( ミ☆ ) NINE
irl | warren vs self

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⠀⠀⠀⠀So. Here's the scenario.

⠀⠀⠀⠀Your close friend who, over the course of one night, became one of the most hated people on the internet, has just been involved in their first big controversy. A controversy of which has been brought upon by you, although, not technically by you, because it wasn't like you were the one to write up and publish a bullshit article full of speculation and misinformation with the goal potentially being to end yours or said friends career. So, no, you had nothing to do with it. But let's say you feel guilty about it — excruciatingly so — and now you're doubting yourself about whether this mess actually was your fault or not.

⠀⠀⠀⠀What do you do?

⠀⠀⠀⠀Do you: A) Laugh about the article the first time you see it, thinking it's all a joke up until you realise it is serious, like Warren. B) Proceed to get really angry and take to Twitter to clear your name, passing your phone over to your journalistic friend named Rory before you hit 'Tweet' to make sure you don't say something you might regret, like Warren. Or C) Pretend you weren't just crying about the whole thing three days later during a plane ride home from Europe as you hope like hell that your snoring, idiot best friend named Elliot, who insisted he fly back with you a day before you're scheduled to, doesn't wake up beside you and take notice, like Warren.

⠀⠀⠀⠀Can't pick just the one? No problem; allow the universe to throw you a bone. Do you do: D) All of the above, like Warren.

⠀⠀⠀⠀See that tall, dark, and (quite honestly) handsome guy currently running up to his girlfriend on the L.A. sidewalk, meeting her halfway and embracing her within a hug after she makes a romantic leap into his arms? The guy who's getting showered with kisses from his girl like she's missed him; like he very well may be the best thing that's ever happened to her?

⠀⠀⠀⠀Yeah.

⠀⠀⠀⠀That's not Warren.

⠀⠀⠀⠀The cold, rain-soaked guy on the phone, stepping out of a cab behind the couple, however? Bingo. There's your A, B, C, and D scenarios, Warren Liberato.

⠀⠀⠀⠀Né, Laureano.

⠀⠀⠀⠀Né, someone who's name was just background noise in Hollywood, perfectly heard-of and unheard-of, before he was reduced down to "cheater" in a hashtag.

⠀⠀⠀⠀Party in the U.S.A did not prepare him for this (So what the hell, Miley?).

⠀⠀⠀⠀Speaking of hopping off planes at LAX and fitting in: Jesus Christ, Warren thinks, what a simultaneously incredible and terrible shitstorm of a feeling it is to be back here. It's late; late enough for the stars to be out, maybe, if only this city's light and air pollution problem weren't busy choking out the atmosphere. The rain has long since stopped, but the cold remains as Warren pauses where he stands, cautious, to glance around. No paparazzi... No reporters... And no one here to recognise him. The street, aglow with neons and reflective city light, is mostly empty, save for the receding flow of Downtown traffic, a handful of pedestrians engrossed in their cellphones, a hi-vis night jogger, and that couple on the sidewalk — still embracing; still connecting.

⠀⠀⠀⠀Warren is staring ahead at the pair, truthfully more envious of them than he is awed, when two different voices jolt him back into awareness. One voice comes from his cellphone pressed up to his cheek. The other is from his cab driver, demanding to be paid. Warren blinks slow, but moves fast, and reaches into the car to slap two fifties into the driver's hand (He'd shared a ride with Elliot, who lives with Rory twenty minutes away in Westwood, and of course Warren said he'd pay — Elliot may be on the rise to becoming a household name, but he, like many L.A. dwellers, is still broke as shit). On the draw back, Warren drags his suitcase out, and it lands with a heavy THUD! against rain-slicked pavement. When the driver mutters something about a wet backseat and a lousy tip despite getting paid extra for compensation, Warren rolls his eyes with a huff and slams the car door closed behind him.

⠀⠀⠀⠀❝Fucker,❞ he mutters instinctively, wincing as he remembers, You're supposed to be a better person now.

⠀⠀⠀⠀The voice on the opposite end of the phone call breaches through to him, warm and calm in nature; a contrast to this bitter cold. ❝You should really stop talking about yourself like that, you know.❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀Warren finds himself smiling the tiniest bit at that. ❝Indirectly insulting me now, Bree? You've hit a new low.❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀❝I think I already hit rock bottom after I decided to befriend you.❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀❝Oh, you're evil.❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀This is quite possibly the farthest thing from the truth. No matter who or how many people online have tried to paint her out to be a villain over the past four days, Aubrey Moore is undoubtably one of the kindest, giving, most upbeat people Warren has ever come to know. She doesn't deserve the hate spurring from that article written about them. She does, however, deserve a better friend than him.

⠀⠀⠀⠀Wild with colour in personality and calming in presence and aura, Warren is starting to think of Bree as a sister to him. They've only known each other for a little over seven months, but it takes a certain kind of person to creep their way into the frozen cavity of your chest and warm your heart that easily, that fast. She's only sixteen — younger than even Warren was before he came out to L.A. So who the fuck writes false, scandalous articles about kids like that journalist had? Every fibre of Warren's being wishes he never has to think about that damned slam-piece ever again. But when you live an existence of fame, fans, and fortune — no matter the sum or scale — you can't simply swim out of the public's pool of negative opinions about you. You can only hope to stay afloat long enough so as not to drown in them.

⠀⠀⠀⠀Bree ("Can I call you Bree?" he'd asked her one day, and, "Sure. Can I call you stupid?" she'd jokingly asked back) returns to the phone, reeling him back in to solid ground. ❝Run into trouble yet?❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀The question makes him glance up and down his street again, secretly buzzing with paranoia. ❝Coast seems clear.❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀There's a series of faint clicking noises that sound a lot like typing on an iPhone's interface. ❝Well...❞ Bree hums, and says, after a few beats, ❝It looks like TMZ is finally onto you. Three minutes ago, they posted to their website about you and Elliot arriving back in LAX. Oop, look at that... BuzzFeed too.❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀❝Good thing he and I are long gone. Ninjas.❞ A pause. ❝Am I on speaker?❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀❝Maybe.❞ She falls silent just a little too long for it to be meaningless. Warren opens his mouth, ready to launch into all the 'Overly Protective Brother-ly' questions when she says, out of the blue, ❝Off The Press is still dark...❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀Warren's jaw tightens. ❝Fuck 'em,❞ he grunts. A pseudo-fist strikes his chest at his poor choice of language around her, but he's never been one to hold his tongue. ❝Don't even click on their website or their social medias, okay, Bree? The author of that article is batshit crazy, and corrupt, and my publicist and I are already looking into taking action against them.❞ He stops with that. He doesn't need to freak her out with the 'lawsuit' bomb-drop, even if he doesn't particularly want to follow through with a plan of action that hard just yet, no matter what his publicist keeps suggesting. ❝So, just... please, Bree. Stay off that site. They don't deserve the time, or the traffic.❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀You also don't deserve to see what other horrible things they might have to say about you.

⠀⠀⠀⠀Because of me.

⠀⠀⠀⠀My fault.

⠀⠀⠀⠀❝I know, I know,❞ she tries to assure him with a little more pep, but something about her tone still doesn't sit quite right with him. ❝I've been distracting myself. I doubt mom would even let me reactivate Twitter... And besides, between you and Leon calling me twenty-four-seven, I barely have the time to think.❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀❝Leon's a good one,❞ he says, relieved Bree has someone like him to depend on. The three of them are friends, Bree, Leon, and Warren, with the latter two even joining forces with Elliot onset of Stranger Things, ❝Uh... I should really get out of this street. Hold up one sec.❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀That couple on the sidewalk are still engrossed in one another (God, Warren thinks, is that what Amara and I are like?) by the time he pops the handle of his suitcase and starts rolling past them to his apartment building. It's a twenty story glass monstrosity in the Downtown area of Los Angeles — not very imposing; just another skyscraper doing it's best to look expensive against the skyline — and though Warren sometimes, faintly misses the open fields and radiant skies of his hometown in Georgia, he'd much rather inhale thick L.A. smog for the rest of his life if it means he never has to go back to Doven.

⠀⠀⠀⠀The thought alone makes him shudder. He just blames it on the cold.

⠀⠀⠀⠀With his phone still pressed up to one ear, Warren lugs his suitcase up half a dozen steps — the jet lag of a fifteen hour flight, from Rome to LAX, finally catching up to him. On his way through automatic glass doors, a middle-aged man in a smart pressed suit (The new doorman, Warren remembers Amara texting him his first morning in Paris, or something) greets him with a smile and the tip of his hat.

⠀⠀⠀⠀A good sign. It means Amara hasn't told anyone to kick her sorry excuse for a boyfriend back into the street the moment they set eyes upon him. That, and Warren has a pretty recognisable face and looks like he belongs here. Acting career and scandal aside, his face is currently plastered to a thousand ad spaces across a majority of North America, promoting some 'his and hers' perfumes he doesn't actually use nor particularly care for. Amara, who'd been dragged into doing the ad by her publicist, didn't want to do it with a stranger, and Warren definitely didn't want some guy feeling up his girlfriend, pretend or not, and so they'd done it as a couple.

⠀⠀⠀⠀Obviously (and this isn't Warren being egotistical, or even really boastful of his girlfriend — though he could bore you to death on both subjects, if you're up to it), he and Amara look damn good together. Their faces sell, especially when paired alongside one another. They also rake in those sweet, trashy clickbait views, which, like any online media company focused on generating revenue from clicks instead of facts nowadays, the author of that article seemed to use to their advantage.

⠀⠀⠀⠀❝Bree?❞ Warren speaks up when he notices her silence. ❝Still there?❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀There's a long pause on the opposite end of the call, and Warren secretly fears he's finally scared Bree off. But then he hears the gentle strum of a few guitar notes — a tune he thinks he recognises from Six, her favourite musical — and he guesses she must have kept him on speaker phone while she practises. He doesn't really know how that song sounds so familiar to him. He likes to pretend music made after the 2000's doesn't exist, excluding, of course, anything made by none other than Amara Belmonte. Then again... all the times Bree has ever taken control of his car stereo, belting out the lyrics with a voice made for Broadway, must have ingrained some culture into his brain (He'd like to say blasting Deftones while she's with him has had the same effect on her, but threatening her own life by claiming she'll jump out of his Jeep while they're on the freeway isn't exactly progress).

⠀⠀⠀⠀As Bree's guitar rift gradually begins to grow, expanding into a tangible ball of light around Warren, warming him like the sun, he tells her, ❝Hey, woah woah woah. That's really good, Bree. I think you should go for that audition you were talking about. You're a prodigy.❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀He can perfectly envision her face scrunching up at his compliment; can see her head of blonde hair tipping closer towards the phone as she says, like she's embarrassed, ❝No. No, I couldn't, it's... It was just a crazy idea. Besides, you think everything I play is good, and I wasn't even trying. And don't roll your eyes at me.❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀Warren isn't rolling his eyes. Except, he maybe totally was just rolling them, and he kind of really hates how she knew that. ❝You really gotta stop,❞ — he switches holding his phone from one ear to the other — ❝doubting yourself all the time. You're crazy talented.❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀❝O-kaaay, hypocrite. I toootally believe you.❞ Bree gives a flutter-like laugh, and there's a series of thumps that follow, like she just threw herself against the mattress of her bed or something. ❝You panicked big time when you had to perform on that stage for Stranger Things. And that was with you lip syncing most of the time. Which, by the way? Funniest thing I've seen in my life.❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀She's talking about this one scene at the very end of season two, which is rich, since no one is supposed to talk about it due to disclosure agreements. There's this Snow Ball dance at a middle school where Warren and Elliot's characters perform onstage with their band, and though it'll probably look good onscreen thanks to editing magic, in real time, it had been one big disaster — how on brand for them.

⠀⠀⠀⠀❝Uh huh. You can say my voice is angelic, Bree. I won't tell anyone.❞ Warren coughs after feeling an itch at the back of his throat, cringing from the feeling. He'd momentarily forgotten about the fact that he's soaking wet, too. The one time it rains in drought-fucked California, and he and Elliot had to be funnelled out of the wait zone at the airport, right where a car came gliding through a puddle. ❝Y'know, I was about to say how I thought Elliot inviting you to be an extra on set that day was cool and all, but... now I sort of hate him for it?❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀❝Rude. This is why the boys dominate onscreen, and you don't.❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀❝Pfft. They love me.❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀❝They love Elliot.❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀❝I'm choosing to ignore that.❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀Just then, Warren stops at a pair of elevators at the far end of the empty lobby. As Bree begins to vent (Something about her mom walking into her room and telling her to keep her voice down, followed by a light berating about her still not having touched her dinner yet, which Warren frowns at), he stands there, digs around for his wallet, and says, after finding and opening it, ❝Shit.❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀❝Well that doesn't good.❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀With his cell pressed between one shoulder and an ear, Warren pats at the pockets of his clothing until he's practically having to twist around himself. ❝No no, it's fine, I think, just,❞ — cough, pat pat pat — ❝can't find my keycard.❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀Bree hums in thought again. Warren has to wonder whether she enjoys basking in his idiocy, or whether she just likes knowing everything. ❝Wallet,❞ she then says, so certain, ❝Between your driver's licence and fake I.D.❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀❝Pfft. Like you actually remember where I— Oh... Ha ha.❞ Sure enough, the keycard is exactly (embarrassingly) where she said it would be. After a furtive glance around the lobby — half paranoid; half expecting someone with a camera to jump out and snap a picture of the moment — Warren takes the card, swipes it at a pad on the wall in front of him, then punches the button to go 'Up'. ❝Thanks. If I'm ever conned out of my non-existent fortune, though, you're suspect number one.❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀❝I hope you swap out the Magnum you keep in there on the regular. I really don't want to wake up to a certain 'special announcement' from Amara just yet.❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀❝GAH! You're like, five in my head, Bree. You can't say stuff like that!❞ Warren actually shivers.

⠀⠀⠀⠀She pauses, scheming. After a beat, she dares to say, ❝Condom.❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀Warren cringes. ❝Clowns.❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀❝Clowns?❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀❝They freak me out.❞ He shrugs, even though she can't see it. ❝And they make those weird balloon animals. I mean, they're basically condoms for their clown dicks. That's so scary.❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀Somehow, his distraction works, and he manages to make her laugh. ❝Warren, you are an idiot!❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀❝And you're talented.❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀❝And you're— Wait. No!❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀❝Ha!❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀DING! The elevator doors slide open. It isn't until Warren steps inside and hits the button for the fourteenth floor that he realises he's strangely jittery, and not just from the cold.

⠀⠀⠀⠀With a jolt and the dimming of halogen bulbs above, the elevator whirs to life. Warren is staring up at the boxy light fixture on the ceiling when it flickers again. Ominous. This building isn't old by any means. In fact, it's practically brand new. After it was built, Amara out-bid for the apartment on the fourteenth floor when she hit nineteen, and lived here alone for about a year before she bit the bullet and asked Warren to ditch his shitty four person flat (with even shittier flatmates) and move in with her. Add on the almost two years he's been here with her and, yeah, this place is still pretty fresh. Maybe maintenance hasn't been around to change that flickering lightbulb? Apparently they had time to interview, hire, and bring in a new doorman, though.

⠀⠀⠀⠀❝...going on? Warren.❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀He blinks fast. ❝Huh?❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀❝You're breathing really hard,❞ says Aubrey. She sounds worried, which is one hundred percent not good. Worrying about her is supposed to be Warren's job — isn't it? — not the other way around. ❝Are you having a panic attack?❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀❝What? No,❞ he's quick to shut that down. Warren doesn't get panic attacks. He forced himself to cut that shit out in junior year to stay focused on football; to stay calm for his team. And, hell, maybe he's numb and emotionally stunted because of it now, but back then, in some cases (as in, the really bad cases...) it felt like the only line of defence he had. Shutting down had also felt like a good coping mechanism (Unhealthy, maybe, but was he ever healthy to begin with?), especially after...

⠀⠀⠀⠀"You can pretend like she didn't leave you all you want, Warren, but that doesn't change the fact that she did."

⠀⠀⠀⠀"Fuck you."

⠀⠀⠀⠀Fuck you fuck you fuck—

⠀⠀⠀⠀❝Warren?❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀❝Bree? I'm good.❞ Clearing out memory-fog with the shake of his head, Warren exhales a breath, but it stutters on the way out. ❝Well... Maybe I'm a little freaked out? This isn't a panic attack, though. I don't know. Bree, don't say shit about this to anyone. It never happened, and I'm not embarrassed about it.❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀More thumps and muffled noises. The line gets clearer, like she's taken him off speaker and is pressing her phone to her face as if that will magically bring him to her. ❝Okay! But what can I do that's, like, actually going to help you right now?❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀❝Cure cancer, end world hunger, rewind time by a week and eat In-N-Out for lunch instead of Chipotle... What have you got time for?❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀❝Well, I'm Bree, not Jesus, so I can only remind you to breathe and promise that Amara isn't going to kill you.❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀Warren is grateful no one but the security camera above is around to see the pathetic way he hangs his head in sorrow. He actually hasn't given into his worry about Amara since he piled into that cab with Elliot at the airport. He immediately dialled Bree, as he'd promised to call her (Even though she specifically told him not to worry about it) once he touched down on American soil, and the distractions soon followed after he and Elliot spent the next twenty minutes fighting to get a word out to the laughing girl over speakerphone — no wonder that cab driver had probably been so pissed.

⠀⠀⠀⠀Amara... Just picturing her face somehow both excites, calms, and terrifies the hell out of him. What is she going to say? What is she going to do? Despite the non-stop contact he's had with her, with their text, call, and FaceTime conversations going a lot like, "This is not your fault", and "We're going to be okay", and "Please stop crying, Warren", he still worries. How could he not? It's hypocritical, he knows, how he asks Bree not to read what others are saying about her online, but then he goes and does just that. He likes to pretend some of what he reads doesn't affect him, and it usually doesn't.

⠀⠀⠀⠀But those few comments...

⠀⠀⠀⠀SHINK! Suddenly, in a "How did that get there?" moment, Warren notices he's gone and drawn his zippo lighter out from the pocket of his jacket without ever meaning to. It gives another metallic thrum of noise as he opens and closes the lid, over and over again — shink, clink, shink, clink! — before he has enough common sense to stop himself from lighting it.

⠀⠀⠀⠀Fire.

⠀⠀⠀⠀Hazard.

⠀⠀⠀⠀Fire...

⠀⠀⠀⠀Hazard.

⠀⠀⠀⠀Fire!

⠀⠀⠀⠀HAZARD.

⠀⠀⠀⠀❝You know,❞ he starts somewhat spontaneously, stowing the lighter away when he decides not to burn the building down, ❝my last real relationship ended in a cheating. Which makes that article kind of an extra 'Screw You', you know? Not that I was the one doing the cheating or anything. My girlfriend was. Or, well, ex-girlfriend. With one of my best friends at the time... On my seventeenth birthday...❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀❝Oh my God, Warren,❞ startles Bree, ❝You're freaking out worse than I thought. You're telling me your tragic backstory!❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀DING! Once again, the elevator doors slide open, only this time, they reveal the foyer of the fourteenth floor. A giant 14 in silver lettering on a wall says as much. Warren always thought it was ironic, living on the floor number associated with the high school football career he's tried so hard to distance himself from. He supposes it was never going to be that easy, though, what with the number being eternalised on his skin as a tattoo — a stupid idea in hindsight. At least now (because he'd go crazy if he didn't) he tries to associate the number with Amara. At least now, it has new purpose. At least now, it means the safety of a home and a future with her.

⠀⠀⠀⠀So why is he so fucking anxious?

⠀⠀⠀⠀❝Oh, shit...❞ He steps into the foyer before the doors can close on his stupid, miserable face. ❝Is this what I get for being a jerk in high school? Damnit, Bree, I feel like a teenage girl who knows she's about to get dumped!❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀❝Amara isn't going to dump you!❞ Bree exclaims, and apparently she has super receptive hearing (or she just knows him really well) because she tacks on, ❝I don't hear any walking, Warren. Stop being a chicken shit, man the hell up, and go talk to your girlfriend!❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀❝You don't know her like do!❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀❝Your lack of faith in her makes me think you don't know her, either!❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀Well, shit. She has a point there. Of course the sixteen year-old is the most level headed of the two. And by God, did Bree make a bad decision when she decided to befriend Warren. He can barely open up to Elliot or Rory — especially Rory — but here he is, dumping his problems upon Bree like a jackass. He's always felt more useful helping her out with whatever troubles she has of her own. Now, thanks to the recent drama, he's actively become the problem.

⠀⠀⠀⠀Guilt bubbles up into the pit of Warren's stomach like a fiend, settling there like a rock. He does manage to start walking again, though. Eventually. ❝Okay.❞ He exhales into the phone; so tired all of a sudden, he almost forgets to drag his luggage along with him. ❝Okay, you're right. I'm loading a lot onto you, I know, and I know I shouldn't. But I just... It's not just Amara, or me, or us that I'm freaking out about. It's everything else. You especially. I don't know. I've never had to deal with a controversy as messed up as this before, and you, you shouldn't even be a factor in it, and I just— I'm... Fuck!❞ He exclaims that last part, cringes, then quietly mutters, ❝I mean... Yikes...?❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀❝Really? Now's when you choose to course correct yourself?❞ Even through his phone, he can practically feel Bree trying to shoot daggers at him. Given her blonde hair, blue eyes, and strong jawline, they'd even look quite alike. ❝Believe it or not, Warren, I am not that five year-old girl you imagine in your head. You can cuss around me, dumb shit.❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀❝Yeah right! Like I need any more reason for your mom to hate me.❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀❝She doesn't... hate you, per se...❞ He can't tell if she's joking or not.

⠀⠀⠀⠀❝Hoooo boy.❞ He puts on his best female impression — and a pretty damn terrible one at that. ❝"Gee thanks, Warren, for befriending my daughter, showin' her around Hollywood, gaining our family's trust, then proceeding to involve her in your shit. Baby's first controversyyy!"❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀There's a pause on the other end of the line. Then, with no indignation in her tone, ❝Are you done?❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀Warren has stopped outside his apartment door. He feels the tension in his shoulders release at his friend's words. But only a little. ❝Yeah...❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀❝Good. Now stop talking to me. You have a loving girlfriend to check up on.❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀❝But—❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀❝Go.❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀❝No.❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀❝Please?❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀❝I don't feel comfortable hangin' up without knowin' you're okay.❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀He almost expects her to pull the "Then I'll hang up!" bluff on him, but she just says, ❝I am okay, War.❞ And he wants to believe her. He does. But beneath all the guilt and the anxiety he may feel, there also exists doubt. ❝Really, I'm fine. I will be fine. So I got my first controversy... It'll pass... Right?❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀Warren doesn't want to tell her otherwise. At least, not unless it happens in person. Or maybe he won't have to tell her at all, if he can help it. ❝Right...❞ He closes his eyes tight, reopening them after a silent breath. ❝I'll catch you later, 'k, Bree? Mar and I are only a phone call away if you ever need any—❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀❝Warren.❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀❝Bree... Stay safe.❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀He can hear her smile almost as vividly as he can picture it. ❝Stay stupid.❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀Reluctantly, he hangs up after that, mostly to let her feel like she's won against him — and maybe she has. Then he starts beating his phone against his forehead in a slow, pitiful sort of way, wishing he could crawl into a Michael Bay movie and die in a massive high-budget explosion.

⠀⠀⠀⠀❝Stupid, stupid, stupid...❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀The door to his apartment starts clicking; three times for three locks. A second later, it blows open like a bomb.

⠀⠀⠀⠀There's a yell. ❝Hello Peachie!❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀He coughs. ❝Oh God.❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀At once, Warren is crushed into a hug — heavy and hard-to-escape, like he's jelly between a cinderblock-sandwich. As his eyelashes blink against the head now pressed to his, he wonders... Is it too late to back out of the building? Cowardly of him, surely, which seems a far worse thing to be called than "Peachie" by his girlfriend's deceptively strong grandmother (Because all Georgian-state boys are "Sweet like a Georgia peach!" according to her, even though Warren is the only Georgian-state boy she's ever met in her sixty-plus years on Earth, and he isn't exactly a shining beacon of 'sweet' to begin with, now is he?).

⠀⠀⠀⠀❝Can't... Breathe!❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀❝Whoops!❞ Xiomara Belmonte pulls away from him with a squelch, still keeping him at arms length with her hands on his shoulders. ❝Eugh... You're soaked!❞ She's wearing a silk robe over pyjamas, which are damp from having hugged him. ❝Boy, you look like a ratto di fogna. A sewer rat.❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀Warren half cringes, half smiles. How long did that take her... Eight, nine seconds to insult him? That has to be a new record. ❝Nice to see you too, Xio.❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀A visit from Xiomara Belmonte is always a coin toss for enlightenment. She'd once told Warren, in her own words, how she expected Amara to wind herself around a Grammy award winner's arm, not some barely-C-list actor from Nowheresville. But then Warren grew on Xio, kind of fell in love with him, and Amara even went on to win that Grammy herself. So it worked out in the end, even if both generations of Xiomara's still joke that Warren is no Harrison Ford or Harry Styles (But, like, who is?). Still, Warren wants Xio's approval. And he has it. He thinks...

⠀⠀⠀⠀She looks Warren up, down, and back again, stuck somewhere between glad-to-see-him and totally-grossed-out. ❝Have you been eating? You were just in Europe, no? So why is it you are so skinny!❞ Poke poke poke goes her manicured nail against Warren's side, to which he fails to hide a yelp. ❝Oh, Warren, mi amore, how are you? You cheat on my principessa?❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀❝What?❞ All of his composure is abandoned for mortification. ❝No!❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀Unbelievably, she grins at him; all teeth and few wrinkles. Money and great genes must get you that. ❝Kidding! I am only joking. You look at me as if I kill a kitten.❞ A kitten? No. A man? Well, she is a rich and influential Italian. ❝God, I just can't with you. You are so adorable! Come in, come in. Let me take that for you.❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀Before he can protest, Xio takes Warren's suitcase from him in one hand and pulls him inside with her spare like an orphan out of a storm.

⠀⠀⠀⠀❝You're... not mad?❞ Warren asks without thinking. But maybe one doesn't have to think so much as feel when it comes to asking something so instinctual. Teach a dog not to misbehave, it fears punishment. Teach a kid to be the ideal of "perfection", it grows to fear disapproval.

⠀⠀⠀⠀In the kitchen, Xio stops walking, parks the suitcase against a counter, and turns towards Warren. In her face, he sees instances of Amara; the same features all Belmonte's share with their Italian side of the family. Also in Xio's face, to Warren's surprise, is zero disapproval. No judgment passed onto him. No anger. Just a sad, sweet smile — a curious contradiction, like Xio's admiration for him, even though her granddaughter could have settled for so much better, someone more.

⠀⠀⠀⠀❝Oh, Warren... ❞ She sighs so dramatically, so torn-up, you'd think she was an actress, not a high-end fashion designer. ❝Is this about that article?❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀Well. No point in denying it when it must be written all over his face. And his social media... And the rest of the internet... And his every thought for possibly the rest of his life... ❝So you have read it.❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀❝Read it, yes. Believed it? Not for a moment. I know my Warren. The entire article is unfounded.❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀❝But it isn't just an article anymore, Xio,❞ he mumbles grimly, ❝It's news now. It's a conversation. It's a headline people see in their newsfeed and take at face value without sparin' two damn minutes to read my side of the story.❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀❝It's gossip is what is. No more.❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀❝But—❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀❝I have been in this industry a long time, Peachie, and trust me when I say, this "drama",❞ — she makes air quotes in the air with her fingers, which looks pretty funny — ❝surrounding you will not last forever. It is untrue, and it is defamatory. And if you do not take this matter to court, then I will have no choice but to step in for you.❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀❝Oh, no no no. No lawyers. No court.❞ He blinks back the feeling of déjà vu from a memory long forgotten. ❝Please, Xio. You don't have to get invol—❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀She hushes him — almost scares the hell out of him, really — with a finger press to his mouth. ❝Warren, understand me. I would like to help you. With no parental figure in your life, or any immediate family in this city, I feel it is my responsibility to take care of you.❞ She reaches up, and pat pat pat goes her hand against his cheek. For once, Warren takes the L — how long he's waited to hear an authority figure say they care about him. ❝Besides, if, say, your acting career does go bust—❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀❝Um?❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀❝—then at least you will have a fallback: Coming to model for me.❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀Warren blinks. ❝Come again?❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀❝You are a model, are you not?❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀❝Not for runway! That's just—❞ He almost says 'ridiculous', but catches Xio's narrowing eyes just in time. ❝I mean... I'm not cut out for that.❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀❝Warren. You are young. You are handsome. You are bright when you are not so arrogant.❞ Oof. Only she can be this upfront with Warren and not have him argue back. ❝You already have a lot going on for you, no? But there is still more to be had! This year, you turn twenty-I-forget—❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀❝Twenty-one.❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀❝—That's what I said, and do you know what that means? It means you will get a real I.D, and you will drink, and you will party. And most importantly, you will get invited to the after-afterparties. And do you know who go to those? People who matter. And when you talk to those people, you are going to want to tell them you model for me. Why? Good business.❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀❝I... thought this was about my future...?❞ he blabbers.

⠀⠀⠀⠀❝Your future is my future, Peachie. Because I love you, and I would be stupid to entrust you with my Amara. So, I take care of you so that you can take care of her. You see?❞ She smiles in what might be a motherly way; kind of patronising. ❝Not to worry, Warren. Your future is bright.❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀❝But it's—❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀Either Xio doesn't hear him, or she doesn't want to. She beams at him again; a look that says she has the last word, and floats away towards the living room.

⠀⠀⠀⠀❝—not... me I'm worried about...❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀Then, from behind him, an angel. ❝Nonna? Who was that at the—❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀Heart in his throat, Warren turns in recognition, knowing who will be there but still stunned to see her. Amara slips out of their bedroom, slow about it at first. When their eyes meet, she blinks in surprise, she grins, she lights up the room. And he savours every second of it.

⠀⠀⠀⠀❝Warren!❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀He grins. ❝There's my girl.❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀Now comes their big scene. Now comes the moment they run to one another in a home instead of a street. Now is when they meet halfway, and he embraces her after she makes that romantic leap into his arms. Now is when he showers her with kisses like he's missed her, because he has; like she very well may be the best thing that's ever happened to him, because she is.

⠀⠀⠀⠀She starts for him. She spreads her arms out in an anticipatory hug, closer to him now than she has been in days, and getting closer. An arm touch away now, a step, a millisecond.

⠀⠀⠀⠀All until Xio exclaims, ❝Don't you ruin that dress, girl! He's drenched!❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀Amara stops. Steps back. Doesn't touch him. She looks her boyfriend over, her lips pressed together like she's trying not to laugh. But she laughs.

⠀⠀⠀⠀Warren shoots Xio a pout of betrayal from across the room. ❝You ruined it.❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀The woman merely winks.

⠀⠀⠀⠀Amara says, ❝You big baby.❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀Naturally, his eyes fall back to hers, with this most insatiable urge to hold her. But he remembers Xio saying something about not ruining a dress, which must be the one Amara wears now — an original Xiomara Belmonte design, no doubt. It's blue and shimmers like sea glass and hugs her body in all the right places, and Warren can't help but think she looks incredible. Of course, he thinks Amara looks good in and out of anything, but distance has a funny way of doing things to him. He sees her again, slingshotting back into her orbit, and he's noticing every little thing about her.

⠀⠀⠀⠀❝Stop undressing me with your eyes,❞ she tells him off, though her tone sounds more like a tease than scorn.

⠀⠀⠀⠀He really was just admiring her dress. But because he can't help himself, he asks, ❝How long do you think it'll take me to get that thing off you?❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀❝Yuck,❞ is all she says, but she's grinning a million watt smile.

⠀⠀⠀⠀Gotcha.

⠀⠀⠀⠀❝What's the occasion?❞ he wonders aloud. He hopes he hasn't just waltzed right in and ruined any plans she had to go out tonight. The Hills have eyes, and also a lot of parties.

⠀⠀⠀⠀❝Nonna's making me model new dresses.❞ She twirls for him, and she and her dress move just like water. ❝I'm having trouble deciding which I like more.❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀❝There's more?❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀❝There's seven,❞ she replies almost guiltily. Honestly, but, guiltily.

⠀⠀⠀⠀Warren points. ❝I like this one.❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀❝There's this really nice red one you would like me in a lot more.❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀❝I like this one. I like you in blue.❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀She blushes. ❝Okay. You win.❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀She reaches her arms out for him again, and there's something so impossibly pure about it, he has to laugh. He steps up to her, glad to close the distance between them, but unsure how.

⠀⠀⠀⠀He smiles dumbly. ❝Hi.❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀❝Hey.❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀They almost kiss then, but Warren — well, he doesn't mean to — hesitates. So they just end up bumping their foreheads together instead — a soft, clumsy thud — and Warren would feel sick at the thought of not being able to kiss her again, if only he felt he deserved her.

⠀⠀⠀⠀Again with that million watt smile, Amara starts to unzip Warren's rain-soaked jacket. Just when he gets the mischievous notion this might be going somewhere not-here, she slides her hands underneath the open front of his jacket — too impatient to wait for him to take it off — until she's circling her arms around him, burrowing herself against the dry underside of his clothing, and finally, finally hugging him.

⠀⠀⠀⠀One of his arms goes around her backside, bare of fabric. One hand holds her head against his chest. It's nice, hearing her breathe. To know she's alive; that she's real. That he hadn't imagined her.

⠀⠀⠀⠀When he touches her, he feels guilty. Or maybe 'unworthy' is a better word for it. The thing about being a piece-of-shit-person and knowing he is, is Warren thinks Amara deserves so much better than him. But because he's a piece-of-shit-person, he also has a determination to be the only guy she'll ever love and be with, forever, which is contradictory, if not selfish. And if it's selfish of him, then, yeah, maybe he does have a reason to feel guilty after all.

⠀⠀⠀⠀And then along comes this falsified cheating scandal, and it just makes him feel worse. But how does it make Amara truly feel? That's what worries him most.

⠀⠀⠀⠀But here she is, staving off that dreaded topic just a little longer, with her arms around him and his around her. She smells like summertime and sea salt and everything Warren wouldn't think to be homesick for until he's no longer near it. She is goodness, and safety, and familiarity. But what is he to her if not a burden?

⠀⠀⠀⠀❝You're back early,❞ Amara mumbles against his shirt. Is she smelling him, too? Cute. Hope she likes the smell of petrichor and jet-fuel. ❝I thought your flight wasn't supposed to land until morning?❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀He wants to see her face, but seeing her face would mean letting go. ❝I took an earlier flight.❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀❝Oh.❞ And with that one syllable, it's clear she knows why he did it. He missed her, he's worried about her, the controversy is eating away at him and he's afraid it's hanging over her, too. She can take her pick of the bunch. All of them are true. ❝You came back alone?❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀Warren shakes his head. ❝Elliot flew back with me. Said he wanted to be helpful, but if he wanted to do that, he would have left me alone. I think staying overseas was just... starting to get to his head? I offered to let him crash with us until Rory gets back, but, he blew it off.❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀❝Scout didn't come back with you?❞ She raises her head in alarm, but he strokes her hair, keeps her calm.

⠀⠀⠀⠀❝No point in ruinin' her trip by cutting it short, too. Thing is, she actually seemed excited to be alone. I feel kind of bad? El and I gave her hell all week.❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀❝Elliot should have stayed with us.❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀Warren almost bites his tongue. He likes to pretend the weight in his chest isn't concern, but there'll always be a part of him that worries for that walking catastrophe he calls his best friend, even if he doesn't know how to show it. ❝I... Yeah. He should have. But you know how he is. When he isn't being an idiot, he's being stubborn.❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀She hugs him tighter, presses against him more. His only PG thought is, Wow. ❝See anything interesting in Paris?❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀❝Kinda hard to enjoy much without you there,❞ he replies.

⠀⠀⠀⠀❝I would have distracted you.❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀❝Maybe I needed distracting.❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀❝From what? Getting a new tattoo?❞ She makes a painfully slow point of sliding one hand back and down over his forearm, striking a match against the penmanship there and sending him alight.

⠀⠀⠀⠀❝I... actually keep forgettin' about that.❞ And he just may hate looking at it too. He went through high school idealising the one word, idealising some kind of liberté, and years later, on the very day he just so happened to get the word tattooed on a whim, that article broke, and he felt he'd been stuffed into a cage like a circus lion afraid of spotlights — an audience just beyond the curtain, hungry for a show.

⠀⠀⠀⠀Amara draws swirls along his arm. Swirls that suspiciously connect like her name. ❝Are you really that unfeeling?❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀She says this as a joke, but, Warren actually has to consider. ❝Fuck. Stop that.❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀❝What? I can't even touch your arm without you going ape shit? You're like a Victorian man seeing a woman's ankles for the first time.❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀❝You say that like I'm obsessed.❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀❝Well...❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀❝Ha.❞ He fakes a blank face to save his own ego. ❝Just don't go around telling people that. I have a coldhearted reputation to uphold here, y'know?❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀❝Mhm, sure.❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀He wonders how long they can keep postponing the inevitable; almost wants to challenge himself to never speak of it, even. But eventually, they're going to have to talk about the scandal; about what it will mean for them; about what it will mean for Bree. Their momentary peace will break just as their embrace unavoidably will, the anxiety and the worry will return, and Warren's illusion of a perfect life today may end — yet another future for himself ruined.

⠀⠀⠀⠀But, he always has been dramatic.

⠀⠀⠀⠀Too fast, too soon, Amara is pulling away from him. Warren moves his hand from her head, bringing it to rest upon her waist. She turns into him, her brown eyes two suns, and rests her chin on his chest to stare up at him through her lashes.

⠀⠀⠀⠀God.

⠀⠀⠀⠀She is everything.

⠀⠀⠀⠀❝I missed you,❞ he finally has the peace of mind to tell her, but to him, it just comes off lame. His throat is starting to hurt something terrible, his lip is quivering, he's pretty sure he's going to catch a cold. And he must look awful. Dreadful, even.

⠀⠀⠀⠀❝I missed you too,❞ Amara says with a puffy-cheeked smile. That alone makes him feel a little better. ❝So, listen... I talked to Bree...❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀Never mind.

⠀⠀⠀⠀Not better anymore.

⠀⠀⠀⠀(Here it comes).

⠀⠀⠀⠀The worry.

⠀⠀⠀⠀The fear.

⠀⠀⠀⠀An incendiary thought.

⠀⠀⠀⠀(My fault).

⠀⠀⠀⠀❝You've talked to Bree?❞ Warren asks like an idiot; like he has no ears; like Amara didn't just tell him that.

⠀⠀⠀⠀She bites her lip, not noticing his slip-up, and furtively glances toward the living room, where Xio is quietly, what... meditating? Anyway... Amara steps to the side, taking Warren with her. Once they're out of earshot but still in line-of-sight, she breathes again, readjusts their embrace, and says, ❝Bree only called a few hours ago because she wanted to know if I was doing okay. That's when I told her I should really be the one asking her that question.❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀❝She feels guilty.❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀❝She shouldn't have to. I mean... Jesus, Warren, she's only sixteen.❞ Her face and whispered words are grave. ❝That's younger than you and I were before we ever set foot in Los Angeles. Elliot was her age when he moved here, and he can barely keep himself afloat right now.❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀❝I'm so sorry.❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀❝What?❞ Her eyebrows furrow. ❝Oh, baby... Why are you apologising?❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀Is that not what he's supposed to do? Is that not what he's supposed to say after permanently disfiguring his, and hers, and Bree's reputations like this? ❝I just...❞ He struggles to conjure up the words, let alone think of any. ❝I don't know, Mar. Damnit, I don't know.❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀❝Warren...❞ Not caring about ruining her dress, Amara fashions her arms around him tighter; more securely, like a seatbelt. Warren has to wonder who it's for in the likely event of a crash — him, or her?

⠀⠀⠀⠀❝I'm sorry,❞ he says again. He can't help but be. Teach a kid to be the ideal of "perfection"...

⠀⠀⠀⠀❝This isn't your fault. You know that, right? Please tell me you know that.❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀❝Isn't it, though?❞ He doesn't mean to sound so wounded. But he can't help but be that, too. ❝I've read the things they're saying about Bree online; the things they're making her out to be. I've seen the messed up ways they're telling her to—❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀He can't say it. Not out loud, not ever. You kill weeds, not other people. You kill toxicity so you can finally live again, not yourself because someone tells you to.

⠀⠀⠀⠀He gulps back his emotions. Stares up at the ceiling. ❝Bree has to go the rest of her life with those words burned into her mind now. Her whole life, Mar. Whenever she stares into a mirror... Whenever she thinks of reaching for another portion of somethin' to eat... Whenever someone compliments her...❞ — blink, gulp, blink, — ❝Whenever she's seen with me... Aubrey will look back, and she'll remember all the terrible things people called her.❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀My.

⠀⠀⠀⠀Fucking.

⠀⠀⠀⠀Fault.

⠀⠀⠀⠀Warm hands burn his skin from where Amara grabs his face; pulls it down to hers; makes him look into those two golden suns she has for eyes. ❝Listen. Are you listening?❞ He nods really fast, really scared. ❝You aren't the one saying those things about her. You aren't the one who wrote that first article. So stop blaming yourself — and I know you are, so don't even try denying it — okay? I know it's awful right now, and we all feel terrible. And if I had three wishes, I would wish for this to never have happened, I would wish to take away all your guilt and your hurt, and I would wish for three more wishes, even though they don't work like that! Because wishes are bullshit, babe.❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀Through squeezed-cheeks, he mumbles, ❝Dis is a weawy bad pep tawk.❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀❝Yeah, I'm getting there.❞ She pats his face. ❝Okay, so, my point: Wishes are nice, though unrealistic and bullshit—❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀❝You said that.❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀❝—but you know what is real? Faith, perseverance, strength — all that good shit. That's what's gonna get us all through this. Maybe not now, or tomorrow, or next week. But someday. Someday, it will hurt a lot less, and you won't feel so guilty. Someday, maybe Bree will still think back to this mess. But she is strong, and she is smart, and she is brave. And I know you may not believe in yourself right now, War... But I know you believe in her.❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀She relinquishes his face to sweep a thumb under his eye, over his cheek, along his jaw. He doesn't have a clue why, even as she smiles. Even as she fixes his damp hair when rebel strands shift in front of his face. Even as she cups his cheek again, fog in his eyes, love in hers.

⠀⠀⠀⠀Oh... Wait.

⠀⠀⠀⠀He's crying now, isn't he?

⠀⠀⠀⠀Thing is, he isn't even that sad. Frustrated, and distressed, and angry with the world, maybe. But not all that sad. Silent tears are always the worst, because they sting a lot less but occur a lot more. Men like Warren are told not cry while they're young; told not not cry once they're grown, because crying is a sign of weakness and weakness gets you nowhere in the world. What bullshit. What prejudice. What a sad, dehumanising thing to ingrain into a child's mind before they're ever allowed to come into their own sense of compassion.

⠀⠀⠀⠀Fuck. That.

⠀⠀⠀⠀Silent tears are the worst. They're involuntary, you aren't prepared for them, and so they feel like an attack. You don't hear them, you don't always notice them, and so they don't feel real — and so you tell yourself your grief must not be, either. At some point, you cry so often, it becomes your primary defence mechanism. At some point, someone tells you to stop crying, and so you cry harder. At some point, you cry, not because you're all that sad, but because crying is all you've known; is all you've learned; is all you've got.

⠀⠀⠀⠀Men like Warren are told not to cry.

⠀⠀⠀⠀But, he always has been defiant.

⠀⠀⠀⠀The tears are gone as fast as they came and he never makes a sound. There's a stutter in the air, then a boisterous hum, and suddenly, music is playing from the record player in the living room. Italian lyrics and slow, jazzy instruments fill the air, and in unison, Warren and Amara turn their heads. Xio is dancing in the centre of the room alone, her eyes on the couple, giving them her signature wink. After that, she sweeps and twirls her way across the apartment, waves with a flourish, and disappears into a guest bedroom.

⠀⠀⠀⠀❝See, just when I think she scares me,❞ says Warren, his voice hoarse, ❝she goes and does something like that.❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀Amara shakes her head and giggles. ❝I think she's trying to tell us something.❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀❝Okay. Idea.❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀ It starts with Warren shrugging his jacket off for real, relieved to find his home is warm. He tosses that aside and nudges the side of Amara's ankle with his foot, and she takes the hint, stepping up onto his shoes with both feet. She wobbles a bit, then relaxes and lets him stand upright for the both of them. Gently now, they hold onto one another as Warren steps them from side to side in a tiny slow dance to the tune of the music, following no pattern but what feels right.

⠀⠀⠀⠀❝These are your new Vans,❞ Amara, glowing for him now, points out as if he isn't already aware. ❝I feel so special.❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀He smiles, but not all the way. ❝Thanks for calmin' me down.❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀❝You were calm. You were totally calm.❞ Her arms go up around his neck, and it's like she doesn't know whether to close her eyes and sleep, or keep them open and fixed on him. ❝You did so well.❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀It's hard for him to be convinced. ❝I almost thought... I thought you might have believe what everyone is sayin' about me. That you wouldn't—❞ He inhales a sharp breath. ❝That you wouldn't... be here when I came back. So I tried to mentally prepare myself for how I'd face you again, and then... And then I don't know.❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀Now Amara looks like she wants to cry. ❝Don't be ridiculous.❞ She fixes the collar of his dress shirt with one hand. ❝Warmara gets through anything, baby.❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀❝Even this?❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀❝Especially this. Warren Liberato does not care what people behind screens have to say about him. And I don't care for what they have to say, either.❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀He presses his lips to her wrist when she moves that hand back up to his neck. She hums, and so he kisses that spot again. And again. ❝I'm sorry.❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀❝War...❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀❝I didn't— I never... cheated.❞ That word hurts way too goddamn much to say. But it feels good to get the statement out there. ❝Not with anyone. Not ever.❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀Her eyes are sad. So, so sad. Yet somehow, because they always do, they shine on. ❝I know... Of course I know.❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀❝I'm just—❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀❝I don't want to talk about it.❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀❝Mar...❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀And then she's kissing him. That abrupt, that sudden. Somewhere between soft and hard, somewhere between natural and desperate. Their lips finally meet, the world doesn't seem so harsh anymore, Amara doesn't seem so tense, and Warren doesn't feel so terrified.

⠀⠀⠀⠀There'd been a time when — a few years ago now — their relationship was in danger long before it really began. Because Amara was a young and desirable pop icon "marketed" (Ugh) as good and pure to the world, and because Warren was still a no-name actor (before their movie became a hit and shot him into the limelight) who had no clout or anyone to vouch that he was a good person (He isn't), that made Amara pretty much untouchable. She'd been "advised" by her PR team to not date publicly, because dating in the Hollywood scene is as tricky as the paparazzi who dedicate their lives to following and reporting on the couples within it.

⠀⠀⠀⠀So, Warren and Amara dated in secret for a while. It was fun at first; kind of surreal, like acting out a play or a dream. But then came the maddening thought they could never be together for real. If the public didn't know about them, how were they supposed to go out together? Be seen together? Hug, or hold hands, or exist in public without the fear of backlash?

⠀⠀⠀⠀Obviously, they're together now. Interesting how it all happened, really. In fact, it went a lot like this: Warren was about to say something cheesy, Amara had heard enough, and so she'd kissed him suddenly — neither soft nor hard, neither naturally nor desperately.

⠀⠀⠀⠀Right on the red carpet.

⠀⠀⠀⠀At the premiere of their movie.

⠀⠀⠀⠀In front of fans and paparazzi.

⠀⠀⠀⠀God.

⠀⠀⠀⠀She. Is. Every. Thing.

⠀⠀⠀⠀As all things do, their kiss in the present ends, and even though he hates to do it, it's Warren who ultimately pulls back first after something occurs to him. He presses his forehead to hers.

⠀⠀⠀⠀With her state of bliss now broken, Amara's eyes flutter back open. When she sees Warren's guilty expression, she pouts, looking entirely too innocent for all the very non-innocent things he's thinking about her. ❝What's wrong?❞ she wonders, sounding a little hurt, ❝Why'd you stop?❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀❝Sorry. Not your fault. I just think... Well, I may or may not be getting sick, so... I'm trying to be responsible here.❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀❝Oh.❞ She feigns grossed-out and scrubs the back of her hand against her mouth like that will do anything; like they didn't just have their tongues in each other's mouths. ❝I'll still kiss you later, because I'm desperate and horny too,❞ — He has to tip his head back and laugh at that — ❝but I have to tell you something first. It's about this dress I'm wearing.❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀❝I knew it. I get to take it off.❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀❝No.❞ She thumps his chest. ❝Think about it... If I wear this nice dress out on a Monday, and I have still have six others to wear... What does that mean?❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀❝I get to take six more off you.❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀❝No!❞ She snorts, and Warren grins. He stopped dancing during their kiss, so he starts up again. ❝Come on, horndog. Guess. You're almost there.❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀No, not almost there. He's already there; the realisation has arrived, it's in the station. He just doesn't want to say it out loud, because then it will be real. ❝Okay. I get it. Seven dresses for seven days.❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀She nods once.

⠀⠀⠀⠀Warren fails to hold in a sigh. ❝You... have to leave town, don't you?❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀Is it a good thing he can say he was prepared for this; that it isn't surprising anymore? Or is it a bad thing, that he's just used to it? The clashing schedules, the going away, the coming back only to see the other off at the airport a day later. Missing her so much he feels sick; missing her so much he can't work.

⠀⠀⠀⠀Relationships are hard.

⠀⠀⠀⠀(Not that he's been in very many — genuine ones, that is — and considering his last real girlfriend cheated on him, and he still doesn't have a clue how to navigate his relationship with Amara when they're both celebrities under a spotlight, then, yeah, he'd say relationships are pretty hard).

⠀⠀⠀⠀Now, Amara is chewing her lip — a clear sign she doesn't like this "going away" thing any more than he does. ❝I know this is a bad time to tell you, but... I need to fly to New York with Nonna.❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀❝New York,❞ he repeats. New York is only on the other side of the country, which is still pretty far away, but it isn't like she'd be a whole continent away from him again. Still, it's a tough pill to swallow. ❝Seven dresses, seven days... You'll really be gone a whole week?❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀❝Maybe... But I don't want be.❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀She pauses, waiting for a reaction. But Warren doesn't give her one just yet. He listens intently, still stepping her around the room to the music — holding tighter now, like if he lets go, she'll already be gone.

⠀⠀⠀⠀After a breath, Amara presses closer to him, and continues. ❝Okay. So... Nonna's still working on her next collection for New York Fashion Week, but she wants first generation immigrants to be her models. Problem is, half the girls she wants haven't got their green cards approved yet, and she needs her models secured for at least another year. So now she's got New York Fashion Week to worry about, and these girls, who, I'm not even entirely sure we can help since Nonna and I are both green card holders too. This country is so messed up! So I made mac and cheese to feel better. There's leftovers in the fridge.❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀Warren blinks. ❝I don't even know where to start with all that.❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀❝Your America is trash.❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀❝No, I get that part. But do you have to keep stress making pastas?❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀After a blush creeps its way up onto her cheeks, she pretends to hide her face in Warren's shoulder like she's embarrassed. ❝I know you just got back,❞ she mumbles into him, and, man, it's tiny actions like this that make Warren's heart palpitate, ❝I don't want you thinking I'm going because of all this drama, either. It's just... I need to be there for Nonna and these girls when—❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀❝It's okay, Mar.❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀She glances up with those big sunny eyes he adores. ❝Really?❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀❝You kiddin' me? This is huge.❞ He cups her face, and his hands are so big, she suddenly looks tiny. ❝This is bigger than us, or the tortured Shakespearean monologue I'll go into when I miss you just that little too much.❞ Her eyes go all soft and twinkly at that. ❝It's important that you go. People, these girls, they look up to you. You're a leader, darlin'. Fuck. That's so hot.❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀❝I don't know why you're getting all sappy.❞ She's beaming. Absolutely glowing. ❝You could come with me, you know?❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀❝I... can't.❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀She looks surprised. Even Warren doesn't quite know how he managed to turn her down like that.

⠀⠀⠀⠀❝I need to stay in town,❞ he clarifies, ❝I need... I want to be here for Bree.❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀Amara's surprise transforms into something new. Admiration? Adoration? ❝I had a feeling you would.❞ She smooths her hand through Warren's hair, sweeping it out of his face. ❝We'll all get through this, War. Someday.❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀He chooses to believe her.

⠀⠀⠀⠀❝Hey.❞ His thumb caresses her jaw, getting her to look at him after she tries to hide her face again. He looks into her eyes — really looks into them — so she'll believe him, too, when he tells her, ❝I love you.❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀Falling for her had been weird for him at first, until it wasn't. He sort of feels like she'd ripped his heart straight out of his chest, only after the initial pain and shock of it all, she gently laid the ugly, still-beating thing to rest in a locked box only she has the key to reopen.

⠀⠀⠀⠀Love is such a hindrance, he once thought. How powerful of a concept, of a word, of an emotion. And how equally fragile.

⠀⠀⠀⠀But that was then.

⠀⠀⠀⠀This is now.

⠀⠀⠀⠀❝You are an arrogant, overconfident, stubborn pain in my ass, Warren Liberato.❞ Amara grabs him by the collar and kisses him quickly; too quickly. After she pulls away, she's smirking, and he's breathless. ❝But I love you, too.❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀He'll never tire of hearing that.

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A/N.
perhaps i would die for him

give it a few weeks and i'll hate this chapter (lol) but i like it okay for now. i'm able to explore so many themes through warren, particularly with guilt, what it means to be a good role model/positive influence for someone as young (and as new to the industry) as bree, how toxic masculinity has ultimately effected him, and eventually, found vs estranged family. and don't even get me started on warmara or warbree. i love my lil fam so much!!! warren's such a dad and he doesn't even know it. if you think this is as emotional as it gets, then BOY, do halli and i have news for you...

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[ Published: Nov 3rd, 2020 ]

— Liv