Work Text:
The finest of pleasures are always the unexpected ones.
- The Night Circus, Erin Morgenstern.
Here’s the thing: Greg has never felt wanted.
It’s strange, really, because he’s spent his life hoping for it—wishing for someone to crave him with the same deep, aching hunger he feels for the world. He dreams of being desired, of someone pulling him close with a need as fierce as kindling catching fire. He imagines being wanted like utopia, something glimpsed, savored.
He wants someone to want him, but he never thought it would ever be real.
And yet, at sixteen, Greg is here, lips sticky with strawberry gloss, being kissed within an inch of his life. Bryce’s room feels like a temple, draped in soft gold and glints of silver, a shrine heavy with the magic reserved for anicent myths of greek tales. Wrapped in Bryce’s clothes—clothes too big, too soft, too perfect—Greg feels like a god clothed in stolen silk, adorned in temporary splendor, living on borrowed time.
For once, he feels worshipped.
Bryce kisses him like the very air in Greg’s lungs is his only lifeline, as if he would let the world collapse to ruins before pulling away. Bryce kisses him with a fierce, undivided focus, as though Greg is the one, single thing that matters.
It’s wonderful. It’s exhilarating. It’s everything Greg has ever hoped for and somehow so much more.
He can’t help wondering when the awe will begin to fade.
Because, for as long as Greg can remember—since the moment his mind sharpened and he learned to turn intentions into strategies—everything he’s done has been calculated. He knows when to flash the perfect smile, when to say the right words, how to push just enough to set things in motion. He’s no longer that clumsy elementary kid without subtlety, nor the impatient middle schooler stumbling through tactics. Greg has grown; he’s learned the art of the long game, the skill of seizing the chances dropped in his lap.
He’s set his lines, waited for the catch, for the fishes to bite. He's set the net and waited for the birds to cry. He is the fox, drawing prey into its den. Jack and the Beanstalk, planting seeds and letting then grow into the vines he wanted, leading his to the gold he's craved.
He’s worked for every bit of it.
But this—being pressed against cool, pristine walls and into the softness of velvet sheets; being held so tightly he thinks his body might shrink into it's embrace, unmoving; being gifted glamorous gifts and glittering smiles; being tucked into varsity jackets and warm hoodies, rings slipped onto his fingers with a soft, whispered ‘I love you’s—this was uncalculated, unplanned. Unexpected.
It wasn’t even a possibility he’d considered, and now Greg doesn’t know what to do with it, with this feeling that makes him feel dizzily drunk, unmoored, unsure if he even likes the sensation of feeling so euphoric.
“Mine,” Bryce whispers, his lips rich and red as spilled wine, and Greg feels dizzy, feverish, swept up by the warmth of it. “Mine.” The word rolls off Bryce's tongue with the kind of ease that comes from years of being handed everything he’s ever wanted, a spoiled god-child's claim, full of hunger and surety.
A tone that knows only how to take what it wants.
Greg has never been claimed before—not like this, not by anyone. He’s always been disposable, cast aside like a shadow that people shake off their shoes. Mum, Dad, Rodrick, Rowley, Manny—even Greg himself sometimes. No one has ever wanted him this way, with this almost painful, possessive fervor. No one has ever looked at him as though he were a gift, something worthy to cradle in reverent hands, a trophy to hoist with pride. As though he’s something rare, precious. As though he’s something sacred.
Greg himself has always yearned to claim, to sink his teeth into something and make it his own. To leave a mark so vivid, so real, that it could never be washed away. He’s never once imagined being the one marked, the one another would grasp so fiercely and refuse to let go.
“Yours,” he breathes, and in that single, fragile moment, he feels ancient. Older than sixteen, older than his youth, older than his own skin. The words sear through him like a fever, a thousand years taking root in his veins, seeping into bone and marrow, bleeding into his brain, a heavy, aching thing he can barely hold. He feels it pooling in his chest, rich and ripe with a strange, burning fullness, an ache he’s not sure he can survive.
Greg has always been put together—the Heffley way—stitched into shirts that pinch at the seams, jeans that sag just enough to make him look smaller than he is. He’s held himself together in black backpacks stuffed with spotted notebooks, in stiff Sunday shirts and ties, in the hollow smile he never sees returned. He’s held himself in journals stashed in the back of his closet, diaries he tells himself are dreams of a brighter future rather than the therapy the school counselor thinks he needs. He began those diaries at eleven, pouring himself into their pages like ink, and here he is, five years later, still keeping those words close, still clinging to every piece he can gather.
Greg has always been wrapped up, a gingerbread house pieced together with flimsy foil and icing, fragile enough to crumble yet holding firm, somehow. He’s always been the one keeping it all in place, every shard of himself carefully pressed together, desperate not to lose the little bits he’s got, terrified of misplacing one of them in the world around him.
But here, cradled in soft, silent pillows and blankets the deep blue of Bryce’s eyes, Greg lets himself shatter. Here, he loosens his grip, lets the pieces fall and scatter, and he wonders, with a raw ache, what that says about him. About the boy who’s always held himself together—now, finally, letting go.
[It feels foolish. Unbelievably so. Foolish in a way that goes against everything the name Heffley stands for, diving straight into the pool of mercy only Andersons are granted.]
He crumbles into Bryce’s hands, crumbles like the earth will one day — whether by the strike of an asteroid or the pull of a dead, dying sun’s gravity. He crumbles, breaking apart in a way he never thought he could, fragments falling away as if they’d always been meant to.
It is everything. It is nothing.
It is enough.
Greg has never known what satisfaction feels like — not until now, not until he’s unraveling in someone else’s arms, feeling whole even as he comes undone.
When Greg was twelve, he’d had surgery. The procedure had gone smoothly, but the aftermath — well, that had been something else entirely. Bills had stacked up in quiet panic, Manny had sold his things without a second thought, and Rowley hadn’t even come by to wish him well. But when he’d first opened his eyes, the world a little brighter for the sheer fact of being alive, he’d seen Rodrick beside him with a gentle smile with no teeth, and, just for a moment, Greg had felt euphoric, human in a way he’d only read about in poetry. It was fleeting, yes, but in that instant, he’d felt complete.
Now, lying amidst silent sheets, sprawled across Bryce’s lap, Greg feels it again. Soft kisses trace the curve of his neck, words dripping like honey, each compliment weaving him tighter, drawing him close until there’s hardly space to breathe. They settle in the spaces between his heartbeats, slither into the quietest corners of his mind.
He feels that same euphoria, and this time, it seems to hold, with no sign of ever slipping away.
“Oh, darling,” Bryce coos, his voice soft and sweet, like strawberries ripened under a distant sun. Greg shivers, his cheeks flushed and warm. The tenderness in Bryce’s tone is so startlingly gentle, a stark contrast to the hunger that had consumed him only moments before. It’s almost too much — this sweetness, this care. He feels the ache welling up inside him, a heat behind his eyes, and he wants to cry. He very nearly does.
“Hey, now, none of that,” Bryce murmurs, his voice still soft as silk. He gently pulls Greg’s hands away from his face — Greg hadn’t even realized he’d hidden himself, the gesture so instinctive, so quick to shield. “There we go,” Bryce coos, that damn lovesick lilt in his tone. “Don’t hide your pretty face, love.”
“Shut up,” Greg pouts, which is a mistake as Bryce leans down to kiss it off. Greg bats him away, heat creeping up his neck. Bryce doesn't even look abashed, his perfect smile achingly fond, the arrogant bastard.
“You’re so cute,” Bryce says, eyes crinkling into half-moons reflecting a smile with all the warmth of sunlight. It’s a strange thing—he looks so different like this, so soft, a far cry from the stormy boy at school, knuckles scraped raw and bleeding.
The thought slips in, and before Greg can stop himself, his fingers reach for Bryce’s hands, where they’re wound tight around his waist. His thumb brushes over bruised knuckles, dried blood crackling under his touch. It's the first taste of reality, that the reason that brought them here wasn't a fever dream.
“Hm?” Bryce hums, watching as Greg’s fingers graze his bruised skin. “What’s on your mind, love?”
“Your knuckles are bleeding.”
“So they are,” Bryce says, with a casual shrug.
“You punched someone.”
“Did I?” Bryce tilts his head, a smirk dancing on his lips.
“You won.”
“You have so much confidence in me, love.” Bryce’s gaze softens, thumb tracing gentle circles against Greg’s hip, but Greg won't let himself be distracted.
“Don’t patronize me,” Greg huffs, though it comes out softer than he’d like. Bryce just looks at him with that familiar, infuriating fondness, as if Greg’s every word is some delightful revelation.
“You punched someone,” Greg presses, a note of disbelief in his voice. “Why?”
“Is it really so shocking?” Bryce tilts his head, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Aren’t I the hot-headed quarterback?”
“You need to stop reading those romance novels,” Greg mutters, nose scrunching as the entourage of cringy, cheesy lines hit. He'd been dragged to the library far often than he'd like to say. As always, library or not, Bryce has no restraint and kisses him on the nose, and Greg quickly pulls away, not about to get drawn into yet another long, dizzying make-out session. “You don’t punch people. You get your lackeys to do it.”
“So rude, darling. They have names, you know.”
“I call ’em as I see ’em,” Greg replies dryly. “Now stop dodging.”
Bryce sighs, and for a moment, there’s something darker behind his eyes, a shift that feels almost heavy. “Alright, alright,” he concedes. “So I punched a couple of people. They had it coming. So what?”
A couple? Greg’s brain stalls, images of bruised knuckles and split lips swimming to the surface. But he pushes down the question, knowing it would only trap them in circles. “Why did you punch them?” he asks again, his voice calm, steady.
Bryce looks at him, jaw set, eyes darkening with something fierce and unyielding. “Because they were getting too close to you,” he says, voice steady, controlled. “They were hanging around, acting all buddy-buddy. Like they thought they could have you.” His gaze sharpens, possessive in a way Greg’s never seen before. “You’re mine, Greg. And I’m not letting anyone try to take that away from me.”
“Wait, what?”
“Idiots the lot of them,” Bryce sneers, and it has no right to look as perfect as it does. “Jordan decided he’d get real friendly with you after practice, didn't he?” Bryce says, voice hardening. “Maybe because Connor couldn’t keep his hands to himself when he was ‘helping’ you in English? Or maybe it’s because Taylor—oh, sweet, clueless Taylor—thought you’d look so much better on his arm.”
Greg freezes, his mind racing — popular kids, people Greg’s been friendly with on purpose, people he’s carefully kept close for favors, for connections, for the long game he’s been playing, to make things fall into place when he needs them to. Bryce’s tone is scalding as he ticks off each name, like each one’s a personal affront, a challenge.
But, these aren’t nobodies. These are people who had a purpose. These are people who could ruin everything. Ruin the kingdom he's strived so hard to make. Topple down the house of cards he's built up for months.
“Bryce, they’re just classmates. Friends,” Greg says, aiming for nonchalance even as his heart pounds. He’s a good actor; he knows the right words to diffuse things, and maybe if he can steer this right, they can avoid a disaster. “They’re…just people, okay? Not a threat to you.”
But Bryce’s grip on his waist tightens. “Friends? People? Greg, they don’t just want to be ‘friends.’ You’re telling me that I didn’t see Jordan practically glued to your side at that party? Or Connor practically cooing over you in the library?” Bryce’s jaw is clenched, frustration painted on his face. “I see the way they look at you. They think they can have you.”
Greg forces a laugh, keeping his tone light. “You really think they’re going to take me away from you? Bryce, these are people who could ruin you. What if they hurt you?”
What if they hurt me, is what echoes in his head. He doesn't say it aloud. First rule of the game: make yourself seem empathetic.
Bryce just chuckles, a dark, indulgent sound. “Oh, darling, you’re adorable when you worry.” He leans in, brushing a stray lock of hair from Greg’s face. He snorts at the affronted look on Greg's face, amused and unaffected. “Ruin me?” His fingers trace idle circles against Greg’s hip, possessive and certain. “I’m not some nobody, Greg. Their reputations are a few rumors away from tanking, and I’ve already got the bases covered. They’ll be silent. No one’s coming between us. Ever.”
“Bryce,” Greg says, trying to push a note of worry into his voice without showing his hand. Act, act, he tells himself. “You’re the quarterback, not a mastermind. They’re popular, they’re liked. This could go sideways.”
But Bryce just smiles, brushing his thumb across Greg’s cheek. “I know exactly who I am, Greg. I know what they are too. And if they know what's best for they, them know who I am, too. If they think they’re getting anywhere near you or me, they’re in for a disappointment.” His eyes soften, though the intensity in them never fades. “You’re mine, and I’ll make sure it stays that way.”
Greg knows he should feel sorry for them, for the ones Bryce has marked as threats. He’s seen it happen, felt that sick twist of his own reputation dangling by a thread when someone else held the scissors. Fuck, he’s been there, shoved up against that wall, dragged up by the collar, Bryce’s face a storm, words as sharp as knives until something changed, until Bryce saw something in him. Pulling back and simply staring at him. Greg can still remember that first time—furrowed brows, anger simmering between them—and the way it had dissolved, replaced with that kiss, the one that had saved him from a fate every other kid Bryce had looked at that way had faced.
Greg survived Bryce’s wrath, and he’s pretty sure he’ll be the only one to ever come out the other side.
He knows jealousy well. Knows it like a song stuck in his head, looping constantly, grinning with green eyes from the back of his mind. He’s felt it for Rowley and his unbreakable family, for Rodrick’s talent, for Manny and his golden child syndrome. He’s felt it for Holly for being beautiful, and Bryce, the star quarterback—everyone who had something he didn’t. He knows how it changed, the ugly pull of it, the way it lives under his skin, digging in from being jealous of Bryce to when people hover around Bryce, flirting, vying for that place that should belong to him.
But Greg has learned to hold it back, to keep it tethered. Middle school jealousy had been loud and unkempt, like an open wound, but now it’s quiet, polished, honed. Now he keeps it measured, spills it in calculated steps, cold and careful.
It’s only that now, standing here, he’s realized something he’s never allowed himself to even consider. That anyone, least of all Bryce, could want him with that same rawness, the same possessive hunger. That Bryce would covet him, not just for what he has, but simply for him. Greg Heffley, the kid with bruised knees and the worn-out backpack, the scrawny guy with bandages stuck to his shins and dark-circled eyes who scribbles in journals he’d never show anyone.
And yet, here is Bryce, looking at him with a hunger that feels like a living thing, a creature that would swallow anyone who tried to get too close.
For Greg Heffley—the boy who hides his real thoughts between the messy ink lines of hastily sketched cartoons, who learns how to laugh cheap and quick like cigarettes. For Greg Heffley, who keeps secrets, who loves the taste of cheesecake, and blueberry pie, of apple tart and strawberry shortcake—all those sugary bites that cling to the back of his molars, sweetness he never quite manages to savor. The boy who collects sweets as though each bite could fill the hollow spaces, who knows that sometimes his family feels like an old board game he’s tried so many times to win, only to find the rules keep changing.
For Greg Heffley, who wears pieces of his parents in ways that cut a little too close, who’s grown up seeing their flaws sketched in fine, sharp lines across his own reflection. The boy who covered for Rodrick's wild, cacophonous party and ended up with a door slammed in his face, who held Manny close when he was small tyke, though he knows that little brother's love might always remain one-sided, a hope left out in the cold. A hope he pretends not to have.
For Greg Heffley, the scrooge-with-no-ghosts, who turned life into a Monopoly board with rules shifting on a whim. Greg, the one who had a best friend who adored him, who looked up at him with unconditional fondness even when Greg’s own heart wavered and faltered. The boy who wrote his history homework in exchange for cheese crackers. The boy who held his hand to his chest and chose self-preservation every time, a friend who has walked alongside him even when he didn’t walk with the same warmth.
Greg, the kid who befriended Tyson the Terror, who made Fregley popular by accident, who masterminded the great middle school prank of Invisible Chirag—not because he was known or liked, but because he could. Greg, who laughed but didn’t smile, who watched from the outside even as he made everyone believe he was at the center of it all.
For Greg Heffley, who once ate the rotting slice of moldy cheese left in the schoolyard for Rowley, then staggered home with a stomach twisted in agony, throwing up silently by the light of the fridge so he wouldn’t wake anyone. Who still remembers Rodrick’s hand, warm and careful, brushing through his hair when he could barely lift his head from the toilet, and Manny’s tiny frame curled close to his, clutching a stuffed dinosaur like it could save him and stop the nausea.
For Greg Heffley, who got his first gold star in fifth grade and cried because he’d won something that meant he was worth something, a tiny plastic mark that stuck to his shirt like a medal. Greg, who sings in the shower where nobody can hear him, like it’s a secret just for him, and pretends not to see Rodrick's sad smile or Manny's eager gaze and pleas to ‘Sing for me, Bubby, please.’
For Greg Heffley, who walked into debate club that cold autumn afternoon, straight into the storm-blue of Bryce Anderson’s gaze, eyes that felt like a black hole pulling him in to something catastrophic, and wanted. Greg, who for the first time thought maybe he could be something worth wanting.
For Greg Heffley—the boy who learned to wear masks made of cheap grins and hollow words, and never let himself fall apart where anyone else could see. The boy who still holds those pieces together, patchwork and fraying, held by nothing but willpower and want.
It comes to a decision, then. One that’s been years and years in the making, an avalanche building with each tiny flake, each bitter thought, each wish cast aside. Now it’s finally here, close enough he can see the ending. And he feels it—feels like a fuse lit, something sparking in his blood that’s been waiting for ignition.
“Yours,” Greg whispers, voice soft as snowfall. He feels flayed open, sewn shut, alive in a way he never thought he’d feel. Satisfaction hums in his veins, that ghost of a feeling he chased all the way back in second grade, when he made a plan—a way to be happy written in shaky cursive — that was taped up inside his closet as a reminder, as a bleeding warning of something he’d never have. But now, in this moment, feeling the warmth of Bryce’s hands on his own, he thinks maybe he’s found something even better. He doesn’t think too hard about it. “I love you,” he says, and he means it in a way he’s never meant anything before. The way Bryce’s eyes darken and his own heart sings tells him it’s exactly right, this happily-ever-after meant to happen, whether they end up happy or not.
“You’re perfect,” Bryce breathes, and then Greg’s being kissed within an inch of his life. Kissed in the way of Greek stories, in the way of myths and old ballads — kissed in a way he never thought anyone would kiss him. “I love you.”
It echoes, reverberates, ricochets off the walls of Bryce’s room and deep into Greg’s chest. It’s like a song plucked on a harp, trembling in the air, ringing with something raw and new.
Greg tugs him closer, wraps his arms tighter around Bryce, feeling the warmth bleed between them. He lets himself fall, lets himself ease into something soft, something he hadn’t even dared to dream about. Happiness had never been in the plans. It wasn’t part of the blueprint he laid out all those years ago. But now, he wonders if maybe it had been possible all along.
And even if it isn't, it doesn't matter. For what is love if not something beautiful to ruin?