clearly displeased, now.

“Hey,” Yves says, softly. He reaches out to take Vincent’s hand. Vincent goes very still with the contact, but he doesn’t say anything. “I—”

Fuck. His body seems to always pick the worst time for unwanted interjections. He wrenches his hand away just in time to smother a sneeze into his sleeve, though it’s forceful enough to leave him slightly lightheaded.

“Stay here,” Vincent says, getting to his feet. “Lay down if you get dizzy again.”

Yves blinks. “Where are you going?”

“To tell the others that we’re leaving.”

Yves wants to protest. Dinner is already halfway over. It’s not as if the festivities are particularly strenuous. They’ll probably move inside after dinner, where it’s warmer.

But he thinks better of it. Judging by how exhausted he still feels, how much his head aches, it probably wouldn’t be wise to push it.

“Don’t tell them about this,” he says.

Vincent’s eyebrows furrow. “What?”

“Aimee is going to worry if she finds out,” Yves says, dropping his head to his knees. He doesn’t want to look at Vincent, doesn’t want to know what expression is on his face. “Just—let them have this night. It’s—supposed to be perfect.” I really wanted it to be perfect, he almost adds. There’s a strange tightness to his throat as he says it, a strange heaviness to his chest.

He knows what it means. If, after he’s tried so hard to do his part, their evening still ends up ruined on his own accord, he’s not sure if he could live with himself after.

For a moment, Vincent doesn’t say anything at all.

“Okay,” he says, at last. “Just stay here.”

And then he heads down the hallway. The door at the end of the reception hall swings shut behind him. Yves thinks he should be relieved, but he finds that he doesn’t feel much other than exhausted.

—

The ride home on the shuttle is silent. Vincent sits next to him, even though all of the other seats are empty. Yves thinks the proximity is probably inadvisable. He opens his mouth to say as much, and then shuts it.

Vincent sits and stares straight ahead, his posture stiff, and doesn’t say anything for the entirety of the ride. It’s strange. Yves is no stranger to silence—Vincent is, after all, a coworker, and Yves has endured more than a few quiet elevator rides and quiet team lunches at the office, but it’s strange because it’s Vincent.

Vincent, who usually takes care to make conversation with him, whenever it’s just the two of them. Vincent, who stayed up through the lull of antihistamines a couple months ago to talk to Yves, until Yves had given him explicit permission to go to sleep.

Yves tries not to think about it. Through the haze of his fever, everything feels unusually bright—the interior of the shuttle, with its leather seats and metal handrails.

The shuttle stops just outside the main entrance to their hotel. Just before he gets to the doors, he stumbles. Vincent’s hand shoots out, instinctively, to steady him.

“Sorry,” Yves says, a little sheepishly. It’s not that he’s dizzy. The roads are just uneven, and it’s dark. “I can walk.”

But Vincent doesn’t let go—not for the entirety of the walk through the cool, air-conditioned lobby, through the hallways to the hotel elevators. Not when the elevator stops at their floor, not when they pass by the grid of wooden doors leading up to their room.

Before Yves can manage to reach for his keycard, Vincent has already swiped them in, scarily efficient. He slides the card back into his pocket, pushes the door open.

“Thadks for walking me back,” Yves says. “Sorry you couldn’t stay longer. You mbust’ve been halfway through dinner.”

“I already finished eating,” Vincent says.

“Even dessert?” Yves says. “I think Aimee got everyone creme brulee from one of the local bakeries. I was excited to try it. Maybe Leon can save us some.” he muffles a yawn into his hand. It’s too early to be sleeping, but his pull out bed looks very inviting right now.

“Take the bed,” Vincent says.

Yves blinks at him. “What?”

“The bed’s warmer.”

There’s absolutely no way he’s going to let Vincent take the pull-out bed in his place, Yves thinks blearily. He’s spent the past couple nights muffling sneezes into the covers—if there’s anything he’s certain of, it’s that he really, really doesn’t want Vincent to catch this.

“I dod’t think we should switch,” he says, sniffling. “I’ve been sleeping here ever sidce I started coming down with this. I’mb— hHeh-!” He veers away, raising an elbow to his face. “hh—HHEh’IIDZschH’-iEEW! Ugh, I’mb pretty sure I contaminated it.”

“We can both take the bed, if you’d prefer,” Vincent says. As if it’s that simple.

Yves opens his mouth to protest—is Vincent really okay with sharing a bed with him?—but then he thinks about Vincent finding him in the hallway—the stricken expression on his face, then, his eyes wide, his jaw clenched—and thinks better of himself.

Instead, he lets Vincent lead him to the bedroom. The bed is neatly made—the covers drawn, the pillows propped up against the headboard.

“Lay down,” Vincent says, pushing lightly down on his shoulders. Yves sits. He peels off his suit jacket, folds it, and sets it aside on the nightstand.

“Hey, I kdow that was sudden,” he says, in reference to earlier. “I’mb sorry you had to witness it. I… probably shouldn’t have pushed it.”

Vincent says nothing, to that.

Yves lays down, shuts his eyes. “You didn’t have to accompady me home, you know.”

Silence. He exhales, burrowing deeper into the covers. “It’s not as bad as it looks, seriously.”

He opens his mouth to say more. He has to say something, he thinks, to convince Vincent that it’s really not that big of a deal. Anything, to assuage that look on Vincent’s face.

But he’s so tired. He can feel the exhaustion now that he’s finally let himself lay down. The bed is traitorously comfortable, with its soft feather pillows and its fluffy layers of blankets, and Vincent was right—it really is warmer.

He feels the press of a hand on his forehead, feels the cold, unyielding pressure. Feels gentle, calloused fingers brush the hair out of his face.

“Sleep,” Vincent says, firmly.

And Yves—

Yves, already half gone, is powerless, when Vincent says it like that.

—

When he wakes, it’s just barely bright outside. He takes it in—the first few rays of sunlight, streaking through the curtains. The bed, a little more well-cushioned than the pullout bed he’d spent the past few nights on—higher up and decisively sturdier. He blinks.

Beside him, seated on a chair he recognizes as belonging to the desk at the opposite end of the room, is Vincent.

Vincent, awake. Yves isn’t sure if he’s slept at all. He certainly doesn’t look tired, at first glance, but closer inspection reveals a little more. It’s evident in the way he holds his shoulders, stiff, and perhaps a little tired, as if there’s been tension sitting in them all night.

He’s reading a book. Whether he bought it at the convenience store downstairs, or on one of the other days when Yves was busy running errands for the wedding and Vincent was elsewhere, or whether it’d been sitting in his suitcase since the start of the vacation, Yves doesn’t know.

“How’s the book?” Yves says.

His throat is dry, he realizes, for the way it makes him cough, afterwards. Vincent’s eyes meet his, unerringly. He shuts the book, sets it down on the bedside table.

“It’s a little boring,” Vincent says. “How’s the fever?”

Before Yves can answer, Vincent leans forward and presses the back of his hand to Yves’s forehead. His touch is unerringly gentle, and Yves allows himself to look.

Vincent’s eyebrows are furrowed, his eyes narrowed slightly in concentration, and Yves wonders, suddenly, if he’s been this worried for awhile, now. If he’s been this worried ever since he’d walked them both back into the hotel room last night.

“I’m fine,” Yves says.

It has the opposite effect he intends it to.

Vincent’s expression shutters. “The last time you said that, you passed out in front of me,” he says, withdrawing his hand with a frown. “So forgive me if I don’t entirely believe you.”

Yves sighs, rubbing a hand over his face. It’s a fair point. “I’m usually more reliable whed it comes to these things.”

“What things?”

“Kdowing my limits.”

Vincent says, “I think you knew your limits. I think you just didn’t want to honor them, because you decided the wedding took precedence.”

He’s… frustrated, Yves realizes. Still. He’s sure he can guess why. Their fake relationship does not extend to Vincent having to look after him, to Vincent having to drop everything in the middle of a wedding, of all things, to take him home. To Vincent having to worry about all this—the fever Yves knows he has, now, and the bed he’s currently taking up—on top of everything else. As if being in a foreign country, surrounded by people he knows almost exclusively through Yves, who, for the most part, converse in a language he barely speaks, wasn’t already enough work on its own.

And Yves gets it. He hadn’t wanted this to happen, either. He’d told himself that if this—this pretend relationship, this pretense—is contingent upon both of them playing their part, the least he can do is be self-sufficient outside of it.

But now—because Vincent is here with him, and because they share a hotel room—all of this is now Vincent’s problem, too, by extension.

“Did you sleep at all last night?” he asks.

Vincent smiles at him, a little wryly, as if the answer is evident.

“You gave up your bed just for me to steal it,” Yves says, in an attempt to lighten the mood. “It’s really comfortable, and all, but I’mb pretty sure they make these kinds of beds for two.”

“Is that a proposition?” Vincent says.

“Maybe.” Yves thinks it through. “Realistically, probably ndot, until I have a chance to shower.” He’s still dressed in his dress shirt and slacks from yesterday, a little embarrassingly—he should probably get changed. “Speaking of which, I should do that soon, so you don’t feel the need to stay up all night reading—” Yves leans forward, squints at the book cover on the nightstand. “—Hemingway? Somehow, I didn’t expect you to be the type.”

“I’m not,” Vincent says. “Victoire lent it to me.”

“Oh,” Yves says, trying to think of when Vincent would’ve had time to ask her for a recommendation. “Yeah. She’s—” He twists aside, ducking into his elbow. “hHEH’IIDzschh-EEW! snf-! She’s quite the literary reader. Is it really that boring?”

“I can see why people think the transparency of his prose is appealing,” Vincent says. “But I’m fifty pages in, and nothing has happened.”

“Isd’t that the sort of thing Hemingway can get away with, since he’s straightforward about it?”

“In a short story, maybe,” Vincent says. Then: “You are trying to make me feel better.”

Ah.

Yves laughs. “Where in the world did you get that idea?”

Vincent just sighs. “I would be exceptionally unobservant not to notice when I’ve seen you do the same thing all this week.”

“What?”

“Telling people that you’re fine,” Vincent says. “And distracting them when they don’t believe you.”

Yves doesn’t think that’s entirely accurate. It’s not like he was trying to be dishonest. It’s just that it was never the most important thing to address.

“Distracting is a bit disingenuous.”

“I don’t get it,” Vincent says, with a frown. “You’re so insistent on putting yourself last, even when you were obviously—” He sighs. There it is—that expression again, the one that makes itself evident through the furrowed eyebrows, the tense set of his jaw—frustration, and maybe something else. “You’re surrounded by people who care about you, so why not just—”

“There are plenty of things more important than how I’mb feeling,” Yves says.

“I don’t think that’s true.”

But of course it is, Yves thinks. A wedding is a once in a lifetime occurrence. An illness is nothing, in the face of that.

��I promised I’d be there,” he says, because when it really comes down to it, it’s true. He had no intention of going back on his word. “I didn’t want to be the one to let them down. Is that so hard to believe?” He reaches up with a hand to massage his temples. His head aches, even though he’s slept for long enough that he feels like it ought to feel a little better, by now. “It’s already bad enough that I had to drag you into this.”

“You didn’t drag me into this,” Vincent says. “I came on my own volition.”

Yves tries a laugh, but it’s humorless. “I made you leave halfway through the wedding dinner.”

“I’d already finished eating.”

“Ndot to mention, you practically had to carry me upstairs.”

“Because you’re ill.”

“That’s no excuse.” Yves wants to say more, but he finds himself beholden to a tickle in the back of his throat—irritatingly present, until he concedes to it by ducking into his elbow to cough, and cough.

When he looks up, blinking tears out of his vision, Vincent isn’t looking at him.

“You should get some rest,” he says, simply.

Yves can tell—just by the way he says it—that there is no argument to him, anymore. Just like that, Vincent is back to being closed off—poised and perfectly, infuriatingly unreadable, just like he is at work, his face so carefully a mask of indifference, even in the most stressful presentations, the most frustrating disagreements. Yves wants none of it.

“Hey,” he says. A part of him itches to crack a joke, to change the subject—anything to take away this air of seriousness. A part of him wants to reach out, again—to take Vincent’s hand, entwine their fingers; to reassure him, again, that he’s really fine.

“I’m sorry,” he says, instead. Maybe it’s the fever that loosens his tongue. Maybe it’s just a combination of everything.

He can feel Vincent’s eyes on him, still. Vincent has always held a sort of intensity to him, a quiet sort of perceptiveness. “I’m not sure I follow,” Vincent says.

“This visit was supposed to be fun for you,” he says. “And now you’re here, stuck in the hotel room because of me, even though today was supposed to be for sightseeing.”

It doesn’t feel like enough. What can he say to make it enough? There’s a strange ache in his chest, a strange, crushing pressure. Yves is horrified to find his eyes stinging. He’s held it together for so long, he thinks. Why now? Why, when Vincent is right here?

But a part of him knows, too. Of course traveling to a different country would be more involved than going to a party, or spending an evening at a stranger’s house. But there was a time when he thought this could really just be a fun excursion for the both of them—half a week in his family’s home country, with someone who he thoroughly enjoys spending time with.

And now, because of this untimely illness—or because of his own short-sightedness in managing it—it isn’t. He didn’t get to stay through dinner, didn’t get to wish Aimee and Genevieve a good rest of their night, like he’d planned to. He has no idea if things went smoothly in his absence. To make matters worse, Vincent is here, having endured a sleepless night, instead of anywhere else.

And really, when he thinks about it, who does have to blame for all of this, except himself?

“I didn’t mean for it to turn out like this,” he says. “So I’m sorry.” He resists the urge to swipe a hand over his eyes—surely, he thinks, that would give him away.

He turns away. It’s convenient, he thinks, that the embarrassing sniffle that follows could be attributed to something else.

“You’ve been nothing but accommodating to me, this whole visit,” Vincent says. “If anything, I should’ve insisted that you take the bed earlier. You haven’t been sleeping well, have you?”

He says it with such certainty. Yves opens his mouth to protest this—or to apologize, for all the times he must’ve kept Vincent up, including but not limited to last night—but Vincent presses on.

“You spent all of yesterday morning helping everyone get ready, and when I got back, you apologized for not being around—as if the reason why you weren’t around wasn’t that you were so busy making sure everything was fine for everyone else.” Vincent pauses, takes in a slow, measured breath. Yves is surprised to hear that he sounds… distinctly angry, in a way that Yves is not used to hearing.

“And then you showed up to the rehearsal and the wedding, even though you weren’t feeling well. And you still think you have something to apologize for? Are you even hearing yourself?” Yves hears the creak of the chair as he stands, the sound of quiet footsteps. Feels the dip of the bed as Vincent takes a seat at the edge of it.

“You know, after you left the dinner table, Genevieve was talking about how much she liked your speech? Do you know that yesterday morning, Solaine told me how grateful she was that you helped her with fixing her dress? Do you know that when I got lunch with Leon and Victoire, they told me how much time you spent preparing for everything—the speech, and the wedding, both?”

Oh. Yves hadn’t known any of those things, and he knows Vincent isn’t the kind of person who would lie about this sort of thing.

“I don’t get it,” Vincent says, sounding distinctly pained to say it. “How could you possibly think that you haven’t done enough?”

Yves finds himself taken aback—by the frustration in his voice, by the fact that Vincent has noticed these things in the first place, by the fact that he’s deemed them important enough to take stock of. He makes it sound so simple.

“I don’t know,” Yves says, at last. He shuts his eyes. “If it was enough.”

“I’m telling you that it was,” Vincent says.

But Yves knows that he could have done more, if the circumstances were different. If he hadn’t been so out of it during the wedding. If he’d taken the necessary precautions to avoid coming down with this in the first place. If he’d been able to stay through dinner, at least; if he hadn’t needed Vincent to accompany him home.

“You don’t believe me,” Vincent says, with a sigh.

Yves doesn’t say anything, to that.

“I can’t speak for anyone else,” Vincent says. There’s the slight rustling of the covers as he shifts, rearranging one of the pillows at the headboard. “But I had fun.”

Yves’s heart twists.

It’s sweet, unexpectedly. “You don’t have to say that just to make me feel better,” Yves says.

“When have I ever said anything just to make you feel better?” Vincent says, with a short laugh. When Yves chances a look at him, he’s smiling down at himself. “I mean it. Meeting your family has been a lot of fun. It’s not often that I get the chance to be a part of something like this.”

Whether he’s referring to France, or the wedding and the festivities, or being surrounded by Yves’s large extended family, Yves isn’t sure. But if Vincent is trying to cheer him up, it’s working.

“I can see why you like France so much,” he says, turning his gaze out the window, though the view outside is filtered through the semi-translucent curtains. “It’s beautiful.”

“Today was supposed to be the last day for sightseeing,” Yves says, a little regretful. “But you’re stuck here.”

“In a sunny, luxurious hotel room, with a view of the pool and the garden?” Vincent says, with a scoff. “I could think of worse places to be.”

Staying up all night, just to check up on Yves, more accurately. Vincent must be tired, too—yesterday was already tiring enough. And now it’s morning already, and he hasn’t gotten any sleep.

“Reading Hemingway,” Yves adds.

Vincent looks a little surprised. Then he laughs. “Yes. I guess you’re right. Perhaps it’s an agonizing experience after all.”

The yawn he stifles into his hand, after that isn’t half as subtle as he tries to make it.

Yves feels his eyebrows creep up. “Are you sure you don’t want to get some sleep? There’s plenty of room.” He scoots a little closer to the edge of the bed, just to make a point.

Vincent peers down at the space beside him, a little hesitant. “At 10am?”

“It’d be, what, 4am, back in Eastern time?” Yves says. “By Ndew York standards, you’re supposed to already be asleep.”

“That’s not how it works,” Vincent says, but he dutifully moves a little closer to Yves anyways. He’s changed out of yesterday’s wedding attire, more sensibly, but now he’s wearing a knitted cardigan which Yves thinks looks unfairly, terribly good on him. Yves finds himself marveling at the unfairness of it all. How can someone look so good wearing something so casual?

Vincent smells good, up close. When he lays down next to Yves, pulling the covers gingerly over himself—leaving a careful amount of room between them, but still dangerously, intoxicatingly close—Yves feels his breath catch in his throat.

Vincent is right there, less than an arm’s length away from him, closer than he’s ever been, and Yves—Yves is—

“See,” Yves says, as evenly as he can manage to, in his current state, as if his heart isn’t practically beating out of his chest. He swallows. His throat feels dry. “This bed definitely fits two.”

“I suppose it does,” Vincent says. “Now you can tell me if I’m a terrible person to share a bed with.”

“After everything I’ve put you through,” Yves says, “I think I’d honestly feel reassured if you were.”

Vincent smiles, again, as if he finds this humorous. “Are you sure you’re going to be fine?”

“Positive,” Yves says. “You should sleep. I’ll wake you if I ndeed anything.”

“Okay. If you’re sure.” Vincent shuts his eyes.

It’s not long before his breathing evens out, not long before he goes perfectly still. He must really be tired, Yves thinks, with a pang.

Yves, for some reason, finds that he can’t get to sleep. He stares up at the ceiling for what feels like minutes on end, shuts his eyes, all to no avail. Maybe it’s because he’s already slept far more than his usual share. Maybe it’s the jetlag. Maybe it’s merely Vincent’s unusual presence—the strangeness of having him so close, in an environment so intimate.

But when he allows himself to look, he sees—

Vincent, his eyes shut, his eyelashes fanning out over his cheeks. From the window, the filtered light gleams unevenly across the crown of dark hair on his head. There’s almost no movement to him at all, aside from the even rise and fall of his shoulders.

And Yves knows what the feeling in his chest is. He’s regrettably, intimately familiar with it.

He just isn’t sure he likes what it means.

—

Vincent—despite falling asleep so quickly—is up before him. When Yves wakes, next, it’s to a hand to his forehead.

“Hey,” Vincent is saying, softly. “Yves. You have a visitor.”

Yves opens his eyes.

He’s feeling—a little better, remarkably. Still feverish, still a little unsteady, but leagues better as compared to yesterday. When he looks over, he sees—

He doesn’t jolt upright, but it’s a close thing. “Aimee!”

He barely has a chance to ask before she’s crashing into him, encircling him in a tight hug. “Yves!” she exclaims, pulling back from him. “How are you feeling? Oh my gosh, when I heard you left early because you were unwell, I was so worried…”

Yves grimaces, turning away. “Sorry, I had every idtention of staying until the end—”

“You came all the way out with the flu!” she says. “I honestly can’t believe you. The fact that you still took the trouble to attend with a fever—”

“It—” Yves starts, but he finds himself twisting away, lifting an arm to his face. “hhEH-! HEEhD’TTSCHH-iiiEEw! Snf-! It’s fide, snf-! I’mb practically recovered already.”

“I should’ve told you not to push yourself when you told me you were coming down with something,” Aimee says, shaking her head. “And you stayed and gave such a lovely speech, even though you weren’t feeling well? When I was talking to Victoire after, she mentioned that you’ve been sick for days and Genevieve—you should’ve said something.”

“I’ll say somethidg next time,” Yves says, a little sheepishly. “Did the wedding go okay?”

Aimee visibly brightens, at this. “It was more than okay,” she says, her eyes gleaming. “It blew every expectation that I had out of the water.”

Aimee fills him in on everything that happened after he left, last night—dessert, the first dance, the cake-cutting; her favorites out of the photos they’d taken after the ceremony (a shot of Genevieve braiding her hair during the cocktail hour; a shot of them leaning in close, for the dance, tired but smiling; a shot of the cake with its multiple tiers, the frosting strung like banners across it; another where both of them are holding onto the cutting knife together and Genevieve looks like she is trying not to laugh; a shot of the bouquet toss, the flowers suspended in mid-air). She tells him about the conversations she and Genevieve had with others about marriage and their futures and their plans for their honeymoon.

Then she lectures him on how he should worry about his health first, next time. She tells him, in no uncertain terms, that she’s fully prepared to give him a piece of her mind the next time he tries to pull something like this. She insists that his health is more important than anything. Vincent stands off to the side the entire time, his arms crossed, passively listening in, but when Yves looks over helplessly, mid-lecture, he definitely looks a little smug.

All in all, she doesn’t seem disappointed in him at all. And, more importantly, she seems happy. Yves finds himself relieved, at this.

Genevieve stops by, too, a little later, to thank him for the advice he’d given her the day before the wedding. She hugs him too, and she leaves him a bag of tea that she promises “is practically a cure to anything—I hope it makes your flight home tomorrow a little more tolerable.” Victoire stops by, with Leon, and Yves resigns himself to more lecturing from the both of them. It’s humbling, a little, to be lectured by his younger sister and his younger brother, though he concedes that perhaps this time, it might be at least partially warranted.

Then Leon opens their hotel fridge to show him the two creme brulees he and Vincent had missed out on, packaged nicely in small paper containers. (“Vincent told me you were interested in these,” he says, and Yves finds himself slightly mortified—but perhaps also a little endeared—that whatever it was that he’d said last night, offhandedly, Vincent had deemed it important enough to text Leon about.)

Later, after Yves showers and gets changed—when he and Vincent eat the creme brulees at the table in the living room, and Vincent tells him that he’s finished the book, perhaps a little masochistically (“it doesn’t get any better,” he says, sounding a little spiteful)—Yves finds himself smiling.

He’s happy, he realizes, despite everything that’s happened. Even with the slight headache, and the lingering congestion, the fever that hasn’t quite gone away entirely. The revelation comes as a surprise to him, at first. But when he thinks about the people he’s surrounded with, he thinks perhaps it isn’t all that surprising.

—

EPILOGUE

“Are you sure you’re feeling alright?” Vincent asks.

“Yes,” Yves says. It’s not a lie.

This time, he’s seated right next to the window, and Vincent is in the middle seat. Yves had offered to take the middle seat instead, but Vincent had insisted(“If you wanted to sleep, you could lean against the window,” he’d said, and Yves had accepted only because it would be better to fall asleep against the window than do something embarrassing, like fall asleep on Vincent’s shoulder).

“It’s just the annoyidg residual symptoms, now,” he says. “I—”

God. He always has the worst timing. He veers away, muffling a tightly contained sneeze into his shoulder.

“hHEH-’IIDDZschH-yyEW! Snf-! I’mb — hHhEHh’DjjsSHH-iEW! Ugh, I’m fine. I feel better thad I sound.”

“Bless you,” Vincent says, leaning over to press his hand against Yves’s forehead. “No fever,” he says. “That’s good. But you should take another day off when we get back.”

Yves doesn’t think taking another day off is necessary. “I spedt the entirety of yesterday sleeping,” he says. “I think I’ve rested enough.”

Vincent just raises an eyebrow at him. “Need I remind you that someone very wise told you to take it easy?”

“Since when has Aimee been your spokesperson?”

“She made a lot of good points,” Vincent says, deceptively unassuming. “I think you should consider taking notes.”

Yves looks at him for a moment. “You’re laughing at me.”

This time, Vincent smiles. “Maybe.”

Yves leans back in his seat, reaching up with one hand to massage his temples. The changing cabin pressure is not exactly comfortable—his head still hurts a little, but he’s flown enough times to know that it won’t be as much of a problem once they finish their ascent.

“Thadks again for coming,” he says, unwrapping one of the small, packaged pillows the airline has left on their seats.

“You invited me,” Vincent says, blinking. “All I did was show up.”

But that isn’t true at all, Yves thinks. Vincent is the one who spent time learning basic French, who met Yves’s family and who spoke with everyone with genuine interest, who bought Yves medicine and water, all while being careful to not be overbearing. Vincent is the one who left the wedding early to walk Yves back to the hotel, who stayed with him the entire day afterwards.

“That’s such a huge understatement I don’t even kdow where to get started,” Yves says. “Thanks for meetidg my family—they love you, by the way. They’re going to be askidg about you every summer from now on, I just know it.”

He can already picture it—June, this year, after busy season is over, if their fake relationship lasts that long. Another flight where they’re next to each other. Another dozen conversations about how they’d met, about what it’s like dating a coworker, about what their plans for the future are.

Perhaps it’s wishful thinking. This was never meant to be a long-term arrangement in the first place. But something about this—about being here with Vincent—just feels so unthinkingly easy.

“It’s no problem,” Vincent says. “The feeling is mutual. I’m glad I got to meet them.”

“Thanks for looking after me, too,” Yves says, with another apologetic smile. “I’mb sure being stuck in a hotel room all day wasn’t how you were planning on spending your last day of vacation.”

“I don’t mind,” Vincent says, sounding strangely like he means it. “I like spending time with you.”

Yves nearly drops the pillow he’s holding.

When he looks back at Vincent, Vincent looks faintly amused. “Is that so surprising? I think I’d be a terrible fake boyfriend if I didn’t.”

“You make a really good one, as it stands,” Yves tells him, sincerely, and Vincent smiles.

Yves looks out the window—where the city beneath them begins to resolve itself into miniature, where the sky stretches where he can see Vincent reflected faintly back at him, from the glass—and finds that he feels impossibly light.

#sneeze fic #snz fic #sneeze kink #snz kink #snzfic #when i set off to write a slow burn h/c fic i don't think i expected it to be 28k words #this was a journey for me... thank you sincerely to everyone who's joined me for the ride 😭#i am not sure if this specific chapter feels rushed? or if it's too short? (if it does i'm very sorry 🙇‍♀️)#some thoughts... (spoilers ahead; pls read the chapter before proceeding)#1) this installment in particular is something of a turning point in their relationship development (and i hope that's not too subtle)#2) vincent not being like a traditionally 'soft' caretaker and having his frustration show a little more openly is something i've had in my #head for awhile :') it was fun to let that crystallize this chapter #yvverse #my fic

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mothwingwritings · 10 months

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It's not a request, more of a question hehehe. if the reader gets Pickle's attention, will the Hanma family handle it to protect their "little sister"? The huge caveman always appears and disappears unexpectedly, it's not hard for him to steal a person. Especially when he sees the small prey surrounded by three strong men

(I kind of went on a tangent with this and I have no idea if it even makes sense, so I apologize for the word vomit ell oh ell.)

If you thought Baki and Jack were suffocating before, you are in for a rude awakening as soon as Pickle enters the scene. The moment they get any inkling that Pickle has taken notice of you they become COMPLETELY overbearing in your life. I’m talking they won't even let you go to the bathroom by yourself, let alone wander off without having one of them attached to your hip. You’re under constant surveillance, Jack and Baki taking turns watching you in shifts when they both can't be with you.

They do all they can to block you from any media coverage Pickle is getting, even if that’s ultimately a losing battle. They know you are aware of him, and you are bound to see him in the news and hear about him on the street, but the less interest and knowledge you have about the man the better. It’s hard keeping you in the dark, especially when they themselves have taken an interest in him. Jack and Baki are itching to take Pickle on, while simultaneously wanting him to stay as far away from their beloved sister as possible.

The brothers do feel slightly guilty over the whole Pickle situation-the whole reason he even knows of your existence to begin with is because of them. You most likely only ever saw Pickle once, and it was when you were with your brothers in Kourakuen. It was just in passing, but they haven’t forgotten the look of sheer awe in your eyes as you took in the prehistoric man before you. You were at a safe distance of course, and sheltered behind your brothers in the event he tried to come any closer. You had to peek through limbs and stand on tip toes to get a good glimpse, and were extremely grumpy when Jack and Baki whisked you away in a hurry. You didn’t even get to wave hello. :(

Honestly, you thought Pickle was a little cute. Intimidating, yes, but the flabbergasted look that spread across his face as he took in this new world around him, mixed with the childlike glee that lit his features when he uncovered something new or exciting… You couldn’t help but find it a little endearing.

However the brothers knew from the moment Pickle saw you, they were in trouble. That toothy grin mixed with the inquisitive gleam his eyes held as they locked on to your every movement held only impure intentions. They got you out of there as quickly as they could, but the warning glances they cast Pickle on the way out seemed to excite him more than dissuade.

At first you found it a little silly, all the effort your brothers were putting into this seemed like a waste of time more than anything. After that first brief meeting with Pickle you really couldn’t fathom a moment where you would ever again be in his presence, let alone have him be a threat to you. If anything, you were more concerned about what someone like that would do to one of your brothers if they ever got in a serious fight. You were well aware that both men were actively pursuing an altercation with Pickle, and it made you cringe thinking the sheer amount of violence they were willing and eager to inflict upon each other. It was hard for you to wrap your head around. Pickle seemed almost… Pure? What joy they found in beating on someone like that, you couldn’t understand.

Regardless, you figure they just need some time to see how ridiculous they were being, and as time passes so will their irrational fear of Pickle getting to you.

What YOU don’t realize is that even though your encounter with Pickle was brief, he is VERY much interested in you. There was no courting in his time line, base instincts taking precedence. What he wanted he would claim by any means necessary. He is intrigued by you, a feeling of insatiable curiosity pulling him towards you. You were so tiny, yet guarded by such fierce beasts. He wanted to see you again, wanted to get his hands on you. He needed to know just what about you made you so desirable, not just to him, but to the others as well. You were new, you were mysterious, you were confusing and beautiful and you smelled so nice… If he got the chance, he would definitely steal you away and spend time alone with you, giving you his undivided attention and taking as much time as needed to unravel your mysteries and make you his mate.

Your flippant attitude towards Pickle, mixed with the awareness Pickle has taken a liking to you only serves to make the brothers more domineering. Don't you understand how much danger you are in? The brothers kept this particular broadcast from you, but they saw what Pickle did to that news reporter woman on national television and they'll be damned if you become his next source of release. They’re not leaving your side until he’s out of the picture entirely, no matter how long it takes.

As for Yujiro, I feel like overall he just likes seeing you in different, compromising situations. He takes great pleasure in seeing you squirm-watching with unparalleled interest as you time and time again get yourself into messy affairs, often without even realizing you are doing it. It’s truly incredible that you don’t realize the threat Pickle poses to you, and he can’t help but laugh at the sheer absurdity of it all. You must be blind, because it only took one look for Yujiro to ascertain Pickles intentions, and that his advances were not something you would walk away from unscathed.

Yujiro knows he can stop it in a moment. He was definitely stronger than Pickle and much smarter too. Yujiro’s presence alone would be enough to dissuade Pickle from ever looking your way again, taking only a small exertion of his power to stop him dead in his tracks and get him fleeing with his tail between his legs. But there was something about the way you were so nonchalant about Pickle that kept him from intervening. It was almost as if you were toying with him, tempting him with your big doe eyes and clueless nature. Did you feel comfortable around Pickle because you knew if necessary, daddy would save you? Surely he wouldn’t let his little Princess be ravaged by this big scary Neanderthal, right?

Don’t worry, Yujiro won’t let Pickle destroy one of his favorite toys, but he’s also not gonna play knight in shining armor unless the reward is worth it. So go ahead and play dumb, writhe and cry out for help when you inevitably get trapped in Pickles embrace. When Yujiro rips your quaking form from the cave mans grasp, and you fall into his open arms sobbing, hurt, and half naked, he expects you to show him nothing but the utmost appreciation. That is unless you prefer him watching as Pickle has a few rounds with you. Would you like that, having your father’s unwavering gaze drink in every inch of your debauched form as you are taken like a wild animal? Yujiro didn’t hate the thought of it, monitoring the situation while he smiled down on you devilishly, your face constricting in a mix of pain, fear, and pleasure as another man had his way with you.

Whatever you want princess, just don’t wear yourself out before he gets a turn.

#in short: you are up for a hell of a wild ride :)#Jack and Baki are ready to throw hands the moment Pickle so much as ever breaths in your direction #Yujiro is like lol lets see how she handles this one >:)#and Pickle is just like... I want her :)#thank you for this ask it was very fun!#baki imagines #mothwingswritings

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