Don't Stand By Me (COMPLETE) - Chapter 42: Chapter 42

One of the first things that happened, once Kiara could properly walk without swearing and at least three of them decided therapy was the right call, was the nickname. The Crazy Eight. This nickname was heavily debated over mulled wine and spiked eggnog, gathered around the dining room table in Fitz's lavish apartment.
Kiara had suggested The Hateful Eight, which she deemed much more appropriate, but was quickly shut down with a gingerbread man that Brent lobbed at her head.
"That only proves my point!" She had snapped, biting its head off and tossing the headless corpse back at him.
So, The Crazy Eight stuck, which the media had also somehow latched onto once Kiara accidentally mentioned it in a Where Are They Now? type interview that should have not made it to air.
"We've started a group chat called The Crazy Eight, which makes sense since we're all [REDACTED] crazy."
The first few weeks were a flurry of activity, reporters constantly camping outside the apartment building, following them to the airport and flashing cameras in their face. They had gotten good at avoiding them until Kiara had nearly launched herself at one of them who had knocked Cassie off a sidewalk in their attempts to get a close-up on Dixon.
Eventually, when half of them moved to Europe, the media grew bored, the news cycle reset itself with something about Taylor Swift, and they were forgotten about.
So time passed, as it tends to do.
And they got old...fast.
Andrew Fitzgerald
Fitz groaned, head slipping from its precarious position of being held up by the heels of his hands, pressed deep into the hollow of his eye sockets, willing the sharp pain to fade. It came in ebbs and flows, dagger sharp one moment, and a low throb the next. He had been staring at the same web page for over six hours, trying to decipher whatever the hell his superior had sent him and he was getting nowhere. A glance down at the lower right quadrant of his screen showed the clock reading 03:32.
He swore, reaching for his phone but immediately decided otherwise; it was too late. His girlfriend's face smiled at him beneath the late hour on his phone screen, her eyes shining as she was dressed to the nines for some gala he had dragged her along to.
He had promised Violet he'd be back at a decent hour, and ached at the thought of her staying up, scrolling through her phone but keeping a careful eye on the front door, waiting for the familiar sound of his key in the lock. As much as she said she never waited up for him, that she was a night owl and just happened to be awake, he knew it was a lie. She was the girl that would get up at six am to do her skincare, to talk to herself in the mirror in a pale imitation of the videos she had made back when they had first met.
He'd make it up to her, he always did, and she was well used to his crazy schedule, that he missed important events, dinner parties with the gang. But he hated that she had to get used to it at all, that he couldn't just be there like he longed to be.
She had insisted that she cook dinner, or at least attempt to, light candles and all that. She was genuinely distraught when he had been called in, his boss citing an important case that could not wait until morning. He didn't understand, it was his birthday after all, he didn't see the importance as much anymore.
He hadn't even gotten to see her, she had left for work before he had woken up and he had been demanded to show up before she could make it home. He was more than a little miserable about not getting so much as a kiss before spending twelve hours at his desk on his thirtieth birthday.
It wasn't as though Violet had anything crazy planned for him, which was one thing he adored. She treated him like every day was special, and he tried to do the same for her.
Whenever he was actually there.
That was it. He snapped the laptop shot, the sharp click seemingly echoing in the room. The only light from the entire floor had now disappeared and he rolled his eyes, hiking his bag over his shoulder and using the light from his phone to guide him to the elevator.
An itch settled beneath his skin as he ran - powerwalked - home, the city still alive with the sounds of techno music and drunk college students stumbling out of clubs, hollering at taxis. This day last week he had witnessed Violet in a similar state, her and Pearl stumbling out of a bar where he had been waiting to escort them home.
"My hero." she had squealed, grabbing him by the collar and pulling him in for a firm, albeit a bit sloppy, kiss that broke almost immediately because they could not stop grinning into each other's mouths.
And she had then promptly vomited on the pavement.
He smiled to himself at the memory as he twisted his key in the lock, pushing the door open as quietly as possible. To his surprise, the apartment wasn't shrouded in darkness, but rather dimly lit by candles scattered throughout. His gaze trailed up to see Violet perched on the couch, legs perfectly crossed as she beamed at him with sleepy eyes, wearing something he could not drag his eyes away from.
"Hey, birthday boy." She crooned, and he could see she was practically vibrating as she held herself back from launching herself at him, "Welcome home."
He gaped at her, for lack of a better word, hands itching to reach out and hold her close.
"What are you doing up?"
She snorted, as though the question of her being awake at almost 5am was completely mundane, "It's your birthday. Your 30th at that."
He chuckled, dropping his bag on the floor and moving towards her, toeing off his shoes as he went, "Not for the last five hours, sadly."
"It's still your birthday, you haven't slept yet. It counts."
"And if I want to go to sleep right now?"
She smirked as he stopped beside her at the couch, dropping to his knees and pressing his cheek against the arm of it, gazing up at her warmly. Her hand immediately went to his hair, carding her fingers through it absentmindedly, tugging on an errant strand. He was content to watch her, and it wasn't until she spoke again did he realise he had even asked her a question.
"I don't think you'll want to when you hear what I've got planned."
He simply stared at her for a moment, his heart - which had taken up permanent residence in his throat - soared.
"I adore you." He said simply, watching the flush creep up her neck, barely visible in the dim candlelight.
He knew he would be woken with an angry phone call in about three hours, but none of that mattered. Time came and went, with work, friends, and the occasional visit back home to his family, but getting to come home to this after a long day made everything worth it.
He was going to marry this girl, that much was certain. And in the meantime, they were going to have the best postponed 30th birthday night ever.
Pearl Montgomery
She thought of her 21st birthday at least once a day initially, which slowly dwindled down to once a week, once a month, and eventually it only came to mind when it popped up in conversation. It had been an extravagant affair, her father's opportunity to show off his daughter to the city of New York. He had hidden her when she came out to him, stating he needed time before the knowledge was made public.
She shrugged, said it was fine, and spent almost eight years hidden in the shadows, with only Charles as her company. It had been a lonely life, and she wanted more than anything to be back in the limelight where she belonged. When the time finally came, she remembered descending a marble staircase in a ballgown, hair perfectly framing her slim face as hundreds of people cheered for her, Marcus Montgomery's only child.
It took months for people to say daughter, not just child. Her father had been thrilled with the news after all, that she and Charles could marry now that she had decided to be a girl.
It wasn't a fight worth having.
When she would run into old friends in the streets of New York, all they would mention was her extravagant parties, decidedly avoiding the elephant corpse in the room. She would give an awkward smile, stating she had a different life then, which was true. While she still had much of the money, everything else had disappeared in the wake of her father's death, of her betrayal to the family name, the business he had put his life on the line to cultivate.
She never quite understood what the family business really was, except for dealing drugs, which was just another reason he was disappointed in her. Her mother didn't answer her emails or her calls, content to be childless, husbandless, and without her legacy. Last Pearl had heard she had retired to the Hamptons, something she thought only happened in the movies.
Pearl wished she had been adamant enough to refuse the money that had been left to her from her father's estate but she needed it; Rome wasn't built overnight and she needed at least a little retail therapy to begin processing whatever had gone on.
It took over three years before she could think of her father without crying, four for the nightmares to stop and five whole years before she could mention his name aloud, even to Brent.
Brent had been her rock throughout everything, trying in his own awkward way to make her feel better about everything. It had been nice, dating someone that had no expectations of her, needed nothing of her. He didn't want her money, her notoriety, he seemed to just want her time. Their first date had been, funnily enough, on her birthday, a few months after everything had blown over. She had tried to go home directly after everything, to speak to her mother but she had been promptly banished from her house.
She spent two years waiting for people to show up at her apartment and murder her, to either get revenge for or on her father. But they never showed. Her mother went into hiding and it seemed that Marcus Montgomery's daughter had never even existed, just like they had always wanted.
She had her inheritance, a little short of 300 million, and the apartment in New York her father had gifted her for her 21st birthday when she had gotten tired of her one in LA, and the clothes on her back. She was handed a fresh start, the chance to be someone outside of her father and she was determined to take it, to be someone, not just a Montgomery.
She knew she needed to make some lifestyle changes, if she wanted that money to last her, well, forever. She wanted to be a new person, that didn't mean she wanted to work. This first lifestyle change came in the form of her shopping habits. This was a journey her and Violet had taken together, as she had been completely disowned - without even an inheritance, imagine such a thing - and they both braved something called a JC Penny to find new shoes.
It had been one of the worst experiences of her life, and she had loved it.
But, right, birthdays. Her first birthday in her new life had been completely mundane; Brent had taken her to some 'hole in the wall' Italian restaurant, as he had called it. She had smiled thinly at the prospect, ordered a garden salad, and picked away at it as he was delivered the biggest bowl of pasta she had ever seen. It was completely different than any birthday she had ever had...it was normal.
Brent had slid random pieces of spaghetti onto her plate, stating spaghetti salad was 'the way to go' and poked her nose with an obscenely long breadstick until she was bent over with laughter.
It remained one of her favourite days she ever had. Over time, the mundane became less of a thrill; she would get pissed off about unclean dishes, she would struggle with getting a stain out of her jeans, she would nearly get hit by the taxi she was trying to hail - but it was life, a life she never thought she would get to live, and while it seemed as though it would be her worst nightmare, it turned out to be a dream come true.
She was only human though, and while you can take the girl out of high society, you can't take the high society out of the girl.
Which is why she had to celebrate her 30th birthday in style. It had pained her slightly, spending thousands - maybe hundreds of them - party, something she would have done in the blink of an eye ten years prior. It had taken months of planning, with Violet's help and Kiara pretending she hated the ordeal while she snuck cake tasters and had very pointed opinions on the colours of flowers.
It had been a lavish affair, ball gowns, three tiered cakes and speech after speech from her closest friends. The guest list had remained fairly small, about thirty people, most of which were friends of the gangs rather than her own. Not a single family member showed up, which made sense considering she didn't send any of them an invite.
And if her favourite part of the night happened to be when they were sprawled in her apartment, shoes kicked off and ballgowns hiked up as they cheered Brent on while he chugged a beer that soaked his shirt clean through, then that was her little secret.
Brent Williams
Brent always fucking loved his birthday - it was literally Brent Day. He got to do whatever he wanted, sit around in his underwear and get absolutely blasted when the time came. Literally the dream. This year, however, was a little different, yet exactly the same.
"Wakey wakey bozo." A sharp smack across his face made him jolt awake, eyes taking a few minutes to adjust to the darkness in the room.
Kiara, for some godforsaken reason, was straddling his lap in the darkness, arms folded as she glared down at him, but the small smile on the corner of her lips betrayed her. He'd be lying if he said this particular image hadn't come to him once or twice before, back in the days where she would rather skin him alive than smile at him. Now was much different as he found himself gazing up at her with only unadulterated affection, rather than wanting to sleep with her or strangle her. He couldn't pinpoint the moment where she had become his best friend, and if asked about it he would deny it vehemently, but it was true.
"Whazguinon?" He slurred, sitting upright and knocking her off his lap, "Why are you on top of me?"
She shrugged as she planted onto the bed, "Dramatic effect? It's not sexual, don't make it weird."
"Blech. Ew." He stretched his arms above his head until he felt a crack, smacking his lips and grimacing at the stale taste in his mouth, "Never."
"Please. You wish you could tap this."
"Tap this? You're thirty."
A fact that made him realise that he was now thirty years old. Three whole decades he had managed to survive, one third of them with people he never would have been friends with in highschool. It was a dick thing to say, but it was true. Now, he couldn't imagine his life without Violet dragging him for 6am runs, or Dixon debriefing him on the latest updates in the psychology world, or even Elvis fitting him for a new suit.
"I am twenty nine you fucking oaf. And hot. I'm in the prime of my life-"
"Oh my god, shut up, why are you even here?"
Kiara slid off the bed, landing gracefully on her feet and reaching out a hand to pull Brent to his own. She kept a firm grip on his hand, using it to propel him to his own living room. Still half asleep, he allowed himself to be led and unceremoniously shoved onto his couch, completely ignored as he squeaked his complaints. The sky, barely visible through the drawn curtains, was still dark.
"What time is it?"
Kiara shrugged, "Like five?"
"And why are you at my apartment at five am? And where is my girlfriend?"
"I killed her." Kiara said solemnly, fiddling with something on the kitchen island that he couldn't make out.
"Not funny."
"Aw but you killed her boyfriend, I thought I would make you even."
His therapist had told him it was normal for people to make light of their trauma, that it was a way to heal and grow from it. That joking about it took the power away, let it not control you anymore. He understood it, but that didn't stop the slight squeeze in his chest everytime Charles was brought up.
"I fucking hate you." He deadpanned, "Why do I keep you around?"
"Because I'm the light of your life, platonic soulmate, best pal, partner in crime, and the only person that actually watches your broadcasts."
"You only watch them because the teacher's lounge TV only has one channel."
Kiara rolled her eyes in a manner that was simply too much for five in the morning, it made his head spin. It definitely must have been his birthday because she didn't subject him to her usual spiel of 'I am a professor, not a teacher. I shape the future PHD's and presidents, not toddlers and teenagers. I have tenure!'
She bundled whatever she was holding in her arms and moved back towards him, dumping them on the coffee table in front of him with a grin.
"Brownies?" He asked, eyebrows raised, "They look delicious but you woke me up at five am for brownies?"
"You have a broadcast at three." She shrugged, "I figured if you wanted to get high on your birthday we'd have to do it early. Because Pearl has a rager planned for you later and you aren't allowed to mix substances after last time."
His eyes honed in on the brownies as the word high left her lips.
"You...?"
"Well, Dixon did."
Even better.
Life was weird, even more so in the last decade since he had met Kiara DeLuca and her band of miscreants. He couldn't remember what life had been like before they had met, awkwardly introduced by Violet on the eve of their first date. He remembers the distasteful curl of her lips, the lilt of her eyebrow towards Elvis as they clearly scanned him head to toe and judged him. He remembered Sophie, the blonde girl with the face he could no longer make out, flirting with her and ruining his life.
Or so he thought.
He remembered bursting into the RV, eyes wide as they honed in on the most beautiful woman he had ever laid eyes on, handcuffed to the couch and staring at him, eyes shining with tears. He remembered every moment they shared in that stupid death trap on wheels, every laugh, every jingle of her handcuff and every moment he wished he was brave enough to throw caution to the wind and kiss her.
Until he finally did.
Life since had not been perfect. It had been messy and exhausting and difficult and crazy; but it had also been everything he ever wanted, friends, a family, a job he loved and a woman he was going to marry.
He wondered if he could convince Kiara to wear a suit and be his best man.
Kiara DeLuca
Kiara had never been one for birthdays; the homes would drag out a cake and a card signed by a few of the kids in barely there chicken scratch that she was certain the orderlies had forged. She remembered strapping on a cardboard party hat and listening as they sang Happy Birthday in painful monotone. She remembered crying herself to sleep every time in the thin mattress and blanket that seemed more like a sheet than anything else, wishing for her mom and dad to come back and take her home. She never understood that they were dead, she never managed to remember the day they had been taken from her, as hard as she tried.
Her brain seemed to be fried regarding her time before the first home, something the social workers explained was completely normal due to her young age and 'trauma' she endured. She never thought of it as trauma, something she couldn't even remember, and her life was all she had ever known, how could that be traumatic?
This meant she also remembered nothing of her previous birthdays with her parents. She remembered distinct feelings of warmth and laughter and happiness deep in her chest; the feeling of her mother's arms wrapping around her and her fathers lips dropping a kiss on the top of her head, but little else. It became easier to remember the older she became.
There was her tenth birthday, where Elvis dragged her to the park and made her a sandcastle birthday cake, which ended up being destroyed when she tackled him into the sandpit and shoved sand down his pants.
Her thirteenth birthday where he pooled together his allowance to buy her an Italian dictionary and a storybook so she wouldn't lose the language she held so dear.
Her eighteenth where he snuck her up to the roof and handed her a bottle of whiskey he blackmailed his brother into buying for them.
And her twenty-first, sandwiched between Elvis and Violet in her double bed, drunken smile plastered across her face as they snored and snuffled alongside her.
She still never liked making a big deal of them, content to just get stupidly drunk, as she would on any other occasion, with the people she loved most.
But for her 30th, her wife was having none of it.
"Tesoro..." She shook her head, flipping through a magazine and shoving the open page into Kiara's face, "What about the Bahamas?"
"You are not dragging all eight of us on a plane just for my birthday. They have work and responsibilities and pets. It's not worth it."
Cassie frowned at her in a way she knew all too well, like she was peering inside her soul and not enjoying what she found inside.
"You are worth it."
"Cara mia..." She groaned, pinching the bridge of her nose, "That is not what I meant."
Cassie watched her carefully, putting her magazine down, "I just want to do something that will make you happy."
"I am happy!" And it was true, "You know I always love my birthday."
"But thirty is special. Don't you want to do something else other than day drink for twelve hours?"
Kiara shrugged, "I mean, how often do we do it anymore?"
"Well, there's eight birthdays a year. Plus anniversaries...Christmas...Thanksgiving...so at least once a month...do you think we have a drinking problem?"
"We're thirty, not dead."
Cassie rolled her eyes, tossing the magazine aside and curling further into her wife's side, arms wrapping tightly around her torso. Her face nuzzled into the groove of Kiara's collarbone and their breathing slowly synced, chests moving in unison. They stayed like that, unmoving as Cassie traced small patterns with the tip of her finger.
"I love you." Kiara said after a while, simply because she could.
She was rewarded with a peck to her collarbone, warming the skin even through two layers of clothing. Kiara found herself, as she often did, thinking about how truly lucky she was to stumble into the life that she had, side by side with a woman who didn't even seem real. Cassie was light, love, laughter and everything she never thought she could ever find. She never said such things out loud to anyone except for Cassie when she was feeling particularly sentimental, knowing that they would all make fun of her, despite being just as bad as her with their own partners.
Elvis, the sappiest and most whipped man in the universe, who would crawl at Dixon's feet if he asked, still gagged if she so much as said she loved her wife.
She might have dozed off at some point, she wasn't sure, but by the time she was blinking and wiping her eyes, the sun had set, small cracks of moonlight spilling through the shutters. She stretched, reaching out for Cassie who had disappeared.
"Cass?" She called, sitting upright and smiling at the glass of water on the coffee table, ice cubes floating in it.
"In the kitchen!"
Kiara found Cassie covered in flour, elbows deep in a large silver mixing bowl she didn't even know they owned.
"What are you doing?" She smiled, brushing a spot of flour off her wife's nose, pecking the spot.
"Cookies!" Cassie beamed, her smile lighting up her entire face as it always seemed to do, "Birthday cookies!"
"My birthday is next week."
Cassie shrugged, arms still submerged in dough, "It's your birthday week! Lots of celebrating to be done."
She wound her arms around her waist, tucking her chin into the divet of Cassie's shoulder and held tight, "I know what I want to do for my birthday."
"Really?" Cassie's head turned to the side, "What?"
"Just this. Me and you."
"I'd like that."
"Followed by getting absolutely hammered with our friends-"
She was cut off, squealing as Cassie managed to spray flour all over her. She could only laugh as Cassie held her tight with doughy hands, dipping her in their kitchen and kissing her with all the warmth and love that she had always needed.
She no longer cried on her birthday.
Elvis Deluca-Miller
The bookshelf was practically full of beanie baby knock offs by the eve of his 30th birthday. It had originally held books, mostly Dixon's psychology textbooks, until every occasion seemed to be marked by a new addition. Birthday? Beanie baby. Anniversary? Beanie baby. You are the love of my life and I just remembered how lucky I am to come home to you today? Beanie baby.
The month following their honeymoon found them placing a new one on the shelf nearly every day. They were squished together, the tiny teddies practically shoving each other to the forefront. It seemed even one more would make it collapse. Even still, he knew Dixon had one prepared for his birthday gift, as he always did. They tried to keep them on theme, something from a private joke or reminded them of each other. Elvis was extremely proud of the one he had presented Dixon during their wedding vows, a little white one with a top hand and a wedding ring stitched into his chest.
"Babe?" He called as he let himself into their apartment, arms wrapped around two grocery bags that he regretted buying, "You home?"
Dixon usually worked from home on Tuesdays, sheets splattered across his desk and the surrounding floor as he worked on his upcoming book that was a dire secret to everyone except the pair of them. Elvis didn't fully understand what his husband wrote about, but he happily listened as Dixon read excerpts in his professional voice that did little more than make Elvis pounce on him.
He was met with only silence. It wasn't extremely rare for him to not be home at this time of day, he liked to take thought walks or sneak down to the bakery for something called a cruffin. Elvis hummed away to himself as he unbagged the groceries, opening the fridge and almost dropping the tub of margarine in his hands.
A little bear, lime green in colour and adorned with tiny black sunglasses, lay on top of the grapes, his tag pointing outwards. He grabbed it with a smile, seeing Dixon's familiar scrawl across the tag.
'#1 For being the coolest guy I know'.
He barked out a laugh at this, turning the bear in his hands. Of course Dixon knew Elvis' exact steps, that the fridge would be the first thing he would open. He kept the bear in his hands as he shoved the margarine into the fridge, too excited to reorganise the drawers like he had been planning to all week.
He decided to continue his usual routine, wondering if Dixon knew him as well as he thought he did. A thrill ran down his spine at a game his husband didn't even know he was playing, but he was always competitive at heart, as evidenced by the time Kiara cheated at Monopoly and he threw a remote at her head.
His next stop was the bathroom to wash his hands of the grimey outside world. And right there is where #2 lay, perched in the sink, a New Years Eve bear, complete with a pointy hat and a party blower.
'#2 Because you couldn't wait another second to tell me you loved me.'
And it was true. Their first New Years together was spent in France, at some boujee party his boss had dragged him along to. He had managed to plead his case for a plus one and Dixon had relished the chance to witness a real life fashionista party, as he put it. Elvis had spent most of the night networking, patting arms and passing drinks as he learned the names of people he would be working under in the following year.
It was boring, he hated it, yet the night was saved by Dixon, who made eye contact with him each time he looked up, sending him an encouraging smile and the occasional wink. Each smile sent a wave of affection through him as he wanted to do nothing more than drag him home before the ball dropped. But he couldn't, and Dixon knew this.
Finally, literal moments before the ball dropped, Elvis managed to drag himself away from a designer wailing about her ex-boyfriend - clearly after too much champagne - and practically bounded towards Dixon, who was waiting for him with two glasses of something sparkling and a beam, that damned smile he had come to know, the one that felt private and sacred, just for him.
"Hi stranger." He handed him his glass, "Nice to meet you. I'm Dixon."
"Elvis." He played along, sliding an arm around his waist, squeezing his hip twice.
Dixon lay his hand over Elvis' and smirked, squeezing back once, "Very forward for a stranger, aren't you?"
"You're simply that handsome."
Dixon turned, winding his arms around Elvis' neck, his glass cool against the back of it. People began chanting, counting down to the New Year behind them, but Elvis couldn't bring himself to join in. He couldn't tear his gaze away from Dixon, who was gazing at him with wide eyes, that look that never failed to shake him to his core.
Dixon began chanting, Ten, nine, eight-
Elvis couldn't join in, couldn't make his lips form anything except-
Seven, six, five-
He had to say it.
Four, three, two-
"I love you!" He blurted, clamping his lips shut as soon as the words had left them.
The room exploded in cheers and applause, people dragging each other into sloppy kisses. Dixon and Elvis did not, instead frozen, arms wrapped around each other as they simply stared. The screams dulled to a faint noise behind them that they no longer paid any attention to.
"Couldn't wait another few seconds?" Dixon teased, his cheeks flushed.
"I've waited long enough."
Elvis had never been much of a romantic, but in the last decade Dixon had managed to turn him into the biggest sap New York had ever seen. He got impromptu flower deliveries, sang Sinatra in their living room and spun him around the coffee table, telling him each and every thought in his mind. He was in love, more than he ever thought possible, and somehow more each day.
It was insufferable, and he loved every minute of it.
The messages continued all throughout the apartment, Elvis finding each of them in perfect order.
'#3 Your smile' hiding in the plant he always watered when he got home.
'#7 The way you always look for me in a crowded room' at the spot where he kicked off his shoes after he would forget when he came in.
'#12 When you pretend you aren't a softie' by the coffee pot, already hot and ready for him.
'#16 You make me see that I matter' by the window he would open to let in air.
'#24 You feel like home' in Dixon's office, where he would check to see if he was home.
'#29 You make everyday special' on the floor outside their bedroom.
He may have been crying at this point, small tears tracking down his cheeks as he had an armful of beanie baby knockoffs, threatening to tumble to the ground. Dixon knew his routine in and out, every small thing he did throughout the day; he knew every part of him, even if he pretended he didn't notice.
The bedroom door, slightly ajar, was gently kicked open with his foot, the beanie babies promptly falling from his hands at the sight in front of him. Dixon sat on their bed, legs crossed and beaming at him with that damned smile, his eyes warm like molten honey as they stared at him. He was holding out a beanie baby towards him and Elvis laughed, which quickly choked off into a cry at the sight of it. It was a beanie baby Elvis Presley, complete with the quiff and sparkly white suit, tiny microphone stitched to its hand.
He took it wordlessly as he felt Dixon's gaze boring into him, not yet speaking.
'#30 Because you're my Elvis'.
Now he allowed himself to cry, shoulders shaking as Dixon leapt from the bed, arms wrapping tightly around him, grounding him.
"Hey, hey, I'm sorry." He said, as though anything he had done today had been anything less than perfect, "I didn't mean to upset you, love."
"Y-You." He sniffed, "Are perfect. You are everything."
Dixon chuckled at this, rubbing his palm across Elvis' shoulder blades in the way he knew he adored. He placed a kiss in the curve of his neck and Elvis couldn't help but smile, pulling back and wiping his eyes.
"You are...next level." He breathed, clearing his throat, "How did you even?"
"It was easy." Dixon shrugged, grabbing his hand and squeezing it twice, "I had to limit myself to thirty. I had about 200 drafted."
"Only 200?" He squeezed back once.
They spent the rest of the day curled around each other in bed, trading stories and kisses, bare legs tangled beneath the sheets.
"Also," Dixon said between kisses, gasping for breath, "I bought another bookshelf."
"Oh thank God!"
Violet Hastings
Violet loved her life. This wasn't a new thing, a passing fancy for whatever fad was currently going on. Despite some obvious hiccups, she had always loved her life. When she was younger, she had money, luxury, parties and limos, and she loved it then. Time passed, and she found herself finding a new family, a boyfriend that was a little airheaded, and she loved it then. Then, she had likely the worst few weeks of her life, witnessed a murder, ran from the mafia and got disowned by her father. Even then, in the aftermath, she loved it then.
Losing her money was difficult. She hadn't lost it all, but at least ninety percent of it. She had a nest egg that she had hidden in a savings account that her father knew nothing of - she knew how quickly an empire could collapse and she didn't want to wind up with nothing - but it was little more than enough to pay rent for a few months while she figured herself out. She was on her own, now more than ever, and she needed to figure things out. She had a law degree, a minor in forensics, and a fairly decent online following. There had to be something for her.
She worked her ass off, taking stupid part time jobs while she strived towards what she realised was her dream, the one thing Brent had poked fun at her most for, private detective. He had been oddly supportive of her dream in the meantime, as it came to be that they actually had very few friends outside of the group and now with half of them gone, they kind of needed each other.
It was insanely awkward at first, just her, Brent, Pearl and the occasional Fitz when he wasn't bombarded with work. But time had made it easier as she came to find that, despite dating him for close to a year, she knew nothing about him. She didn't know what he liked, what made him tick. She had never asked. Pearl managed to bring it out of him and she realised that she actually enjoyed his presence, enjoyed both of their presences.
She made new friends too, in work mostly, and some she met through Fitz and for the first time in her life, she was independent. She wasn't dependent on her father, or his money, or Kiara's presence to get her through everything. She managed it.
By the time she finally turned thirty, everything was perfect. She was married, living in a beautiful Brownstone Fitz had bought for them after Violet finally agreed to move out of the college apartment. She would have put up more of a fight, until she realised Elvis had managed to buy it from the late landlord's son, who was more than happy to give it up considering it had been rent controlled for over a decade.
Life was weirdly normal once the rest decided to move back from Europe, and it was strange having everyone no more than a train ride away, having weekly drinks or dinners or whatever they managed to have time for in random combinations of the eight of them. Her favourite was always her, Kiara, Elvis, but she had a soft spot for herself, Dixon and Pearl.
(One time it had been Cassie, Brent and Elvis which was the wildest pairing somehow).
As one of the last ones to turn thirty, she had plenty of time to ignore everything they had done, and plan something of epic proportions for herself. While she had adored the ball Pearl had thrown for herself for her own 30th, she wanted something else for herself.
And then it hit her.
"You want a what?" Kiara had wheezed down the phone, "You're fucking kidding me!"
"What?" She said defensively, "It's not crazy!"
Everyone else had a similar reaction, either laughing or saying it was weird or stupid. It had disheartened her for sure, and she found herself, two weeks before the day, curled up on the couch, magazines sprawled across the coffee table until she heard the familiar sound of the key turning in the lock.
"Honey, I'm hoooome," Fitz called, pausing in the doorway as he caught sight of the pathetic mess she likely was, "Hey, what's wrong?"
"Everyone said my idea for my birthday was stupid." She muttered, kicking one of the magazines away, "Let's just booked Vespucci's and call it a day."
"You want...the Violet Hastings-"
"Violet Fitzgerald." She interjected with a frown.
"-to spend her 30th birthday at a mid range Italian restaurant?"
She shrugged, but couldn't fight the small smile at his teasing as he made his way over to her.
"I don't want to plan it anymore." She sighed, "I don't need anything crazy, I just need us."
Fitz nodded, opening his arms that she happily fell into, "Leave it to me, Vi. Why don't I plan a nice cosy dinner party? I'll wear that suit you like."
"Yeah," She nodded, burrowing herself deeper into his arms, "Something simple."
She meant it, mostly. But she couldn't shake the feeling of the excitement she had for her original plan, and how quickly it had been shut down.
When the day of her birthday rolled around, she was less than enthused. Fitz had managed to spring an entire day off and he had put on that suit that she liked, but it had been adored with the ugliest blue flower she had ever seen.
"Sweetheart..." She said, toying with said monstrosity, "What is this?"
"What...I thought we're meant to match?"
Her brow furrowed, "Match? I'm wearing the black cocktail dress?"
"To prom?" He guffawed, "Don't be silly."
Her eyes widened, her mouth dropped open as she stared at the man she didn't think she could adore anymore until just that moment, "Prom?"
"Come on, darlin'." He drawled, "You didn't think I wouldn't plan you the party of your dreams?"
She practically squealed, launching herself into his waiting arms and giggling as he swung her back and forth.
"But...I don't have a dress!"
"Kiara picked one out. Hideous prom chic, she called it. Sound right?"
"Sounds perfect."
And her friends, for their lack of tact, seemed to pick up very quickly when Fitz had berated them, that this was actually important to her. And they had gone the whole nine yards. A stretch limo appeared outside their home, horn honking loudly as they stumbled inside. Everyone was already well on their way to being drunk, in the ugliest puffy dresses and brightly coloured suits.
It was a stupid dream she had, that she never got to go to her own prom - her father said it was a bad image. And getting to go to prom, to get sloppy drunk with her closest friends in the entire world - her family - it was every dream come true.
She never stopped smiling that night, in the large ballroom Fitz had rented out, with the DJ blaring 2010's hits as she danced, surrounded by dozens of people, happy to celebrate with her.
Yeah, Violet loved her life.
Cassie DeLuca
Turning 30 was something that terrified Cassie, always since she had been old enough to understand the concept of it. 30 was the age her mother had been when she had gotten sick, when her life had skidded to a screeching halt and taken them all for the ride. She never said any of this outloud, even to Dixon, but it had encompassed her entire life in the months leading up to it. She applied for every health screening possible, genealogy checks, anything and everything she could to ensure that if there was something, it would be caught early. This was how she found herself, the morning of her birthday, awaiting her results.
She had managed to get the day off work, something she wasn't going to read too much into but she was unsure of how she got it in the busy season. Kiara, mostly off for the summer minus a few faculty meetings and lesson plan draftings, had woken her up with dozens of kisses plastered across her face. She woke up smiling, leaning into the offered kiss and dragging Kiara back down on top of her, content to enjoy her morning.
She didn't even think of it until after she was satiated and snuggled tightly under the blankets, curling into her wife's side as she trailed a finger down her bare arm, moving in close. She also thought of Kiara's health far too much for comfort, wishing she could ask her to take the tests but knowing how insane she would sound if she did. She was always shoving fruit into her hands in the morning, warning her about drinking too much on nights out and threatening to divorce her if she touched a cigarette.
She hated feeling overbearing but it was all she knew. She had lost her mother and it had torn her apart, ripped her limbs from her body and left her scattered. She didn't know what she would do if she lost the person that managed to stitch her back up again.
When Kiara eventually crawled out of bread to pull together a breakfast, she trailed after her, wrapped in Kiara's favourite robe and smiling at her from the kitchen table. Her phone was in her hand, fingers wrapped tightly around it as she waited for the telltale buzz beneath her palm. She didn't realise she had completely stopped responding until a gentle hand on her shoulder made her jump.
"Hey," Kiara said softly, "What's wrong?"
"Nothing!"
"Cara mia." Kiara said, sitting in the chair beside her and scooting forward until their knees touched, "Talk to me."
She was quiet for a while, long enough for Kiara to stand off and switch off the stove, pulling a pan out and leaving it to cool on the counter before returning to her seat, holding Cassie's free hand in hers.
"I'm scared."
"Of?"
She knew it wasn't stupid, deep down she knew her fears, while bridled with anxiety, were somewhat warranted. Her mother had been sick, it could have been genetic. Kiara knew nothing of her parent's genealogy, they could have been carrying something they passed down to her, something her family may not have even known about. But saying it outloud, making the fear real and known and presented to the universe felt just as good as manifesting it to happen.
Kiara's eyes were focused on hers, nodding her head to urge her to speak and she knew she couldn't lie to her, she never could.
"I'm scared you'll get sick."
If she was surprised, her face didn't betray a thing.
"Or I'll get sick. I could have what my mother had. Or you could have something you didn't even know you had. That one of us could get sick, like really sick."
"You're afraid of dying?"
"It's more than that. It's...I saw what my mother went through, how she suffered for years beneath the surface. It ruined her marriage, ruined her life and then she was gone in an instant. I don't want that. I don't want to get sick and have you stuck at my bedside, putting your life on hold. I don't want you to get sick and have to wake up one day without you. I'm terrified."
Somewhere in the middle of her speech she had started shaking, full body trembles that she couldn't process until she found herself dragged from her seat and sprawled across her wife's lap, cocooned in her arms. She felt Kiara breathing loud and deep and she strained to match the pace, feeling her heart slowly settle.
"Thank you." Cassie breathed, exhaling a long breath, "I'm sorry. I'm ruining this day already-"
"Stop it. You're ruining nothing. You're allowed to show emotions, cara mia. Can I talk now?"
Cassie nodded, watching as Kiara reached onto the table one handed and grabbed her own phone, unlocking it and showing it to her. She began speaking as Cassie scrolled through the message, gaping.
"I had a feeling you were worried about this and I heard like four messages on the answering machine a few weeks ago about your appointments. I thought I'd put your mind at ease and do the same for myself."
The email was long, filled with different test results, all reading NEGATIVE.
"You...how did you even..."
"I know you." She said simply, brushing a thumb across her cheek, "And you know that unless you make me, I will never ever leave you."
"I can't believe you..I..."
"I was going to wait until you had told me about your own results but," She shrugged, "Now seemed a better time."
She wound her arms around Kiara's neck, pulling her in tight and squeezing for all her worth, "Thank you, tesoro. This means everything."
"I would do anything for you." And Cassie knew that she meant it.
Breakfast passed with ease, Cassie remaining in her lap as they fed each other grapes and stealing bites of each other's french toast. She had managed to forget, too wound up in laughing at the dollop of creme fraiche Kiara had managed to get on her nose when her phone rang, the screen showing a private number.
Kiara held on tight as Cassie answered, listening to Cassie's responses until she finally hung up, and squeezed her as tightly as she could muster.
Everything was going to be okay, and that is all Cassie needed to hear.
Dixon Deluca-Miller
Dixon DeLuca-Miller was a man of many talents, or so his husband always said. He was a celebrated psychologist, soon to be a published author, a great cook, and he could do this thing where he puts his -
Anyways.
One of his favourite things that he could do, was the way he could make his husband laugh. Elvis was always an introverted man, even when they met, masking his discomfort with snarkiness and a temper that could rival Kiara's. He loved it, it intrigued him how Dixon was the only person he would show his soft side to. Elvis was known to smirk, to bark out a laugh or to roll his eyes. Very rarely did he let out an all encompassing laugh, the kind that made his eyes light up and his head fall back. The sound never failed to warm his heart, especially when he was the one causing it. He found it easy, and it became a hobby, soon a habit, that he never wanted to stop.
Another thing he prided himself on was his gift giving abilities. Elvis claimed it was from being a psychologist, constantly reading people no matter how hard he tried to play it off, that he could always find the perfect gift. For him it was easy, he just knew what people liked, rather than looking for things he thought they needed. It made perfect sense in his head, but none to Elvis, who designated him gift buyer for all occasions.
That was the nice thing about being a married couple, people rarely expected two gifts from you unless they were Violet or a child.
He didn't put much weight in getting presents himself, he hated clutter, and usually if he wanted something he went out and bought it. The only thing he looked forward to without fail was the ceremonial beanie baby knock off Elvis would get him each year, anything else was a bonus. The first one he had ever gotten, on his first birthday with Elvis eight years before, was front and centre, the only one not banished to the bookshelf.
He liked to keep it on his desk at home, leaning against the monitor, slightly crumpled from years of being manhandled. Its golden star still shone, though slightly peeling, and every time he looked at it he felt like he did the first time, completely infatuated with Elvis Miller.
This year, he had been given very specific instructions by Elvis to dress comfy, warm and ready to be swept off his feet. Whatever that meant.
Turns out, that meant a picnic beneath the stars over a thirty minute drive away, out in the suburbs where the sky was actually visible without the pollution. Elvis had been the perfect gentleman, refusing to let him open his own door and helping him take off his coat, before escorting him to an open field where a picnic basket lay, a bottle of prosecco on ice and weirdly enough, a telescope.
"Happy birthday!" Elvis beamed, wide enough that it made Dixon's heart hurt.
"It's wonderful, love." He kissed him soundly and for long enough that Elvis had to pry him away.
"Save that for later!" He smirked, turning Dixon to face the picnic, "I actually cooked so...maybe we shouldn't eat it."
Thankfully, Elvis had made a simple pasta with cheesecake for dessert, having almost poisoned them all the last time they had hosted the monthly dinner. Chicken was not meant to be pink, as much as Elvis tried to protest that thigh meat could be pink - something that he had frantically googled while Brent was puking his heart out. He had cooked chicken breast.
Happily full, Dixon lay his head on his husband's lap, gazing up at him with the smile that never seemed to leave his face in his presence. Elvis, as dark and dreary as he pretended to be, brought nothing but light to his life, and it was a wonder he managed to exist before him at all.
"Stop looking at me like that."
"Like what? Like you're the love of my life? Man of my dreams?"
"Sure." Elvis snorted, "That."
"Can't help it, I'm afraid." Dixon beamed as his husband leaned down for a kiss, grabbing the back of his head and holding him there.
He practically melted each time Elvis had his hands on him - which was often. They were constantly told that the bliss would fade, it would get old, but no matter how many days passed, years too, his heart sped up at the sight of him just as much as it did that first day. Domesticity could never get old, not with him.
"Can I give you your present now?" Elvis panted once he managed to pull himself away, "Before I tear your shirt off?"
"We are not having sex in a field." Dixon protested weakly, and by the lilt of Elvis' brow, he knew he didn't believe him, "Fine. Not until after presents."
"Exactly." Elvis shoved him gently, "Up."
Dixon watched as Elvis pulled a sheet of paper from underneath the picnic basket, holding it close to his chest. He glanced through the telescope, moved it slightly before standing straight, smiling and gesturing for Dixon to look into the telescope. Dixon did, peering through to see one brightly shining star amongst a cluster of others, twinkling at him. He felt a warmth bloom in his chest at the sight of it, somewhat familiar.
"That," Elvis murmured in his ear as he continued to stare at the star, unable to tear his eyes away, "Is your mother."
The tears came, which Elvis seemed to suspect as a tissue was pressed into his hand almost immediately as he slumped back into the grass, staring up at his husband in awe.
"You...you got her a star?"
Elvis nodded, "I thought of getting you one too but...you belong down here with me for a little bit longer."
"I...El..."
"You don't have to say anything, it's okay."
"I...I think you finally beat me at birthday presents."
Elvis threw his head back and laughed and Dixon swore his heart was about to leap out of his chest and directly into the other man's hands. He never wanted to go a day in his life without that laugh, the smile behind it, and the warmth of those lips pressed against his.
"Thank you." He grabbed Elvis' hand, squeezing twice as his husband pulled him to his feet.
Elvis squeezed once in return, wrapping his arms around his waist and standing behind them as they watched the sky in silence.
"She is so proud of you."
Is. Dixon had heard countless times in his life that his mother would be proud of him, of everything he accomplished. He had never heard that she is. He liked it.
"Thank you." Was all he could say.
Dixon DeLuca-Miller may have been a man of many talents, but it seemed as though his husband may have stolen the title of best gift giver from under him, and he was very okay with that.
TEN YEARS
Through ten years of birthdays, anniversaries and the like, The Crazy Eight have managed to always stay at each other's sides. Through thick and thin, family problems and generally trying not to rip each other's throats out, they have stuck together, as family does.
This may seem like an ending to their story, but trust and believe, it is only beginning.