Backseat of a Movie - JinxTheMisfortunate (2025)

Chapter 1: 2008 - "Such Great Heights"

Chapter Text

San Diego Comic-Con, 2008

The convention center looms ahead, its facade plastered with garish banners screaming "Comic-Con 2008" in bold, clashing colors. I park the car, kill the engine, and sit for a moment, gripping the steering wheel like it's a lifeline.

In the rearview mirror, my reflection stares back—winged eyeliner slightly smudged, black hair tousled by the California breeze. I run a hand through it, attempting to tame the chaos. My fingers brush against the Tree of Life necklace resting against my chest, a small comfort amidst the swirling anxiety.

It's just a reunion. How bad could it be?

I haven't seen most of them in years. Jerry's the only one I've kept in touch with—he's doing well, even has a girlfriend now. As for the others? Radio silence since college.

I step out of the car, the California sun beating down mercilessly. Should've packed more sunscreen.

Inside the convention center, the air buzzes with excitement and the unmistakable scent of overpriced popcorn. I navigate through the throngs of cosplayers and fanboys, making my way toward Artist Alley where Jerry said they'd be.

Spotting Jerry's familiar blond mop behind a table, I approach, nerves fluttering.

"Hey, everyone," I say, sliding into an empty seat next to a woman I assume is Jerry's girlfriend.

"Marzia!" Jerry exclaims, his face lighting up. "It's been ages!"

"Yeah, it has," I reply, forcing a smile.

Josh glances over, his expression unreadable. "So, uh… teaching now, huh?"

"Pre-K," I nod.

"Bet that's a riot," Pete chimes in, smirking.

"It's... rewarding," I respond, keeping my tone neutral.

The woman next to me extends a hand. "I'm Mandi. Jerry's better half."

"Nice to meet you," I say, shaking her hand.

She grins. "Goth pre-K teacher? That's badass."

I chuckle. "The piercings don't make it into the classroom."

Suddenly, a familiar voice cuts through the chatter.

"Sorry I'm late. Got lost in the sea of capes and spandex."

I turn, heart skipping a beat. Bill stands there, looking both exactly the same and entirely different. His gaze meets mine, and for a moment, the noise of the convention fades away.

"Hey," I manage, my voice barely audible.

He nods, a smirk playing on his lips. "Marzia."

Mandi breaks the tension. "You must be Bill. I've heard stories."

"All lies," he replies, taking a seat across from me.

The conversation resumes, filled with debates over comic reboots and movie adaptations. But every so often, I catch Bill's eyes on me, and I wonder if he's trying to see the girl he once knew—or if he's just as lost in the past as I am.

Chapter 2: 1998 - "Dead Girl Walking"

Chapter Text

The thing about moving back to Eltingville your senior year?

No one gives a shit.

There’s no “Welcome back, Marzia!” sign taped to your locker. No heartfelt reunion montage. Just a bunch of half-formed glances from people who kinda remember you as the girl with Lisa Frank trapper keepers and unfortunate bangs.

Now I’m just another ghost wandering the hallways. I don’t look like the girl who left. Mississippi turned me goth-lite and emotionally constipated. Or maybe I did that all on my own. Either way—I came back wearing fishnets under my skirt, black eyeliner sharp enough to maim, and a pentagram that would make any Christian faint.

Needless to say, Eltingville High’s population of Mountain Dew-guzzling dipshits didn’t roll out the black carpet for me.

So when science partners were announced and the words “Bill Dickey” showed up next to mine, I didn’t groan. I didn’t even blink. I just shoved the assignment in my folder and waited for the bell like it was the countdown to a prison break.

Of course, Bill wasn’t in class. I’d bet my last clove cigarette he was holed up in that crusty basement with the rest of his mouth-breathing nerd cult, arguing over who’d win in a fight—Batman or Jesus.

So, I did the stupidest thing imaginable.

I went to his house.

Still the same middle-class hellhole: wedged between a dying duplex and some R2-D2-shaped mailbox that’s lost both arms. Chipped paint. Dead grass. Basement window glowing like someone’s microwaving uranium.

I knock.

Nothing.

I knock again, louder.

Still nothing.

Then I hear it—voices. Someone yelling, “YOU CAN’T MULTICLASS INTO BARD, YOU STUPID SON OF A BITCH!”

Against every good instinct in my body, I twist the doorknob.

It’s unlocked.

Of course.

I descend the basement steps, stomach in my throat.

Boom—there they are. The Four Horsemen of the Dorkpocalypse, hunched over their D&D table like it’s the Last Supper.

They all freeze. Like I’m holding a magnet up to a CRT TV.

“…Can we help you?” asks the tall, nervous one. Jerry. Probably the least objectionable.

I clutch my backpack strap. “Yeah. I’m looking for Bill.”

Silence.

Pete squints like he’s trying to load a saved memory file. “Wait… wait a goddamn second…”

Josh’s eyes go wide. “No fucking way. Marzia?”

Bill swivels around slowly in his chair like a low-budget Bond villain. Stares. Eyes narrow.

“…You died,” he says flatly.

“Not quite.” I smile. “We’re science partners.”

Bill blinks. A slow, mechanical process. “No. No, you're not her.”

“Sure I am,” I say. “Want me to prove it?”

Bill’s brow twitches. “This should be good.”

“Kindergarten field trip. Pumpkin patch. You spun around looking for the ‘perfect pumpkin’ and puked Froot Loops all over your OshKosh B'gosh like a possessed jack-o'-lantern.”

Jerry chokes on his soda.

Josh lets out a full hyena laugh. “OH MY GOD, DUDE, I REMEMBER THAT! HE CRIED FOR, LIKE, AN HOUR.”

Bill stands up so fast his chair screeches. “OKAY. WE GET IT.”

I folded my arms. “Told you it was me.”

Bill glares like I just bootlegged his entire comic collection. “What the hell happened to you?”

“Puberty. Existential dread. Myspace.” I shrug. “Take your pick.”

Pete, muttering: “She got hot.”

Josh, elbowing him: “Dude. Shut up.”

Bill looks me up and down like I’m a cursed Funko Pop. “This is bullshit. I’m not working with you.”

I grin. “Too bad. You’re stuck with me, Pumpkin Puke.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It smells like mold, testosterone, and the unholy fusion of Axe body spray and BO. The walls are covered in metal band posters and anime girls with proportions that would kill a normal person. There’s a literal mound of Wizard Magazine by the closet and an open bag of Cheetos balancing on top of a game console graveyard.

Bill’s in his spinny chair, slowly turning like he’s contemplating murder.

“So,” I start, flipping open my notes, “the project is a Personal Health Timeline. We cover major biological milestones from birth to now. Easy. No biggie.”

He groans like I’ve told him he has to bathe. “You’re actually planning to do this?”

“It’s thirty percent of our grade.”

“You’re one of those people.”

I raise an eyebrow. “People who pass high school? Yeah. Scary, right?”

He scoffs and spins again. “Whatever. Wake me up when it’s time to bullshit the PowerPoint.”

I clench my jaw. “You’re going to coast off my work, huh?”

“Duh. What else are group projects for?”

I breathe in through my nose. I’m not letting him drag me down to his Cheeto-stained level. I glance around, hoping to reset the mood.

“Hey,” I say, pointing to a dusty shelf. “Is that the ’89 Keaton Batmobile?”

His head whips around. “You recognize that?”

“My cousin had it. Yours is missing the canopy.”

Bill stares. “Yeah, okay. Sure. You were into Batman. Right.”

I blink. “Excuse me?”

“Oh come on,” he scoffs. “Girls weren’t into that stuff unless their boyfriend was. Or they wanted attention. Everyone knows that.”

I feel my brain reboot.

“…Are you actually gatekeeping Batman right now?”

“I’m just saying,” he shrugs. “You show up dressed like a Hot Topic manager and suddenly you’re one of us? Bullshit. This stuff matters. You don’t get it.”

“No, you don’t get it,” I snap. “I didn’t claw my way through middle school in Mississippi, dodging Bible freaks and Confederate flags, just to be told by a sweaty gremlin that I’m not a real fan because I have tits and an eyeliner budget.”

“Yeah? Well, you ditched this place and now you waltz back in like you’re better than us.”

“I came back because I didn’t have a choice, Bill!”

We’re both shouting now. Something in his face twists—like I hit something real.

“You left,” he snarls. “And now you wanna act like we’re friends again? Get real.”

I grab my bag, furious. “You know what? Go screw yourself, Dickey.”

“Real creative. What’s next, you gonna write sad song lyrics in your diary?”

I stomp toward the door.

“Yeah, go ahead and quit, fat weeaboo bitch!”

SLAM.

Chapter 3: 2008 - "Cold"

Chapter Text

The rest of the day felt like a reboot of a canceled show nobody asked for—complete with aging cast, bad lighting, and a palpable sense that the magic was long gone.

Comic Con should’ve been a blast. But walking around with the guys again? It just made me remember why I left. And why I don’t really talk to them anymore.

Still, there was a highlight.

Mandi.

She’s the only person here who seems like a functioning human being. She’s smart, sharp, laughs at dumb puns, and doesn’t treat every comic book panel like a goddamn war tribunal.

So, of course, this happens.

We hit some new indie comic panel. Cool artwork, a creator who actually gives a shit. Then the host announces a trivia challenge. I barely have time to roll my eyes before Mandi’s already on stage, holding the buzzer with one hand and a smile that could melt vibranium.

Bill’s standing in the back, arms crossed like he’s auditioning for “Guy Who Has Opinions About Star Wars Women.”

Mandi kills it. Absolutely murders the round. She quotes issues I forgot existed, throws out character backstories like she wrote them, and even corrects the host on one continuity slip—politely.

The crowd eats it up. Jerry is beaming. Pete and Josh are actually clapping.

And Bill?

Bill’s not clapping.

He’s just glaring.

Jaw tight. Eyes like two beady sniper scopes.

When Mandi wins a signed compendium, Jerry elbows Bill with a grin. “Dude, she’s, like, unstoppable.”

Bill shrugs. “It’s not hard to memorize stuff when you’re trying to impress people.”

“Wait, what?” Jerry frowns.

“She probably read a wiki last night,” Bill mutters, louder this time. “That’s all it takes now. Read a couple fan wikis, throw on a vintage tee, boom—you’re a ‘nerd girl.’”

Josh and Pete glance at each other. Jerry stiffens.

Mandi, still onstage, hears it. Of course she does. The crowd quiets a little. Her face doesn’t fall, exactly. But the smile goes flat.

“Excuse me?” she calls out, still holding the mic.

Bill smirks—smirks, like he’s proud of himself. “Nothing personal. I’m just tired of fake fans hijacking the culture. Turning it into this sanitized, Hot Topic-friendly brand.”

“Jesus Christ,” I mutter.

Jerry’s voice cracks. “Dude, what the hell are you doing?”

Bill shrugs. “Saying what we’re all thinking.”

“No,” I say, loud enough to get his attention. “You’re saying what you always say when you feel threatened.”

He turns to me, caught off guard. “Oh, great. Here we go.”

“Outside,” I snap. “Now.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Why, so you can scold me in private?”

“Sure. Or so I don’t hit you in front of a hundred witnesses.”

That gets him moving.

We’re behind the building before I round on him. “What the fuck is your problem?”

“Oh, give me a break, Marzia.” He throws up his hands. “She’s not even—this whole con is just poser central now.”

“You called Jerry’s girlfriend a poser in front of a live audience.”

“She made it to the stage because she’s hot.”

“She made it to the stage because she’s smarter than you!”

He flinches. Just slightly. “Don’t talk to me like I’m some idiot fanboy.”

I laugh, bitter. “You are a fanboy, Bill. You always were. But now you’re also a bitter twenty-eight-year-old who can’t stand that the world moved on without him.”

He gets close. Too close. “You think you’re better than me now? Just because you got out?”

I cross my arms. “No. I think I’m healthier than you because I learned to let go of the gatekeeping bullshit.”

“You left,” he snaps. “You didn’t even say goodbye.”

“Because you would’ve made it miserable! You would've made me feel like I was betraying the club. Like I was betraying you.”

“You were!”

“Oh, come on! I went to college, not to war.”

“You left me with nothing!” he yells. “You were the only part of this that made it bearable.”

That hits harder than it should.

I stare at him. “You had a funny way of showing it.”

He looks like he’s about to say something else—but instead, he kisses me.

Hard. Desperate. Messy.

I shouldn’t kiss him back. It’s probably the worst idea I’ve had in ten years. But something inside me snaps. I grab the collar of his flannel and shove him against the wall of the convention center, our mouths colliding like we’re trying to erase a decade of resentment with friction.

He groans into the kiss, biting my lower lip just enough to piss me off.

“Still bossy,” he mutters.

I grab a fistful of his shirt. “Still an asshole.”

He yanks me in again, and we stumble off into the shadows.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The hotel room is a blur of clothes hitting the floor and every insult we ever threw at each other morphing into something feral. It’s not romantic. It’s not even tender. It’s two emotionally stunted nerds using sex as a blunt instrument.

He pulls my panties down like they personally offended him. I dig my nails into his back like I’m trying to peel off ten years of bad blood.

“Thought I was a poser,” I growl, wrapping a leg around his waist.

“You are,” he pants. “But you’re my poser.”

I kissed him harder, pushed him back again, this time toward the bed. We were stripping each other bare with frantic hands—he practically ripped my bra in half trying to get it off. I tugged down his jeans just enough to free him, and when I wrapped my hand around his cock, he hissed a curse.

“Fuck, Marz—”

“Don’t stop me.” I punctate my words with a stroke to his throbbing shaft.

“As if I could.”

We fell into bed like we were trying to win a fight. I climbed onto him, straddling his hips, grinding against him until he cursed again and grabbed my ass, dragging me closer.

“You’re so goddamn full of yourself,” I gasped.

“You’re so fucking hot when you’re mad.”

And then he was inside me in one sharp, desperate thrust. I nearly bit his shoulder with how hard I groaned.

“Still think I’m full of myself?” he panted.

I rocked my hips against him, hard, and watched his smug expression crack. “Not right now, no.”

I had no more started rocking until he flipped me over. He set a brutal, punishing pace, his hips slamming into mine, fingers bruising my thighs, our mouths finding each other between panting and gasping and insults. The headboard slammed against the wall, and one of the pillows fell to the floor. The cheap bed groaned in protest, but neither of us gave a damn.

I was practically crying out as my fingers dug into his shoulders.

Fuck you, Bill Dickey…fuck you and....

“You always this loud?” he muttered in my ear, voice wrecked.

“Keep going and find out.”

His pace only seemed to get faster, rougher, pounding my pussy like he owned it. God, why did it have to be him I was fucking?

“Shit-- Bill-- Fuck--” I whimpered.

He growled against my ear. “There it fucking is. Right where I remember it.”

His thrusts got rougher and sloppier as he pounded my g-spot, making stars explode in my eyes. Oh God, I’m so close. My thighs were starting to shake.

When it finally crashed over me, I clung to him like I couldn’t tell whether I wanted to kiss him or kill him. Maybe both.

He followed right after, burying himself deep inside me with a groan. His cum floods my insides, filling me with his warmth.

He never liked pulling out.

Thank God I’m on the pill.

Afterward, we were quiet. Just breathing.

My head rested on his chest, and his fingers lazily traced the curve of my spine like he forgot we were supposed to hate each other.

Then, like a jackass, he mumbled, “I think your pussy might have pulled me out of my depression.”

I snorted into his chest, unable to stop the laugh that burst out. “Unbelievable.”

“Truly the best medicine,” he added, eyes closed and completely unbothered.

I rolled my eyes but didn’t move. Couldn’t.

And for a long moment, with his arms loosely around me and the world still outside that hotel room door, I let myself forget everything else.

Chapter 4: 1998 - "Why Can't We Be Friends?"

Chapter Text

I was sulking by the vending machines, nursing a pretzel bag like it had wronged me personally, and silently vowing to never speak to that troglodyte Bill Dickface again.

Jerry popped up like a jump scare. “Yo, Marz. Project still a steaming pile?”

“Still on fire, thanks,” I muttered.

“Yeah… word is you and Bill went full Dark Knight Returns on each other. Over Batman?”

My eyebrows shot up. “He told you?”

Jerry snorted. “Told everyone. Dude’s been ranting like a neckbeard in a comic book store. I think he said ‘poser’ like, forty times.”

I buried my face in my hands. “I can’t fail biology, Jerry. If I fail, I don’t get into college, and then I die, probably in a Denny’s parking lot with a GED and an anime body pillow—”

“Okay, alright, spiral later,” he said, hands up. “Come on. Field trip.”

Before I could argue, he was already dragging me through the cafeteria like a determined mom at Comic Con. We weaved past spilled chocolate milk and a freshman crying over his mashed potatoes. At the club table, Josh was aggressively licking orange powder off his fingers while Pete constructed a tower of Capri Suns like it was a life-or-death Jenga match.

And there was Bill, slouched in his chair like it owed him money. He scowled the second he saw me.

Jerry sat down hard and pointed between us like a substitute teacher who’s over it. “Fix this. Now.”

Bill barely looked at me. “If this is another Batman tantrum, I swear to God—”

“You can eat glass,” I snapped. “Don’t test me, Pumpkin Boy.”

Josh let out a low “oooh,” like a kid watching a fight in a hallway. Pete kept stacking his Capri Suns.

Jerry just sighed. “Guys. Come on. Just survive long enough to pass the assignment.”

Bill crossed his arms. “I don’t want to do it either. But if I fail bio, my mom’s gonna cut my allowance and make me go to church. Twice.”

I blinked. “Jesus.”

“Exactly.”

“Fine,” I said, sliding into the seat across from him. “And thank God we don't have to pick a fucking topic, because, knowing you, you'd suggest ‘alien STDs’ and try to make it about Superman’s dick.”

“It was relevant!” Bill shot back.

“It was gross,” I said. “And scientifically confusing.”

He leaned in, smirking. “Ailen STDs and Superman. Come on, admit it—that's gold. You’re clearly in love with me"

I whipped a pretzel at his forehead. “Die mad.”

He popped it in his mouth with a shrug. “Mm. Tastes like being right.”

“I seriously got stuck with the worst possible partner.”

“You kidding? You’re lucky,” he said. “At least I know the material. Unlike someone.”

“Excuse me?” I leaned forward.

“You heard me, poser.”

Jerry groaned. “Aaaand there it is.”

Pete slid his Capri Sun tower to safety.

“Oh my God,” I snapped. “You are still the same gatekeeping neckbeard-lite you were when we were kids!”

“At least I don’t pretend to like comics just to flirt with dudes in Naruto headbands,” he said, smug.

“Newsflash, genius: I was reading manga before I could pronounce ‘chakra.’ Just because I have tits doesn’t mean I need your permission to enjoy stuff.”

“Still defensive, huh?”

“And you’re still insufferable.”

I grabbed my bag, shoved a final pretzel in my mouth, and stood.

“You can do your own damn frog-dick project. Later.”

And just like that, history repeated itself.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I was slamming my locker shut with the force of a thousand nerd girl grudges when Jerry and Pete cornered me. No Josh. No Bill. They were probably off somewhere harassing a kid for mispronouncing “Ra’s al Ghul.”

“Still pissed, huh?” Jerry asked, eyeing the dent I just made in the metal.

“Gee, what gave it away?” I grumbled.

Pete held up his hands like I was holding him at gunpoint. “Hey, we’re not taking sides.”

“Sure you’re not,” I said, narrowing my eyes.

Jerry rolled his. “We just want it to stop. Mostly because we’re sick of listening to Bill whine like a kicked puppy.”

Pete nodded. “Dude’s been pacing like Batman on Adderall. ‘Marzia’s fake, Marzia’s a poser, Marzia’s the reason the Snyder Cut is underrated’—it’s exhausting.”

I sighed. “You guys care way too much about this.”

“We care exactly the right amount,” Jerry replied. “Which is: enough to not want to witness a murder at the next club meeting.”

“I’m not in your club,” I pointed out.

Pete grinned. “We’re working on it.”

I raised a brow. “Okay, that’s the second suspiciously nice thing you guys have said today.”

“Don’t get used to it,” Pete said. “We just... missed you. Sorta.”

Jerry rubbed the back of his neck. “Yeah. It’s weird without you. Even Bill thinks so.”

Pete laughed. “When you moved, he legit cried for a week. Like, ugly cried. Snot and all.”

I blinked. “He what?”

“Yeah. Wouldn’t shut up about how he was gonna mail you his Batman DVDs so you ‘wouldn’t forget him.’” Pete made air quotes.

My brain did a full blue screen. “What the hell…”

Jerry gave a half-smile. “So. Come to my place at six. I got a plan.”

“…Does this plan involve duct tape?”

“Nope. Just awkward eye contact, nerd rage, and forced teamwork.”

I stared at them. Then sighed. “Fine. But I swear, if this turns into some kind of intervention, I’m stabbing Bill with an ink pen.”

Pete smirked. “Dibs on livestreaming it."

Chapter 5: 2008 - "Love Me Dead"

Chapter Text

The microwave blinked 12:00 at me like it was keeping track of all my failures. My kitchen smelled like day-old pizza and budget-brand soap. The sink was a war crime. There was a rent notice stuck to the fridge with a chipped anime magnet from 2006, and I was surviving on cereal dust and anxiety.

Phone wedged between shoulder and cheek, I paced like it mattered.

“I’m serious, Ma. Fourteen dollars. That’s not even enough for a decent panic snack.”

“Marzia!” she gasped like I’d said I joined a doomsday cult. “Just come home! Your father can fix up your old room. Marco and Lindsay finally moved out.”

“Tempting. Really.” I said, deadpan. “But no thanks. I like having autonomy and not being guilt-tripped over my laundry.”

“Then get a roommate! Put up one of those Craigs things. The List. Craigslist!”

“Right, so I can get chopped up and fed to raccoons by a jazz drummer with neck tattoos. Sure.”

“No drummers! And no boys who look like vampires!”

I hung up after that. Love her, but if I didn’t end it there, she was gonna start praying into the receiver.

I opened my dying laptop. It wheezed to life like an asthmatic goat. I typed it up.

Room available. Bills split. Don’t be a creep.

Simple. Pathetic. Accurate.

I got one response. One.

“Hey. Just moved back. Need a place fast. Not a creep. Can pay soon. I’m quiet.”

That didn’t scream “future murder victim,” but it also didn’t scream anything encouraging. We messaged.

Me: “What’s your situation?”

Him: “It’s complicated.”

Me: “...Red flag.”

Him: “I’ll stay out of your hair. I just need a place. A week. Two tops.”

Me: “How soon?”

Him: “Tomorrow too fast?”

I stared at the screen.

Terrible idea.

But my blood sugar was being held hostage by a single slice of bread and expired hummus.

Me: “Futon’s in the corner. Don’t touch my rice cooker.”

The next morning, I dressed like I was about to be judged by a landlord—or a ghost. Clean shirt. No eyeliner. Hair brushed-ish.

There was a knock.

I opened the door, and time stopped.

“...Are you fucking kidding me.”

Because there, standing like a cautionary tale in a faded hoodie and scuffed combat boots, was Bill. Duffle bag slung over one shoulder. That same smug “aren’t-you-lucky-to-know-me” expression.

He blinked. “Oh, no fucking way*.”

“You’re Craigslist Guy?!”

“You’re Room-Available Chick?!”

We both stared like we’d just seen a cursed VHS tape.

I pointed at him. “Absolutely not.”

“I didn’t know it was you, I swear.”

“You answered my ad. You saw my name.”

“I thought it was a different Marzia.”

“How many Marzias do you know in Eltingville?”

“I don’t catalog your people.”

“My people?!”

“Not what I meant!”

I started to slam the door. He shoved his foot in like a cockroach with rent money.

“Hey. Hey. Look. I got cash. I’m not gonna bug you. You need a roommate, I need a floor. That’s it.”

I squinted. “You have actual money?”

He pulled out a sad wad of crumpled bills and a Taco Bell coupon.

“And that’s supposed to cover a week?”

“I can pay the rest, trust me.”

I raised an eyebrow at him. "The hell you mean by--"

"C'mon Marz, we're both adults here." Bill smirked at me. "I know you're stressed as hell and trust me...I can make it all go away."

He flashed me a grin that he probably thought was smooth.

"Are you really offering sex as rent!?" I felt my face heating up against my will.

"Whoa-- Whoa-- I never said that." He smirked. "But if that's what you want..."

I really wished I just slammed the door in his fucking face.

I groaned. “This is cursed. You’re cursed.”

“C’mon. Temporary ceasefire. Truce. We don’t even have to speak.”

“You never just don’t speak, Bill.”

He gave a one-shouldered shrug. “I can evolve. Like a fuckin’ Pokémon.”

I pinched the bridge of my nose. My headache had its own headache.

“You’re not gonna make weird comments? No late-night rants about how Batman peaked in ‘89?”

“No promises,” he muttered, stepping past me anyway like I’d said yes.

He dropped his bag. Looked around like he was rating it on Yelp.

“Cozy,” he said.

“Bill, if you clog the toilet, I will end you.”

He pointed a finger at me. “Same goes.”

I paused. “Wait. We slept together a week ago.”

“And now we’re roommates. Welcome to the sequel no one asked for.”

He flopped on the futon with a sigh like he’d just claimed it in the name of Spain.

I stared at him. This was such a bad idea. It reeked of trauma bonding and mold.

“You seriously didn’t know it was me?” I asked again.

He looked at me, just for a second, something flickering behind the smarm. “I wouldn’t have answered if I did. Figured you’d slam the door in my face.”

“You’re not wrong.”

We stared at each other.

Then he reached into his hoodie pocket. Pulled out a dented can of Monster, took a sip, made a face.

“Warm,” he muttered.

I walked to the kitchen. Grabbed a granola bar. Threw it at him. “Don’t die on my futon. You stain it, you’re buying me a new one.”

“Noted,” he said, catching it with one hand.

This was going to be a disaster.

But at least the rent might get paid.

Maybe...probably not.

Chapter 6: 1998 - "Catch"

Chapter Text

Jerry told me to be at his house by six. He said he needed help with something for school.

He neglected to mention that “something” was Bill.

I stepped inside and instantly heard the aggressive sound of grumbling and pen scratching from the living room. The TV was on mute, cartoons flickering in the background like white noise for the emotionally stunted.

Bill was hunched over a giant timeline poster, one leg bouncing like it was powered by rage and soda. The marker in his hand was already stained into his skin.

“This assignment is fascist,” he muttered. “Timeline my personal health? What am I, an eighty-year-old in hospice?”

He glanced up. Saw me. Frowned like someone just stepped on his favorite action figure.

“Oh, great. You.”

“Nice to see you too, jackass.”

“I thought this was supposed to be just Jerry.”

“Same.”

Jerry popped his head in from the kitchen with his usual peacekeeping smile, holding three cans of generic cola like he was hosting a NATO summit.

“Bidibidi, okay, before anyone stabs anyone—this was on purpose. I just figured, y’know, we should… get the tension over with. So it’s not weird the next time we hang out.”

Bill groaned into his hands. “You tricked me. That’s entrapment.”

“It’s not a crime to help your friends talk through their feelings.”

“It should be.”

“Do you want a soda or not, Bill?”

Bill snatched a can.

I took mine and sat on the floor, far enough from him that it didn’t count as next to. We drank in bitter silence, like divorced parents forced to share a bench at graduation.

About half an hour passed. Jerry had disappeared upstairs, claiming he “had to feed his turtle,” which was either true or an escape plan.

The silence settled into something not quite hostile. Just… itchy.

I started outlining my own timeline in pencil, using a ruler to keep the lines straight. I glanced over at Bill’s.

His was chaotic. Scrawled in heavy black ink, no organization. But a few things stood out:

Age 5 – Got my first comic. Changed everything.
Age 12 – Migraines started. Missed the Halloween lock-in. Sucked.

I blinked. Migraines?

I’d never heard him talk about that. But it tracked—the way he sometimes squinted when the lights were too bright, or snapped at noise like it was a physical attack.

Before I could think too hard about it, he noticed me looking.

“Enjoying the show?”

“You wrote this in Sharpie. What if you mess up?”

“Then I commit to the bit and go down with the ship.”

I rolled my eyes and tried to focus on mine. But the pencil hovered at Age 17, the line mocking me.

I wrote:

Age 17 – Granny Ethel passed away.

Then erased it. Hard. Until the paper started to pill.

“Hey,” Bill said, eyes narrowing. “Why’d you erase that?”

“What?”

“Don’t ‘what’ me. You wrote something and took it back like it bit you.”

“It wasn’t important.”

“Seemed important.”

I kept my eyes on the timeline.

“Just my grandma. She died last year.”

“…Oh.”

He didn’t say it like a smartass. Just “oh.”

“She was kinda the only part of Mississippi I didn’t hate,” I muttered. “We moved back because she was sick. She was-- She was a great person.”

There was a beat. Long enough to notice I’d said too much.

I expected him to joke. Or change the subject. Or act like he didn’t care.

Instead—

“Was she the one who taught you to bake?”

My head snapped toward him.

“How do you even know that?”

“Your mom brought over some brownies and said you made ‘em. They weren’t bad.”

“They were cookies.”

“Whatever. They were edible.”

We sat there. Just two weird kids with grief and deadlines and a shared hatred of everything, especially each other.

I finally wrote:

Age 17 – Lots of stuff.

It felt…right.

Not neat. But as honest as I could get.

I glanced up. Bill had gone back to scribbling. He’d drawn a little cartoon of himself next to “Age 13,” throwing up a peace sign and holding a bag of Doritos.

I smirked.

Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad.

Chapter 7: 2008 - "Sleepyhead"

Chapter Text

There’s a weird, festering kind of silence that comes from living with someone you used to scream at and sleep with.

Not dramatic. Not soap opera. Just… festering. Like a Tupperware you keep forgetting to throw out.

Bill moved in a few months ago. Said it’d be two weeks. Just ‘til he found a new place. “Transitional period,” he called it—like he was a Pokémon evolving into a worse adult. And like an idiot, I said yes.

He’s still here. Still eats my cereal. Still clogs the toilet. Still stinks up the place with that bargain-bin cologne that smells like Axe Body Spray and shame.

And yet—I haven’t kicked him out.

He crashes on the futon. Pays for nothing but the occasional pizza. Still sells off bits of his childhood online to fund his Mountain Dew addiction. It’s pathetic.

He’s pathetic.

And I’m worse, because I let him stay.

We don’t talk about what happened at Comic Con. Or the fight. Or the fallout. Or the fact that, yeah, we used to do things besides insult each other and argue about Star Wars canon.

Now? We barely talk at all.

The living room’s dark except for the glow of the TV. The Dark Knight again. For the third time this week. Bill calls it “essential cinema.” I call it a red flag.

He sits slouched on the couch like a gremlin, bathed in Gotham blue. There’s that damn smirk—the one that means he’s about to say something stupid.

“This part still rules. The truck flip? Peak filmmaking. Nolan peaked here and went downhill faster than Konami.”

I scoff. “You’ve memorized every line, Bill.”

“Yeah, and it’s still better than whatever sad indie crap you watch where everyone whispers and cries and learns to bake bread or whatever.”

I shoot him a look. “At least my movies don’t have grown men in bat suits doing sadboy monologues.”

“Bruce Wayne’s a billionaire ninja with trauma. That’s aspirational.”

There’s a beat. I don’t laugh, but I don’t argue, either.

We sit there. Not too close. But not far enough to be safe, either. The air between us is thick with unspoken crap. It’s like the whole apartment's stuck in emotional constipation.

He shifts. Our knees brush.

Neither of us moves.

He doesn’t look at me, but his voice drops, just a little. “So… you gonna start charging me rent or what?”

I glance at him, deadpan. “You paying in Monopoly money?”

“I could pay in… services.”

I pause. “Bill.”

He grins, still not looking. “You knew what this was when I moved in, Marzia.”

“No, I knew you were a trainwreck. I just didn’t know I was dumb enough to be your crash mat.”

That gets a scoff. “You’re not my crash mat. You’re like… the emotionally unavailable cryptid I live with now. It’s different.”

Another beat. Too quiet. The Joker says something maniacal in the background. Fitting.

“You owe me, Bill,” I say, voice low. More than I mean to.

His head finally turns. Eyes meet mine. There’s a shift in the air—subtle but sharp. Like the moment before a comic book panel explodes into a fight.

“…Yeah,” he mutters. “I do.”

That’s when it happens.

Like some twisted muscle memory, we’re on each other. It’s not romantic. It’s not soft. It’s bad decisions, issue #749, penciled by desperation and inked in regret.

He yanks me against him like he’s been dying to. I kiss him like I’m trying to forget why I shouldn’t. We knock over a controller. The couch groans like it wants to call the cops.

“You still smell like discount body spray and disappointment,” I mumble against his mouth.

He snorts. “You still taste like bitter judgment and unresolved trauma.”

“Shut up.”

“Make me.”

I tug at his shirt. He jerks mine over my head. It’s messy, awkward, too fast. His hands are on my skin like he remembers every inch of it, like he’s mad that he still does.

I pant and let out a soft growl. “Still an asshole.”

He grunts against my throat. “You still like it.”

The worst part is—he’s right.

We hit the futon hard. A tangle of limbs, heat, and old, raw familiarity. His hand slips up my thigh, under my skirt and immediately finds its way to my panties.

“Fucking soaked.” He growls. “Dirty girl.”

“You like it.”

He yanks off my panties with one quick tug. He unfastens his pants, just enough to let his cock jut out.

“Guess this’ll be my first rent payment, huh, Marz?”

“Just shut and--” I gasp as he thrusts into me hard.

He sets a hard, punishing pace. His thrusts are rough and deep, like he’s trying to burrow his way inside me.

My nails dig into his back. He swears under his breath and thrust harder, faster. He angles his hits to where he’s pounding my g-spot, making me practically scream.

“Fuck, pussy’s so tight.” He grunts. “Must’ve missed me.”

“S-Shut up-- O-Oh, oh fuck--”

I try to muffle the scream that comes from my lips as I hit my orgasm, the waves of pleasure washing over me like an ocean. He pushes deep in as he finishes, staying locked inside me for way longer than he should.

When it’s over, we collapse—half on top of each other, sweaty and stunned. The TV’s still going. I think Christian Bale is yelling something, but all I can hear is the blood in my ears.

When I finally find my voice, it comes out quieter than I mean it to.

“…That wasn’t supposed to feel like that.”

He exhales slowly, arm over his eyes. “Yeah. Tell me about it.”

I turn my head to look at him.

He’s flushed, hair a mess, chest still rising and falling like he ran a marathon. He doesn’t look smug. He doesn’t look proud.

He looks wrecked.

Just like me.

Everything smells like sweat and regret and stale popcorn.

We don’t speak. The TV's still playing. Some dramatic Hans Zimmer score swells, like it’s trying to pretend this was epic.

It wasn’t. It was pathetic. It was familiar.

I stare at the ceiling, heart pounding. “That didn’t solve anything.”

“Didn’t expect it to.”

We lay there, breathing in tandem like it means something. It doesn’t. Probably.

“…You still owe me rent,” I mutter.

Bill shifts, draping an arm over his face like a corpse in a noir film. “Cool. Add it to the tab.”

I elbow him. He grunts. Doesn’t move. Doesn’t leave.

Neither do I.

The silence creeps back in.

Not explosive.

Just… rotting.

Chapter 8: 1998 - "Blue Eyes Crying in The Rain"

Chapter Text

It’s a Friday afternoon. Final bell rings, and like clockwork, the Club migrates to the basement for Dungeons and Dragons.

The guys invited me over. First time playing with them, officially. I hadn’t done much D&D, but I’d been playing around with a character in my sketchbook—a Tiefling sorceress with a cursed past. Seemed decent enough.

As we all slouch around the table and start unpacking our nerd crap, Bill squints at me from behind his tower of rulebooks and Mountain Dew cans.

“You said you had a badass character.” He drops into his creaky-ass folding chair like it owes him money. Arms crossed. Eyes judgmental. “Prove it.”

I take the seat next to Josh, tossing my bag down. “Alright, damn, relax, Dungeon Dictator.”

I fish out my sketchbook, flip to the page, and show them my Tiefling sorceress. Horns, cloak, cursed jewel—full edge package.

Bill’s laughter explodes like a landmine.

“Oh my GOD, MARZIA. You’re out here designing Hot Topic OCs. This is incredible.”

Josh nearly chokes on his grape soda. “A tiefling sorceress?! What, were ‘Half-Demon Assassin’ and ‘Betrayed Witch Queen’ already taken?”

“You guys are playing humans,” I snap, pointing an accusatory finger at them. “Which is the most boring-ass race in the whole handbook!”

Bill scoffs. “We play classic builds, thank you. Purists.”

“You’re literally self-inserting.”

“They’re not self-inserts!” Bill’s out of his chair. “They have layers. Backstory. Tragedy arcs.”

Josh gestures dramatically. “They’re NOT your anime OCs! There’s a difference!”

My eyes widened and I growl. “I don’t make fucking OCs!”

“Oh really?” Josh threatens to turn another page. “Wanna prove me wrong?”

“HEY!” Jerry snaps, raising his hands like he’s diffusing a hostage situation. “Guys. Focus. Focus. Do we wanna actually play the campaign or scream about character builds until Bill's mom calls the cops again?”

There’s a grumble of reluctant surrender as everyone sits down. I rip the sketchbook out of Josh’s hand before he exposes Sailor Mars with fishnets.

Jerry clears his throat and starts flipping through his notebook. “Okay, so Marzia’s character meets the party at the edge of the Forgotten Forest—”

“She doesn’t just meet us,” Bill cuts in, already power-tripping. “She has to earn our trust. We don’t just let cursed randos into our party. This isn’t freaking Final Fantasy Mystic Quest.”

Pete, who’s been mostly observing from under his hoodie, mutters, “God forbid a girl joins the campaign and the campaign doesn’t explode in a ball of hormonal rage.”

Jerry tries to help. “Maybe she helps the party out of a trap. Like, mutual enemies—”

“No!” Bill shouts like Jerry just proposed outlawing dice. “She has to prove her WORTH. Canon must be respected.”

Josh cackles. “What if her cursed past is that she slept with a Sith Lord?”

Bill looks like he’s about to stroke out. “Josh. What the hell. This isn’t a crossover episode of Clone Wars: The Musical!”

I sigh, arms crossed. “You know, for a game, this is feeling suspiciously like a cult.”

Bill glares. “It’s not a game. It’s life or death!”

Before I can tell Bill to shove it where the sun don’t shine, a voice shrieks from upstairs:

“Marzia! Your brother just called! Your grandfather’s on the roof again!”

The room goes silent. Then:

“…Did she say again?” Jerry’s voice is small.

I launch to my feet. “Goddammit…”

Pete’s eyes go wide. “Wait—on the roof?!”

I grab my messenger bag. “Yes, on the roof. Smoking and probably singing Willie Nelson again. The man thinks he is Willie Nelson.”

Josh lights up like a feral raccoon. “Oh, I am not missing this.”

The guys all scramble after me like gremlins chasing a dropped Hot Pocket.

“Wait, wait, hold up,” I snapped. “You guys are actually coming with me?”

“Are you kidding?” Bill beams. “We live in suburbia. This is better than cable.”

I groan, already regretting inviting them into my life.

“Let’s just go, freaks.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

We skidded to a stop outside my house. Paint peeling, porch sagging, good ol’ family charm. Antonio’s truck is in the driveway. Country music is blaring from some busted radio speaker. And sure enough, Grandpa Richard is up on the balcony, red bandana tied tight, joint lit, squinting at the sky like it personally owes him royalties.

“Marzia!” my dad calls. Logan Lindberg, proud trucker and long-suffering son of Willie Nelson Lite, looks like he hasn’t slept since Nixon was in office. “Thank God. He only listens to you.”

Antonio gestures at a fresh bruise on his forehead. “He beaned me with a harmonica, dude.”

Marco, nose red, adds, “It ricocheted. I think I have a dent.”

Papa yells down at us from the roof. “You kids don’t know what it’s like to be on the road! The wind in your hair, the smell of diesel, the fans—the fans, dammit!”

Bill blinks up at him. “Is he roleplaying or having an episode?”

I shove my face into my hands. “Yes.”

Jerry leans in. “Should we, like… call someone?”

Pete’s recording with his flip phone. “Why would you ruin the best Friday I’ve had all semester?”

Dad puts a hand on my shoulder. “Please. Sunshine. He only listens to you.”

I groan loud enough to scare birds. “Why does everything fall on me?”

I stomp toward the house. “Papa!”

He turns, eyes twinkling. “The moon’s out early, sugar. You feel it too, don’t you? Prime time for a set.”

“It’s 5 PM, Papa.”

He starts doing air guitar.

I inhale through my teeth. “You remember the song?”

His posture stills. Slowly, he nods.

I sigh and start singing. “Blue eyes crying in the rain…”

He chimes in gently, voice warbling. “When we kissed goodbye and parted…”

The song winds down, his voice trembling.

“That was beautiful, sunshine,” he sniffles. “Just like your grandma.”

And just like that, he disappears back inside through the attic. The front door opens. Grandpa shuffles out, sheepish. Smelling like weed and broken dreams. He brings me in for a hug and I sigh and hug him back.

“Think I, uh… might’ve gotten carried away.”

Dad pats his back. “Yeah. Go rest, Dad. Toni, get him a soda.”

Antonio heads inside, Papa in tow, leaving me with the guys and Dad and Marco.

Marco squints at the boys. “Wait… don’t I know you dweebs?”

Antonio shouts from the kitchen. “Aren’t those the losers who got detention for running a Yu-Gi-Oh Fight Club?”

Bill clenches his fists. “It was structured dueling! We had rules!”

Pete beams. “I was banned from the library for stacking Obelisks.”

Dad eyes the crew, landing on Bill. “You the Dickey kid?”

Bill straightens slightly. “Yes sir.”

Dad nods. “Cool. You break her heart, I break your face.”

Bill scowls slightly, but for the sake of not incurring my dad’s wrath, just grumbles. “Noted.”

Josh points a finger of rage at Marco. “You made me eat glue in second grade.”

Marco shrugs. “You’re still alive, ain’t ya?”

I chuckle. “Honestly, that explains so much.”

Finally, Jerry pipes up. “Sooo… are we still playing D&D?”

Pete cackles. “Yeah, let’s pretend this didn’t happen.”

Bill crosses his arms like a war general. “This does not derail the campaign. Roof grandpas be damned.”

I sigh and head inside. “Let me change first. I smell like weed and Bengay.”

Josh nods sagely. “That’s what Willie Nelson smells like.”

We all just stare at him.

“…He’s probably right,” Dad mutters.

Chapter 9: 2008 - "I Will Possess Your Heart"

Chapter Text

Living with Bill “Asshole” Dickey is a slow descent into madness. Not the fun kind either—not the quirky I'm-a-manic-pixie-nightmare-girl kind. It's the kind where your eye twitches involuntarily when someone breathes too loud or leaves beard trimmings in the sink again.

After last night, things should be different. Softer, maybe. But this is Bill. And this is me. So instead, things are worse.

It's Saturday. I'm off work. I should be relaxing. Maybe finally crack open that unread volume of Nana I keep hidden behind the radiator like it’s smut. Instead, I'm tiptoeing around the apartment like a raccoon avoiding a broom.

Bill is on the futon, fake-as-hell focused on some grainy old VHS dub of RoboTech like it's a goddamn religion. He hasn’t said a word to me all morning. We’ve made it four hours without speaking. I take that as a personal record.

But it can’t last.

“Did you take out the trash?” I call from the kitchen.

He doesn’t look away from the TV. “Why? Is your arm broken?”

There it is. The Bill button. Pressed.

I lean on the doorframe. “No, I just figured since I cooked last night, you could, I dunno, do the bare minimum as a functioning adult.”

“You call what you did last night cooking?”

My jaw twitches. “Jesus, Bill, what’s your damage?”

He shrugs, still not looking at me. “You made pasta. Big deal. Want a medal?”

I stalk over to the futon, arms crossed. “It wasn’t just pasta. It was from scratch. I grated cheese. I used spices. You wouldn’t know quality if it sat on your face.”

He turns to look at me then, a smug expression locked and loaded. “I know it gave me heartburn.”

I roll my eyes so hard I almost black out. “You’re impossible.”

“Better than being pathetic,” he mutters, just loud enough to hear.

I snap. “Yeah? You wanna talk about pathetic? You’re twenty-eight, living with your ex, and still fucking unemployed.”

He stands, full height now—like five-foot rage and leftover Mountain Dew. “I don’t need a fucking lecture from you, Marzia.”

“No, you need therapy.”

That hits him. I can tell. His mouth opens, but nothing comes out at first. Then the venom comes rushing in.

“Fuck off. I don’t need a shrink digging around in my head. What good’s that ever done anyone?”

I glare at him. “It’s better than whatever the hell this is. You want to keep rotting here? Fine. But don’t pretend it’s noble. You’ve got so much potential and you’re just—wasting it."

He flinches.

Got him.

“...Fuck you.” He storms toward the door, grabbing his jacket from the hook. “You don’t get to tell me how to live.”

“Oh, cry me a river, Bill. Take out the trash on your way out!”

The door slams. Not just shuts—slams. The walls shake. The futon squeaks like it’s scared of being next.

I stand in the silence that follows, arms crossed, heart racing. I should feel victorious. I don’t. I feel like I kicked a puppy. A really annoying, sarcastic puppy with no filter and an inflated sense of self-importance.

I pace. I stew. I try to put on some dumb rom-com, but I can’t focus.

Why do I always say the worst possible thing?

He left his shoes in the hallway. I kicked them into the closet like they insulted my mother.

It’s past 9 PM when the door creaks open again. I don’t look up. Just stay curled on my side, pretending I’m asleep on the couch. I hear him shuffle past, hear the fridge door open and close. No microwave beeps. He’s not even eating.

I almost feel bad. Almost.

Then I hear it.

A sniff.

Then another.

Faint. Almost nothing. But unmistakable.

I wait, breathing quiet.

Soft, hitched breaths. A stifled sob. One of those weird ones where it sounds like you’re trying not to let it out, but it claws its way out anyway.

I sit up slowly. Glance around the corner.

He’s curled up on the futon, facing the wall, hoodie still on. Shoulders shaking just barely. Like if he shook any harder he might fall apart.

I look at him.

I really look at him.

And for once, he doesn't look like a smug asshole. He looks like a scared, lonely kid who never grew up.

Goddamn it, Bill.

I retreat before he knows I saw him. Head back to the kitchen, open the fridge, pull out the last of the pasta he insulted this morning. I reheated it. Added a little extra cheese.

When I bring it over, I don’t say anything. I just set it on the milk crate we use as a coffee table. Sit beside him without asking.

He stares at it. Then at me.

“You didn’t spit in it, right?” he mumbles, voice wrecked and raw.

I roll my eyes. “I should have.”

We sit there, neither of us saying sorry, because neither of us ever says sorry.

But he takes the plate.

Chapter 10: 1998 - "Slide"

Chapter Text

The project’s due Monday, which means we’re finally at the part where we read each other’s timelines. And by “read,” I mean sit three feet apart in Bill’s basement “club room”, with the smell of damp carpet and Cheeto dust in the air, trading manila folders like we’re swapping classified government documents.

He pushes mine toward me, already scowling like he’s prepping for battle. “No commentary,” he mutters. “Just write your dumb reflection and don’t psychoanalyze me.”

“Copy that, Freud,” I mutter back, sliding my folder his way. “Same rules.”

There’s this awkward pause before either of us opens the folders. Bill’s chewing the inside of his cheek. I pretend to be fascinated by a mystery stain on the arm of the couch. Eventually, I cracked mine open.

His handwriting is a mess. It leans aggressive. The dates are underlined like he stabbed the paper. But it’s all there.

Age 9: Got jumped at recess for reading X-Men in class.
Age 11: Kid at Joe’s pushed me into a shelf. Sprained wrist. Still worth it.
Age 13: Parents started fighting for real. Not just yelling—like cold war level silence.
Age 16: Got punched in the face for telling Ironjaw The Flash sucks. Nose bled for an hour.

I glance up, but he’s buried in my timeline, face unreadable.

I keep reading.

It’s… a lot.

I mean, yeah, I knew Bill was a walking ball of tension wrapped in a trench coat of rage, but seeing it all laid out like this? It’s different. It’s like someone broke the action figures in his brain and never gave him the glue.

And then there’s the last note:

Age 17: Started wondering if people ever actually stop hating you, or if you just get better at pretending it doesn’t matter.

That one hits harder than I expect. My stomach does a weird drop thing. I look up again. He’s still not looking at me.

Instead, he’s staring at the page like it personally offended him.

“…You were diagnosed when?” he asks, voice low.

“Fifteen,” I say, too fast. “It was fine. I mean—it sucked, but I’m managing. SSRIs and stuff.”

He’s quiet.

“How did you sprain your ankle at age 12?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Running from…some chick.” My answer trails off.

He’s quiet, once again.”

“And your grandma…”

“Yeah.”

“...She died last year?”

“Yeah.”

Another beat of silence. Like, dead air on a dead station kind of silence.

He clears his throat like it physically hurts him. “Jesus. No wonder you’re so goth.”

I snort. “Oh yeah. Definitely the grief and not the undiagnosed emotional baggage, Bill.”

His mouth quirks, like he wants to smirk but forgot how.

I gesture toward his timeline. “You’ve been beat up three times. You ever think about, I dunno, not provoking people?”

“You ever think about not existing in a town full of mouthbreathers?” he shoots back.

“Touché.”

We both look away again. The silence is different this time. Less like a fight waiting to happen, more like two kids realizing maybe they’re not as alone in their respective hells as they thought.

“…I don’t usually let people read that stuff,” I say quietly.

“Yeah. Me neither.”

Another pause. Then he blurts out, “This doesn’t mean we’re friends or anything.”

“Bill,” I sigh, “we’ve literally been friends for years.”

“We were kids. It was different.”

I don’t know what makes me do it. Maybe it’s the way he’s hunched over like he’s trying to shrink into himself. Maybe it’s because my chest still feels tight from seeing that stupid line about wondering if people ever stop hating you. I lean in and awkwardly wrap my arms around him.

He freezes. Like statue-level frozen. His shoulders go up around his ears.

“What the fuck are you doing?”

“It’s a hug,” I say, rolling my eyes. “People do it when they feel things.”

“I don’t do feelings.”

“Well I don’t do hugs, so now we’re even.”

It’s not a long hug. Maybe three seconds, tops. Then we both pull away like the other person had a contagious rash. He wipes his palms on his jeans. I pretend to check my shoelaces.

“So…” I say, trying not to die of secondhand embarrassment, “should we, like, go back to yelling about anime now?”

“God, please,” he groans. “That got weird.”

“Deeply.”

And just like that, we’re back to safe ground. Snarky insults. Controlled chaos. But even as we argue about whether Goku could beat Batman in a fistfight, the memory of the timeline sits between us like a secret we’ve agreed not to speak about.

Chapter 11: 2008 - "Strange Times"

Chapter Text

I cooked dinner.

I don’t know why I thought that would fix anything. It wasn’t even anything fancy, just pasta—again, but the kind that comes in the weird spiral shape. Bill always insists it “holds the sauce better” like he’s some kind of depressed Food Network reject. I made garlic bread too, which was either my attempt at a peace offering or an excuse to fill the house with a smell that didn’t scream "emotional warfare." Honestly, it was probably both.

He slunk into the kitchen like a raccoon with a hangover—hair sticking up, hoodie sleeves pushed halfway up his forearms like he’d been stress-doodling or rage-scrolling through some angry internet thread. He didn’t say thank you. Didn’t say anything. Just poked at the food with a fork like a picky toddler.

I sat across from him, chewing, watching him sulk like it was some kind of Olympic sport and he was gunning for gold.

“So...” I started. The word landed like a shoe in a quiet room. “I shouldn’t have said what I said last night.”

He didn’t look up.

“I mean, I meant it,” I added quickly, because I’m me, “but I didn’t mean to say it like that. You don’t deserve to be screamed at like you’re some tragic PSA about wasted potential.”

Still nothing. Just a shrug and a grimace. He pushed the pasta around his plate, making it into a little spiral-shaped graveyard.

I sighed. “Bill. I’m sorry.”

That got a reaction—barely. He flicked his eyes up, then right back down, like looking at me too long might give him empathy cooties. Still didn’t say anything. Still being salty.

I scowled. “What?! Do you want me to get on my knees or something?”

And that’s when the bastard smirked. That crooked, smug, very Bill Dickey smirk that used to make me want to kiss him and throw a stapler at him at the same time.

“That’d be a start,” he said, voice low and dry and infuriating.

I could’ve stabbed him with a fork. I could’ve walked out. I could’ve told him to go to hell.

“You are such a fucking pig.” I threw my fork down with indignation.

He snorted and got up from his chair. “Yeah? And you fucked this pig, so what does that make you?”

“An idiot.” I glared up at him.

He smirked down at me, expectantly. “Well?”

“Well what?” I crossed my arms, acting like I didn’t know exactly what he was talking about.

I made the mistake of glancing down at the crotch of his pajama pants.

He was already hard.

I let out a huff and sank down to my knees. “You’re going to owe me double rent for this.”

He chuckled and smirked down at me, smugly. “You’re the one apologizing.”

I growled as I reached into his pants and freed his cock, standing tall, a bead of precum already forming at the slit. I glanced up at him as I used my tongue to smear the pre around his tip. I wrapped my lips around the head of his dick as I took him inside my mouth.

He cursed low in his throat. “Shit…”

I blocked out the sounds he made as I bobbed my head back and forth on his shaft, silently reevaluating all of my life choices up to this point. He wants a fucking apology? He’ll get it.

I took him in deeper, feeling his tip hitting the back of my throat, letting out a soft gag. I squeezed my eyes shut, ignoring the stinging sensation in my throat, the way my piercing pushed against my lip.

Above me, I could hear him grunt, groan, swear, his hips bucking against my mouth. He was close.

I ran my tongue along the bottom side of his shaft, and that undid him.

With a groan, his hips stalled as his whole body tensed up. He grabbed my hair, holding it as he filled my mouth.

When he was finally spent, he pulled out, giving me the chance to swallow.

He smirked down at me, as unapologetic as ever. “That’s a step in the right direction.”

I huffed and started to get back up, but before I could, his hands were already under my armpits, picking me up. I felt my heart jump slightly. He’s a lot stronger than he looks.

“Don’t think that’s all it takes.” His lips were against my ear now, his breath sending shivers down my spine.

I swallowed hard and let out a grunt. “Rent’s not due though. You paid last night.”

He let out a chuckle. “Who said anything about rent?”

Before I knew it, he had pinned me against the wall, his cock still poking out of his Batman pajama pants. I could feel him throbbing against my pussy through his pants.

His hand slipped down the front of my pants, inside my panties. I could feel his fingers cupping my sex.

“Wet from just blowing me?” He teased, his fingertips ghosting my hole. “You’re such a whore.”

I couldn’t even get a word in until he was pumping his fingers in and out of me. I gritted my teeth, trying to force the sounds back inside me. But eventually, I lost the struggle.

Moan after moan came spilling forth from my mouth, my body feeling like it was on fire.

He smirked and pulled his fingers out. “Because I am grateful for your apology, I’ll give you the choice of fucking you against this wall, or your room.”

I glanced back at him, chest still rising and falling heavily. Why does he wreck me like this every time?

“Room.”

That’s the fastest I’ve seen him move all day. He practically slung me over his shoulder, walking down the hall to my room, tossing me around like I’m nothing but a sack of potatoes. He pinned me down, holding my wrists above my head in his grip, his knee going between my legs.

He got a smug look on his face. “Dirty bitch, can’t believe you got off on giving me head.”

I shivered slightly, gritting my teeth a little. “It’s a biological response.”

“Whatever helps you sleep at night.”

He yanked down my pajama pants and panties, baring me to the cold air of the room. His cock still hanging out the waistband of his pajama pants. He lined himself up with my entrance and shoved in.

No foreplay, no tenderness. Just the feeling of being split.

I gasped from the impact, gripping his shoulder hard. I gritted my teeth slightly when the tip of his cock hit my cervix.

He paused and took a breath, letting me feel the entirety of his cock buried inside me. He pulled back, almost pulling all the way out before he rammed himself back into me hard.

I bit my lip hard, trying desperately to suppress my moans. I didn’t want to let him know just how much I was enjoying this. How much I needed this.

But he already knew... I could see it in that smug look on his face as he smirked down at me.

“Good girl,” he grunted between thrusts, his thumb gently tracing the lip piercing on my bottom lip. “Taking me so well.”

For a second, his words felt tender, gentle. His hands moved up from my hips to my love handles and back down to my hips, making me shudder softly.

“Look at you...” He growled softly, his hand still wandering all over my curves. “Writhing under me like a slut. You’ve been thinking about last time, haven’t you?”

I gritted my teeth and turned my head away from him, my eyes narrowing.

“Hey.” He grabbed my chin and made me face him again, his pace slowing to a crawl. “Don’t look away when I’m talking to you. I asked you a question, did I?”

I involuntarily whined in protest, my hips raising slightly.

“Uh uh...” He pushed my hips down. “Answer me.”

I swallowed hard, my lip trembling slightly. I didn’t want to answer him, let him know just how much I was still attached to him. The thought of it almost irked me... but he was right. He was fucking right for once in his goddamn life...

“Y-Yes.” I whimpered softly.

“Huh?” He smirked down at me cruelly. “Didn’t catch that, Marz.” To add insult to injury, he started to thrust again—slowly, languidly, teasing my needy, sensitive body with the idea of a release.

I let out a soft whimper in protest, glaring up at him. “Y-Yes, I have been.” I gritted my teeth, the words feeling like venom on my tongue.

There it is again. An even crueler smirk appeared on his face.

“You’ve been what now?” His hips jerked into mine, giving me a particularly hard thrust.

I practically cried out, part from denial, part from frustration. I threw my head back as I answer. “Yes, Bill, I can’t stop thinking about the last time you fucked my brains out!”

His smirk softened slightly. “There. Now was that so hard.” He teased before resuming his rough, brutal pace from before.

I moaned out, my back arching off the bed, my legs going around his waist. I could feel a knot beginning to wind up in my belly, coiling tighter and tighter, bound to burst at any second.

“I-I’m— I’m—”

He pressed the pad of his thumb to my clit and rubbed it hard. “Do it then, slut. Cream yourself on my cock again.”

That’s all it took to undo me.

I hit my orgasm with a whine and whimper, my legs locking around his waist as a wave of pleasure washed over my body. He wasn’t far behind me, pushing in as deep as he could, his climax spilling inside me.

We lay there in silence, me facing the cracked ceiling, him tracing the edge of the sheet. My body still felt warm and dumb and full of regret-flavored static.

“...Maybe I should talk to someone,” he said suddenly, voice so soft it didn’t feel like his. Like he’d borrowed it from a less angry version of himself.

I turned to look at him, but he was already facing the wall.

I didn’t say anything.

Just reached out and touched his hand.

He didn’t pull away.

Chapter 12: 1998 - "You Get What You Give"

Chapter Text

I didn’t even want to be in the damn lunchroom that day.

We were parked at our usual table—in the back corner, near the busted vending machine that smelled like moldy Funyuns and dust. Bill was mid-rant about how Deep Space Nine was “objectively inferior” to The Next Generation and that “Worf shouldn’t even be there, it makes no canonical sense.” Jerry was countering with a chart he’d drawn on the back of a Wizard magazine, Pete kept humming Limp Bizkit’s “Faith” like it was the national anthem, and Josh was picking the pickles off his sandwich with the concentration of a man defusing a bomb.

Me? I was trying to ignore all of them while figuring out if the cafeteria's macaroni was a solid, a liquid, or something in between. It jiggled. I don’t trust food that jiggles.

Then he showed up.

Chad—or maybe Travis, I don’t know, one of those discount Abercrombie mannequins. Letterman jacket, frosted tips, jaw like he’d never had a thought more complex than “protein good.” He rolled up with a couple of his mouth-breathing cronies, all of them looking like they'd lost their way to the weight room.

“Aw, look,” he said, real loud, “it’s the Dork Brigade. Still playing Dungeons and Dipshits?”

Bill didn’t even flinch. “Still failing Algebra, or have you upgraded to Geometry yet?”

That should’ve been it. Classic lunchtime sparring, throw a couple insults, let Bill stroke his ego, and we all move on. But no, Mr. Jockstrap 1998 had to shove Josh’s tray onto the floor.

Josh froze. Cheese dripped off the front of his shirt. Pete stood up.

And that’s when the table exploded.

Bill went over the top like a gremlin launched out of a trebuchet. Pete tackled someone to the floor. Jerry held his tray up like a shield. And me?

I don’t really remember deciding to throw a punch. But I do remember the feel of my fist connecting with Chad-Travis’s stupid smug jaw.

And then it was chaos.

Screaming, chairs scraping, some kid yelling “FOOD FIGHT!” I think someone threw a pudding cup.

It was insane.

The next thing I knew, we were all lined up outside the principal’s office like the worst breakfast club reboot ever. Jerry was shaking. Pete’s lip was bleeding. Josh’s glasses were bent. Bill had macaroni in his hair.

I had a bloody nose and a few bruises, but...I felt good.

Not proud, exactly. But good. Like my heartbeat finally matched the rhythm in my head.

Principal Watkins called us in together, which meant it was gonna be a group execution. His office smelled like old coffee and crushed dreams. We sat in mismatched chairs while he paced like he was auditioning for a role in Dead Poets Society.

“I’m disappointed,” he said, steepling his fingers like a cartoon villain. “Deeply disappointed.”

No one spoke.

Then he looked straight at me. “Marzia. I thought you’d see this school as a fresh start.”

My mouth went dry.

“I’ve seen your records,” he continued. “The fights. The detentions. The suspensions. I hoped—perhaps naively—that you’d outgrown that sort of behavior.”

I didn’t look at the others. I stared at the wood grain on his desk, feeling it blur.

“Let me guess,” I said. “You expected me to play nice because I’m the new girl.”

He blinked, caught off guard.

“I wasn’t fighting for fun,” I added, low and flat. “I was defending my friends.”

Then, to my complete and utter shock, Pete leaned forward. “Yeah. She didn’t start it. That Chad guy slammed Josh's tray. She just—reacted.”

“And we all jumped in,” Bill added, arms crossed, scowling deep enough to cut glass. “You gonna lecture us too or just the girl?”

There was a pause. Watkins pinched the bridge of his nose.

“Fighting is still fighting.”

We got shuffled into a conference room while they called our parents. One by one, they showed up.

Pete’s dad, a typical aging Italian guy—big, bald, looked like he’d fought a bear once and won. “What the hell happened, Pete?” he growled, his voice a mix of concern and frustration.

Josh’s mom, a pale, frail-looking Jewish woman, was already clenching a handful of tissues. “Oh, Josh, are you okay?” she asked, her voice trembling.

Bill’s mom, hair wound into a tight bun, had tighter lips. She was already drafting her apology letter to the PTA in her head. “William, what were you thinking?”

Then—her.

My mom.

She strode in wearing her scrubs, her ID badge still clipped to her collar. Her hair was pulled back in a bun, and her lipstick was smudged from whatever whirlwind of a shift she just left at the hospital. Her eyes were on fire.

“Principal Watkins,” she said, without even sitting. “Tell me again how my daughter is the problem.”

Watkins blinked. “Mrs. Lindberg—”

“She’s an honors student, bound for college. Has never thrown the first punch. But you wanna drag her name through the dirt instead of asking why a teenage boy felt entitled to assault someone during lunch?”

Dead silence.

She wasn’t yelling. She didn’t have to. She spoke like she was reading him his last rites.

“And if I recall,” she added, “Marzia’s old school said the same thing. And look how well that turned out for them.”

Even Bill’s mom looked uncomfortable.

Eventually, Watkins sighed. “They’re all suspended. Two days.”

She didn’t blink. “Good. Gives them time to rest.”

So, we got suspended.

But grounded? Nah. Mama bought us pizza. Pete’s dad loaned us his VHS copy of Army of Darkness. Bill brought over his Super Nintendo and we all took turns losing at Street Fighter II while Jerry tried to teach us card tricks.

It wasn’t heroic. It wasn’t glamorous.

But it felt like something real.

Like maybe, just maybe, I belonged here too.

Chapter 13: 2008 - "Colorblind"

Chapter Text

I should’ve known better than to trust a damn word out of his mouth. He was high on adrenaline and post-sex haze, a hellish cocktail that would make you believe your best friend was your worst enemy.

So it didn’t really surprise me when I found him like that.

Face-down on the couch, arm hanging off like roadkill. There was an empty bottle of Jack on the floor and a comic book pressed to his cheek like it had just punched him out. I didn’t need to look closer to know which one—Swamp Thing, probably. His go-to when he’s being dramatic. Which is always.

The place smelled like whiskey, armpits, and that weird bitter funk of failed ambition. The kind of stench that clings to old comic boxes and men who peaked in high school arguments.

He’s been drinking every night this week and I guess tonight he finally overdid it.

Sorry bastard…

He groaned as I stepped over him, toeing a Dorito bag out of my path. “Gehhh... this place sucks.”

“Well, you live here,” I muttered, heading to the kitchen. The sink was full, of course. Plates stacked like Jenga, dried cheese glued to forks like some kind of dairy-based war crime.

I made dinner a few hours ago. Left it on the stove in a half-hearted attempt to make peace after our last round of arguing. He hadn’t touched it.

I hadn’t really expected him to. Not after last time.

I leaned on the counter, arms folded, listening to the low groans and muttering from the living room.

“...failures,” he was saying. “All of ‘em. Could’ve done anything. Could’ve been anything.” A hiccup. “But nah, let’s spend our twenties yelling about Boba Fett like it matters.”

I peeked around the corner. He was talking to the ceiling now, or maybe the ceiling fan. “Useless. Just... useless.”

I rolled my eyes. “Jesus Christ.”

But something in me paused. He wasn’t angry. Not really. Not in the way Bill usually was. This wasn’t the usual smug prick-mode. This was something different. Something ugly. Soft in the worst way.

I sighed, grabbed a glass of water, and walked over.

“Bill,” I said, nudging him with my foot. “Bill, c’mon. You’re gonna puke on yourself.”

“No I’m not,” he grumbled, lifting his head just barely. His eyes were glassy. “You think I can’t hold my liquor?”

“You can’t even hold your self, dumbass.”

He stared up at me. I hated that his eyes still looked like that—dark, mean, sharp as broken plastic... but soft around the edges when he was like this. Pathetic. Honest.

“Why’re you being nice?” he slurred. “You hate me.”

“I don’t hate you,” I said, kneeling beside the couch. “I just hate... how much you suck.”

That got a laugh. Dry and hoarse.

“I’m serious, man,” he muttered. “I did nothing. I’m twenty-fucking-eight and I’m getting a gut and a fucking milk crate full of regrets. I should be dead.”

“You’re drunk,” I said flatly. “You’re not allowed to be dramatic until you sober up. Them’s the rules.”

He blinked at me. “You’re pretty.”

I snorted. “You’re wasted.”

“Still counts.”

“Okay, Casanova.” I tugged his arm. “C’mon. Off the couch. You’re sleeping in the bed tonight before you stain the upholstery with your midlife crisis.”

He groaned like I was peeling his skin off, but after some tugging, I got him mostly upright. His body flopped against mine like a sandbag with opinions. I half-dragged, half-guided him to my room. He's drunk and drifting in and out of consciousness as it is.

By the time we hit the mattress, he was already half-asleep again.

“Marzia,” he mumbled, cheek pressed to the pillow. “You think... I could’ve been something?”

I hesitated.

You could have been. You still could be. You were never nothing.

“Go to sleep, Bill.”

His hand found my wrist. Weak, barely there. “I fucked everything up.”

“Yeah,” I said quietly. “You did.”

He didn’t say anything else after that. Just curled closer, breath warm against my collarbone. I didn’t mean to stay there, but I didn’t mean to leave, either. So I just lay still and listened.

And for the first time in a long time, he didn’t sound like he was fighting me. Or anyone. He just... breathed.

So I let him.

Because I still had feelings. Because I always did. Because I was always the one who stayed.

Chapter 14: 1998 - "How's It Going To Be"

Chapter Text

Bill said—loudly, repeatedly, and with the dramatics of a man on death row—that he didn’t want a birthday party.

"It’s not a celebration; it’s a countdown to the grave."

"If anyone brings balloons into my house, I’m setting them on fire."

"Sing 'Happy Birthday' and I swear to God, I'm throwing myself into traffic."

Naturally, we ignored him.

Not a full-blown party or anything—more like a bunch of socially stunted gremlins huddling in a basement. You know, Tuesday. But I baked a cake, Jerry made a card out of printer paper and X-Men clippings, Pete gifted him a bootleg VHS tape of something probably banned in three countries, and Josh—after getting yelled at for forgetting—forked over a half-priced X-Men knockoff from Joe’s Bargain Bin.

When I showed up with the cake, Bill’s mom opened the door.

She muttered a greeting without looking at me, her eyes locked on the microwave. The burnt smell of whatever dollar-store TV dinner she was reheating hung in the air like a bad omen. She didn’t ask about the cake. Didn’t ask about Bill. Just shuffled upstairs in a robe and slippers like a ghost who couldn’t be bothered to haunt anymore.

Downstairs, Bill was already posted up on the couch, arms crossed, wearing his usual expression of "this is why I hate people."

He looked at the cake like it was something I'd scraped off the sidewalk.

“You didn’t have to make anything,” he grumbled.

“Yeah, well, I didn’t feel like watching you eat stale pretzels and cry into your Surge.”

“If it’s dry, I’m throwing it at your face.”

“If it’s dry, I’m throwing you into the microwave your mom’s using to cook whatever the hell that was.”

He grunted, which was basically a 'thank you' in Bill-speak.

We lit the candles anyway. Pete sang off-key on purpose. Jerry clapped like a toddler on a sugar rush. Bill sat there, looking like we were waterboarding him.

Then he ate the cake.

Two slices.

No gagging, no sarcastic comments about food poisoning. Just grim, silent chewing. I mentally gave myself a gold star.

The rest of the night devolved the way it always did. Jerry and Pete got into a screaming match about the Robotech timeline—Bill yelled at both of them for being wrong—Josh somehow got a nosebleed from laughing too hard at his own joke—and I stayed curled up on the arm of the couch, eating cake with the hollow-eyed stare of someone raised by video games and secondhand embarrassment.

Eventually, Pete left to catch a ride. Josh left after I beat him at Street Fighter for the tenth time. Jerry followed with a half-hearted "Don't die, man," and a slap on Bill’s shoulder that almost counted as affection.

I stayed.

I didn’t ask if I could. I just… didn’t move. And Bill didn’t tell me to get lost, so that counted as an invitation.

He flopped back onto the couch like a pissed-off housecat, arms and legs sprawling out like gravity was personally attacking him. I slid down a little closer, staring at the busted TV as it crackled static, like we were waiting for it to sprout legs and crawl away.

After a few minutes of electric silence, Bill muttered, “Mom, Dad, and Jane didn’t even say happy birthday.”

It came out casual. Like a shrug. Like he wasn’t announcing something that would leave most people face-down in a tub of ice cream.

I blinked. “Damn.”

“Yeah.”

“That blows.”

He let out this weird half-laugh. Not amused. More like when a balloon deflates in a depressing honk.

Then: “Being eighteen blows.”

“Welcome to adulthood,” I said. “Your starter pack includes crushing debt, chronic disappointment, and a rapidly deteriorating spine.”

He snorted. “Don’t forget back pain and adult acne.”

“Didn’t you already have that?”

Another snort, this one almost a laugh.

And then it went quiet again.

The kind of quiet where if you breathe too loud, you feel like you’re committing a crime.

After a few beats, I shifted closer. He didn’t move away. His foot bumped mine. Light. Barely there. Like a weird little Morse code that translated to "don't make a thing out of this."

So, I didn’t. I just leaned my head against his shoulder.

He stiffened like I’d jabbed him with a cattle prod, but he didn’t shove me off. He just sat there, rigid at first, then slowly melting into it, like a grumpy old cat deciding a human might not be completely terrible.

We stayed like that.

In the basement gloom that smelled faintly of chocolate frosting and microwave regret. Torn wrapping paper littering the floor like sad confetti.

After a long while, Bill said, voice low and almost reluctant:

“…Wasn’t the worst birthday.”

I grinned against his shoulder. “Glowing review.”

“Don’t get used to it, Lindberg.”

“Trust me, I won’t.”

He huffed. It might’ve been a laugh.

The room stayed heavy after that. Not bad heavy. Just... charged. Like maybe if either of us said one more word, we’d break whatever fragile thing we’d accidentally built between us.

So, I didn’t say anything else.

And neither did he.

And somehow, that was enough.

Chapter 15: 2008 - "Nutshell"

Chapter Text

I don’t know exactly when it went from just drinking a little at night to oh hey, it’s noon and he’s already slurring. There wasn’t some dramatic turning point. No storm cloud rolling in, no ominous violin screech. One day he was sighing into a bottle at ten p.m., and the next he was trying to butter toast with the wrong end of a steak knife while mumbling about how Spider-Man hasn't been good since Ditko left.

It’s funny. Or—it would be funny, if it wasn’t happening in my goddamn kitchen.

“You ever think…the industry deserves to die?” he slurred once while I wiped up the vodka he’d spilled across the counter, his shirt half-off his shoulder and stained with what I hope was chili.

“Every day,” I’d replied flatly, throwing the towel in the laundry basket. “But some of us process that with sarcasm and cigarettes. Not…this.”

He didn’t even hear me. He was already asleep on the linoleum.

That was three days ago. Since then, it’s just been more of the same. Rinse. Repeat. Toss whatever bottle he left in the couch cushions. Put a blanket over him so he doesn’t freeze. Listen to him puke. Pretend I’m only patting his back because I don’t want him to aspirate.

I tell myself I don’t care. But I’m lying.

I care. Way too goddamn much.

So today, I decided I’d had enough of the circus. I called in the clowns.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

We staged the “meeting” in the living room. The word intervention didn’t pass my lips. I knew better. I just said “Hey, can you all come by? He’s being an unbearable dipshit, and I don’t wanna throw a shoe at his head without witnesses.”

Josh brought snacks. Jerry brought Mandi. Pete brought himself and a few of his newest “films”. At least he's making money.

“He’s gonna flip,” Josh said before Bill even showed up. “Like full atomic nerd rage.”

“Good,” I said. “He deserves it.”

When Bill stumbled out—shirtless, hair wild, eyes red like he got high off smelling old Frank Miller comics—he took one look at the room and groaned.

“What is this? The Ghosts of Friendships Past?”

I stood with my arms crossed. “Bill. Sit down.”

“Am I getting kicked out of the fandom?” he slurred. “Is this a tribunal? Let me guess, Jerry’s Judge Dredd, Marzia’s Elektra, Josh’s the Blob, and Pete is—”

“Shut. Up.” I snapped. “We’re trying to help you.”

“You? Help me?” He laughed. Real bitter. “That's rich. What are you gonna do, bake my feelings away?”

Pete muttered “Yo, she can bake though—” and got elbowed in the ribs by Jerry.

“You’re spiraling,” Jerry said. Calm. Too calm. “We’ve all noticed it. This isn’t like you.”

“Oh, really?” Bill stood, swaying like a drunk scarecrow. “Tell me what like me even is, huh? I peaked in high school. I’m 28 and still arguing about continuity errors on forums full of manchildren. I don’t have a fucking job, my liver hurts, and I can’t even jerk off without thinking about the Clone Saga.”

Mandi quietly whispered, “I don’t think I was emotionally prepared for that.”

Josh nodded solemnly. “None of us were.”

“You need therapy,” I said. “Real therapy. Not bitching on the internet and calling it catharsis.”

“I need less people telling me what to do!” Bill exploded, pointing at each of us. “You’re all just here to gang up on me, because I’m the low-hanging fruit, the easy target! I don’t got shit going for me and all of you do!”

And there it was.

The silence after that felt like the longest one of our lives.

He grabbed his jacket off the floor, knocked over the chips in the process, and stormed out the door like a whiny raccoon that just got kicked out of the garbage can.

He didn’t slam the door. It just clicked shut.

Pete sighed. “That…could’ve gone better.”

“Could’ve gone worse,” Josh added. “He could’ve started quoting Frank Miller again.”

Mandi glanced at me. “Marzia…are you okay?”

“Yeah,” I started to say.

But I wasn’t.

My throat caught. Something inside me just snapped—quietly, the way paper does when it’s been folded one too many times. I sank down on the edge of the couch, head in my hands, and cried. Like really cried. Ugly, raw, nose-running kind of crying. I hadn’t done that since…since Mississippi. Since before Eltingville. Since before I had people to pretend I was fine for.

They all just stared at first. Stunned.

Then Jerry sat beside me, awkward but steady. Mandi crouched in front of me and handed me a tissue without a word. Josh and Pete stood nearby, fidgeting like they wanted to help but didn’t know how. I mean… none of us really did. We’re not exactly a group built for emotional nuance.

But they were there.

And that’s more than they’ve ever been.

Chapter 16: 1998 - "Inside Out"

Chapter Text

I’m not nervous. I swear I’m not.

I’m just… straightening the same stack of manga on my nightstand for the third time and adjusting my “Perfect Blue” poster like it’s some kind of feng shui antenna. Totally normal behavior. Super chill.

The door creaks open and I hear Papa from the porch before I see Bill.

“On the road again… just can't wait to get on the road again…”

The sound of his off-key warbling floats in like incense made of Marlboro Reds and country music.

“Your grandpa thinks he’s Willie Nelson again,” Bill announces, half amused, half alarmed.

“He is Willie Nelson. He just hasn't told the world yet,” I deadpan, walking past him. Bill huffs a laugh. Score one for me.

Papa salutes Bill with a loose peace sign. Bill salutes back like he’s reporting to duty.

Inside, the usual chaos is playing out: Toni and Marco are raiding the fridge, arguing over which flavor of Gatorade is superior like it's the end of civilization. When they see Bill, Toni nudges Marco with a knowing smirk.

“Yo, Marz—don’t forget to use protection,” Toni says around a mouthful of pizza rolls.

Marco grins. “Wrap it before you tap it, Billiam.”

“Die painfully,” I reply with a cheery wave as they duck out the back door, cackling like hyenas.

And just like that, it’s quiet.

He follows me upstairs and I hear his breath catch when we step into my room. It’s a disaster, but it’s my disaster: posters of Sailor Moon, Gundam Wing, some dark Wicca stuff tacked up between glowing stars on the ceiling. My desk’s a graveyard of unfinished drawings, and there’s a whole stack of notebooks that would probably land me in a psych ward if anyone read them too seriously.

Bill’s eyes scan it all with his usual judgmental squint. “So this is the lair.”

“Yup.” I flop down into my beanbag chair and grab the incense and lighter off the windowsill. Except it’s not incense. It’s a joint.

He watches as I light it with surgical precision, take a long pull, and blow the smoke out the window like I’m in an indie film about misunderstood girls who wear too much eyeliner.

“You’re seriously lighting up in front of me?” he asks, wrinkling his nose like I’m breaking some unspoken comic book code.

“You gonna tell my mom?” I ask, grinning. “What, you want some?”

He snorts. “Yeah, right. Like I’m dumb enough to—”

I hold it out to him.

He hesitates. I can see his pride duking it out with his lungs. “...Fine. Just so you don’t think I’m a narc.”

He takes a drag and immediately coughs like he just inhaled fire and shame. I laugh so hard I nearly drop the joint out the window.

We eventually migrate to my bed, sprawled out like it’s a peace treaty—me on one side, him on the other, both pretending like the awkward space between us isn’t shrinking by the minute. We talk. About comics, about how dumb the school fight was, about how if Josh actually landed a punch, it’d be a miracle of physics. Then, we veer into weird territory—romance in media.

“You ever notice how kiss scenes in comics always look like the guy’s trying to eat the girl’s face?” I mutter, tossing a pillow at the ceiling.

Bill snorts. “It’s like—dude, she needs that nose.”

“Exactly.”

There’s a beat.

“You ever kissed anyone?” he asks.

I pause. “No. You?”

He hesitates. “Nah. Closest I got was being tackled by Josh at a sleepover. He landed mouth-first on my chin.”

We both laugh, but it feels… different now. Lighter. And heavier.

I roll onto my side and look at him. “So how’re we supposed to learn, huh?”

He arches a brow. “Don’t tell me you’re suggesting we—”

“I’m joking,” I say too fast, suddenly feeling how warm my face is. “Unless… y’know. You wanted to.”

He stares at me, and for the first time since I met him, he looks nervous.

“…For science,” he says finally.

“For science,” I agree.

And then, in the weirdest, most painfully teenage way possible, we lean in.

The kiss is... bad. Like, logistically bad. Too much nose. His lip hits my tooth. My hand does this weird hover like I don’t know what to do with it.

But it’s also... kind of great?

Soft. Hesitant. Real.

When we pull back, we’re both beet red and staring anywhere but at each other.

“Well,” he coughs. “We suck.”

“Totally,” I say, flopping onto my back, grinning like an idiot. “Guess we need more practice.”

His voice cracks. “Shut up.”

Chapter 17: 2008 - "Teardrop"

Chapter Text

I didn’t clean up after everyone left. I didn’t pick up the chip bags or the forgotten hoodie or the crumpled tissue Mandi handed me when I lost it. I didn’t wipe my face or turn off the lamp or change the channel. Whatever was on TV had been looping in the background for over two hours now, something stupid and late-night. Infomercials maybe. Or Walker, Texas Ranger. I don’t know. Doesn’t matter.

The house smells like a mix of salt, spilled alcohol, and emotional repression.

I sat on the couch like a half-dead vampire; my eyeliner smeared from the tears I fought so hard to suppress. My mouth was dry. My heart was quieter now, but not calm—more like a slow simmer. The kind that bubbles just under the surface. I wasn’t mad anymore. I wasn’t anything. Just… tired.

The front door creaked open like a cliché. Of course.

I didn’t move. I didn’t have to. The scuffed shuffle of his boots, the almost cartoonish pause when he saw me still awake—he didn’t need to say anything.

And he didn’t. Not right away.

Bill dropped his coat on the floor, missed the hook by a mile, and sank down onto the couch next to me with all the grace of a dying walrus. He didn’t look at me. Didn’t say anything. Just slumped.

And then…then he curled into my side.

Like a goddamn puppy.

No snark. No "Don't be mad, babe." No passive-aggressive jokes. Just his face tucked against my shoulder, arms curled against himself like a kicked mutt waiting to be told he's allowed to breathe again. Every once in a while, he made this little half-hiccup sound, like he was trying not to cry or puke or both.

And I just… let him.

Because what the hell else could I do?

He stayed like that for a long time. Warm. Sad. Quiet. And then, like someone had hit unpause on a busted tape recorder, I heard it—barely audible, not even said like a full word.

“...Sorry.”

I didn’t answer him.

Not because I didn’t hear it. Not because I didn’t care. But because sorry’s cheap. Sorry’s a band-aid on a bullet wound. Sorry doesn’t un-crack a foundation.

So I didn’t say, It’s okay.

I just said, “You smell like regret and malt liquor. Go take a shower.”

He didn’t argue.

He just nodded into my shoulder.

Didn’t move though. Of course not. He never does unless he’s got company. Never does unless I’m dragging him by the metaphorical leash.

So, I got up. He followed.

The bathroom was dim, fogged with ghost-stale air and steam from the last time anyone bothered to clean it. I turned the water on. Adjusted it. Checked it with my fingers like this was normal. Like this was routine. Like we weren’t about to shower together for the first time in years because he was too emotionally constipated to say anything that actually mattered out loud.

He started undressing without a word. Didn’t leer. Didn’t make some stupid quip. Just stripped like a man folding his own guilt into a hamper. He sat his glasses on the edge of the sink.

I undressed slower. Less out of modesty, more out of caution. He looked like he might bolt if I moved too fast. Or crumble.

The water hit us like warmth we didn’t deserve.

We stood there for a second, steam thick around us, the sound of water louder than either of us wanted to speak over. He looked down at me finally—eyes red, mouth slack, the kind of gaze you only give someone when you’re trying to say something without knowing what that something is.

Then he touched my face. Not in a horny way. Not even in a “Hey, we’re doing this” way...

In a “Please don’t hate me” way.

Then it just… happened.

It wasn’t like before.

It wasn’t frantic or angry or needy in that toxic way we usually are.

His lips pressed against mine gently, molding against them. It was so soft, gentle…sweet. I return the kiss, not even bothering to suppress the sigh that comes out.

His body pressed mine against the wall of the shower as his lips moved against mine, kiss after kiss drawing me deeper and deeper into him. I feel his hands on my waist and he’s lifting me up, pushing me against the wall.

His cock is hard, throbbing up against my folds. His lips move from my lips to my neck, moving down it like a long, languid trail. They’re at my collarbone, then between my breasts until finally he reaches my stomach.

His lips finally stop, his breath ghosting my pussy as he gazes up at me. My breath catches in my throat as his tongue makes contact with my folds.

I moan, reaching up to bite my hand as his tongue circles and laps at my clit. His lips capture my bud as he suckles it, making me whimper softly.

He’s only gone down on me a handful of times, mainly when I was really upset with him and he felt like he had to “make it up to me”.

And I guess, in a way, he was making it up to me.

But, fuck.

He’s doing too good for it to be just another half-assed apology.

All at once it hit me, my peak. I clamp my hand over my mouth in an attempt to muffle my moans, but it's useless. My thighs shake, threatening to close around his head as my orgasm washes over me in waves.

But, he doesn’t stop there.

He laps up my juices, licking up every last bit of what I had secreted, like he was a man dying of thirst. When he finally pulls away, breathing heavily, remnants of my essence on his lips, I swear to God I could have kissed him.

Before I can even process what’s happening, he’s turning me around, pulling me against his chest, letting his cock rest between my folds. His breathing ragged against my ear.

He presses the tip right against my hole, not teasing, asking. Like a question.

And I said yes without speaking.

When he finally pushed in, I gasped. I could feel every inch of his cock entering my slick hole, stretching me in the best way possible. He doesn’t stop until he’s fully seated, gripping my hips hard.

Finally, he starts moving, his thrusts are slow and gentle, making my eyes involuntarily roll into the back of my head. His chest is pressed firmly against my back, his groans and grunts right in my ear. I can feel every part of him.

His heart beating against my back like a drum.

His breath in my ear.

Every twitch and movement, I felt it.

“B-Bill.” I whispered and his breath hitched.

For a second I felt it—that thing we used to be. Back before everything went rotten.

His thrusts get sloppier, more urgent. He’s close.

His hand reaches around to rub my clit and the sensation undoes me.

I let out a choked moan at the same time he groaned. He spilled inside me, filling me with his warmth.

We stood under the stream of cool water, not letting go. His arms stayed locked around me, like he was afraid I’d disappear if he blinked too hard. And honestly?

Part of me didn’t want to leave either.

We dried off in silence. I handed him a clean towel. He didn’t make a joke about the pentagram print like he usually would. Just held it to his face like it was a security blanket.

We crawled into my bed like ghosts sliding back into the graves they picked out early. He curled up behind me, arms tight around my waist, his face buried in my neck.

Still didn’t say anything.

Still didn’t explain a goddamn thing.

And I still didn’t ask.

Because I already knew the answers.

It wasn’t fixed. None of it was fixed. He was still a mess. I was still tired. Everything was broken.

But for one night, we were something else.

Something soft.

Something safe.

Chapter 18: 1998 - "Flagpole Sitta"

Chapter Text

I should’ve known the night was going to be a disaster the second I stepped into Bill’s basement and smelled the toxic mix of Doritos, armpit, and defeat.

The guys were already gathered — controllers in hand, Mountain Dew bottles sweating on the folding table, the old VCR grinding its way through some fuzzy bootleg anime tape. Bill barked something about my timing, but I ignored him, flipping him off as I threw myself onto the couch next to him.

Apparently, tonight was another endless cycle of “Who’s The Hottest Babe” tournaments, petty bickering, Mario Kart, and pretending we didn’t all secretly want to strangle each other in our sleep.

As I’ve learned, standard Club protocol.

What wasn’t standard was Bill not immediately snapping at me when my knee bumped his. He just... shifted a little, grunted, and kept fiddling with the TV remote.

Weird.

Even weirder: he didn’t shove me off the couch when I tugged half the ratty Star Wars blanket over myself. If anything, he just grumbled under his breath about me "hogging all the good sides."

And, because the universe hates me, Pete noticed.

"Hold the goddamn phone," Pete said, squinting at us like we’d grown second heads. "What the hell is this?"

Josh, never missing a chance to be an idiot, peered over his bowl of off-brand Cheese Puffs. "They're, like... cuddling," he said, mouth half-full.

Bill made a noise like he was dying. "THE HELL WE ARE!"

"Yeah," I snapped, glaring. "Get your eyes checked, Josh."

Jerry, in his usual soft-spoken way, just took a sip of his soda and muttered, "You kinda are though."

The TV continued to flicker — with Sailor Moon yelling about justice or whatever — while the room buzzed with the rising stench of chaos.

Pete leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees like he was about to cross-examine us. "You two’ve been acting weird for weeks. Sharing snacks. Sitting close. No death threats." He smirked. "You're totally doing it."

"If by 'doing it' you mean tolerating Bill’s existence without committing a felony, then yeah. Groundbreaking," I said, rolling my eyes so hard it gave me a headache.

But I felt the heat creep up my neck. And judging by how Bill tugged the blanket higher, avoiding everyone's eyes, he wasn't doing much better.

Josh snorted. "Bet they make out when we leave."

Bill immediately lost it, throwing a wadded-up napkin at Josh’s face. "FUCK YOU."

"Aw, Billy’s getting protective," Pete crooned in his most obnoxious voice. "Gonna start fighting for her honor next?"

"Yeah," Jerry added, deadpan. "After he finishes losing another round of Mario Kart."

Bill growled low under his breath, practically vibrating with rage. I barely stopped myself from laughing — mostly because it would’ve gotten me murdered.

"Alright, alright, enough," I muttered, elbowing Bill gently. "Let's just play the damn game before Bill bursts a blood vessel."

But even as everyone eventually drifted back into half-hearted gaming and anime viewing, the air was...different.

There was an edge to it now — something new simmering under all the usual sarcasm and insults. A tension no one wanted to name out loud.

Bill didn’t shove me away when I leaned back against his side. I didn’t punch him when his arm brushed mine.

It was stupid.

It was complicated.

It was inevitable.

Because the truth was... even if we were still trading barbs and insults, something between us had shifted. Mutated. Twisted itself into something even messier than before.

And deep down, we both knew it.

Neither of us was brave enough to say it.

Not yet.

Maybe not ever.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Later that night, when I was finally back in my own room —door locked, makeup off, and the faint smell of Doritos still haunting my sweater—I flopped onto my bed and stared at the ceiling like it held all the answers.

It didn’t. Just a slowly growing crack that looked a little like the Millennium Falcon if you squint hard enough.

I should’ve been thinking about Fall semester exams, or Sailor Moon, or how Josh managed to get orange dust on every surface of the basement like some kind of snack-based poltergeist.

Instead, I kept thinking about how warm Bill was when I leaned against him.

Not that it meant anything.

Not that it was a thing.

It was just... body heat. Proximity. Nothing more.

Right?

God, I'm so screwed.

Because now I couldn’t stop replaying that moment in my head. The way he didn’t flinch away. The way his hand almost settled over mine, then thought better of it.

He was still Bill. Still loud. Still insufferable. Still deeply, profoundly allergic to self-awareness.

But when no one was watching, he looked at me like I was something more than just a punchline. And even worse? I looked back like I wanted to believe it.

I groaned and buried my face in my pillow.

This wasn’t just a crush anymore. This was full-blown, no-coming-back, stupid-heart-in-my-throat feelings.

I was doomed.

And I hated that I didn’t really mind.

Chapter 19: 2008 - "Slow Dancing In A Burning Room"

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Bill actually went.

I don’t know if it was the sex or the crying or the absolute hell-storm of that intervention, but he went. Tuesday. 4 PM. I picked him up after work, drove him to the dingy-ass community center they should really tear down. He went inside with his stupid bootleg Punisher hoodie and a copy of Wizard Magazine under his arm like he was headed to war.

For him, I guess it was war. Having to face twenty-eight years of covering up emotions with sarcasm and cynicism will make any departure from that feel like hell.

I didn’t know why I thought it would actually work…

Because now he’s on the couch, three days later, muttering something about “pop psychology” and “how Dr. Freud was probably a pervert” while peeling the label off a bottle of root beer with the anger of a repressed manchild.

“Did you say anything real?” I ask, half-paying attention, half-scrolling through channels.

He doesn’t look at me. “Define ‘real.’”

There it is. That Bill Deflection™. I can practically see the smug little ™ floating above his head. I don’t bother pushing. Not tonight. He’s already edgy, twitchy. I know the look—like he’s running from something but forgot to bring his legs.

He’s still going, by the way. “He asked me about my dad. I said, ‘Do you want the DC or Marvel origin story?’ He didn’t laugh.” A pause. “Therapists suck.”

“He’s probably trying not to strangle you,” I mutter.

Bill grunts, a noise somewhere between a laugh and a choke. “Wouldn’t blame him.”

There’s silence after that. Heavy. The kind I hate. The kind that makes you feel everything.

I turn the volume up on the TV. It’s a syndicated rerun of Buffy. The colors blur. I think I smell weed from the neighbor’s porch. Bill doesn’t move. He hasn’t touched the sandwich I made him. He just keeps sitting there like a deflated action figure.

Then he says it—so soft I almost miss it.

“I don’t think I’m fixable.”

I freeze. Just like that. Remote halfway to the table, breath halfway out of my lungs.

“Don’t say that,” I say. Quiet. Sharper than I mean it.

He shrugs. “You were all happier when I wasn’t around.”

That pisses me off more than anything he’s said all week. I want to yell. I want to throw the remote at his head. I want to cry again, but I already did that once this month and it felt like swallowing glass.

“Then why the hell are you still here, Bill?”

He flinches. It’s small. But I see it. Right there behind the snark and the self-loathing and the cheap sarcasm.

“I don’t know,” he whispers. “Because I don’t have anywhere else to go.”

God. It hurts. Not in a romantic, tragic way. In a pathetic, bone-deep kind of way. Like watching a dog circle the same spot for hours, looking for a place to die.

I don’t touch him. I don’t say anything back. I just let the TV play. Let the space between us stretch thin and tight.

Let him sit there, unraveling.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

He doesn’t come home the next day.

Doesn’t text. Doesn’t call. Doesn’t leave a note like some bad soap opera character. Just ghosts.

And I know exactly what that means.

I found him the next morning, passed out on the ratty beanbag in the garage, surrounded by crumpled beer cans and the stench of stale weed. There’s a half-eaten bag of Doritos on his chest and a dried smear of orange dust on his cheek. The stereo is still playing something tinny and scratchy. I think it’s old Metallica.

And I just… stand there.

Watching him.

My arms cross automatically. My jaw clenches. There’s this awful, gut-twisting silence in my head before it all goes white-hot.

“Are you serious right now?”

He groans. Doesn’t even open his eyes. Just mumbles something like, “’M fine…”

“You missed your second therapy session,” I snap.

That gets his eyes open. Bloodshot. Dull. A little too wide, like a raccoon caught in a trash can.

“Wasn’t feeling it,” he slurs, trying to sit up. He knocks over a can. It rolls and clinks off the wall like punctuation.

I see red.

“You promised, Bill.”

“No, you wanted me to go. I just said ‘okay’ to get you to stop crying.” He rubs at his face like he’s trying to erase himself.

That’s it.

I slam my hand down on the stereo and shut it off. The sudden silence makes him flinch.

I don’t yell. Not yet. It’s worse than yelling.

“You think this is a joke, don’t you?”

His mouth opens, but I keep going.

“You think you can flirt your way out of it, or pout, or make some snide little comment about Dr. Phil and I’ll drop it. That I’ll just keep cleaning up after you like it’s cute or quirky or some tragic anti-hero bullshit. But guess what?”

I step forward. He shrinks back just a little.

“I’m done playing nurse to your self-destruction. I’m done watching you drown in your own misery and pretending it’s rain.”

He stares at me, eyes glossy, mouth twitching like he wants to say something—anything—that’ll break the tension. But I don’t let him.

“You said you didn’t have anywhere else to go? Then make this a place worth being. Stop treating this house like a halfway point between rock bottom and nostalgia. I live here too. I’m not your rehab, Bill. I’m not your girlfriend, or your mom, or your goddamn babysitter. I’m me. And if you can’t at least try to act like you care, then get the hell out.”

The words hang there.

Heavy. Ugly. True.

He looks like he’s been slapped. Then something breaks in his face. Cracks wide open. His voice is hoarse when he speaks.

“I don’t know how.”

I freeze.

“…What?”

“I don’t know how to fix it. Me. Any of it.” His voice shakes. “I try to go, but I get there and it’s like I’m watching myself from the outside. Like I’m just this… this loser puppet flapping his mouth about comic books and bullshit that no one gives a shit.”

His hands tremble. He wipes at his face again.

“I know I’m awful. I know. And every time I think I can do better, I just screw it up again. So I drink. And I hate myself. And then you look at me like you did just now and I feel like I’m gonna puke because I know I deserve it, but I still want you to forgive me anyway.”

I don’t realize I’m crying until I taste salt.

“…I do care, Bill. That’s the problem.”

We stand there, across from each other. Me in the doorway. Him, a mess of limbs and shame on the beanbag. Everything smells like despair and old Fritos.

I sniff, rub at my face. “Go take a shower.”

He hesitates.

“I’m not getting in with you this time.”

He nods, slowly. Then pushes himself up. Stumbles. Looks back at me like he’s scared I’ll disappear if he blinks.

“I’ll try again,” he says. Voice like gravel. “I promise.”

I don’t believe him.

But I want to.

“We’ll see.”

And I turn and walk inside.

Chapter 20: 1998 - "Bitter Sweet Symphony"

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I don’t even remember how we ended up like this.

One minute, we were arguing—loudly—about which Gundam series had the best mobile suit design. (It’s Wing, and I stand by that with my entire soul, even if Bill won’t shut up about the “superior lines” of the Zaku II like he’s some kind of mech sommelier.) The next, we weren’t yelling. Just slouched side by side on that lumpy, ancient couch in his basement, the one that smelled faintly of old pizza and dryer sheets.

Some poorly subtitled, grainy VHS rip of the Slayers anime was playing on the little CRT TV across from us. The kind where the dub voices sounded like they were recorded in a hallway and the subs didn’t match the words coming out of anyone’s mouth. Neither of us were watching. Not really.

My cheek was pressed against Bill’s shoulder. He didn’t shake me off.

He was warm. Annoyingly warm. Arms crossed, legs wide open in a heroic display of teenage manspreading, like the king of all awkward slouches. But he was solid. Grounded. Like a space heater made of snark and unresolved issues.

Upstairs, his parents were fighting again.

It wasn’t yelling—yet. Just that brittle sort of whisper-argument, full of hard consonants and sharp sighs. The kind of conversation that slithered through vents and floorboards, uninvited and impossible to ignore. Like cigarette smoke in a car with the windows rolled up.

From what I’d gathered over the last year or so—between hangouts, late-night campaigns, and hanging out after school—it happened a lot. Sometimes you couldn’t even hear it over Pete yelling about dice rolls or Josh making gagging noises during cutscenes. But now it was just us.

Bill didn’t say anything about it.

He just shifted a little, like he was adjusting his weight or maybe trying to pretend this wasn’t happening. I felt his elbow bump mine, then stay there. Just the smallest movement, but it changed everything. Now my arm was pressed tight against his side. His hand hovered awkwardly near my shoulder. Not touching. Just there. Like it was trying to decide whether it belonged.

We didn’t talk. The show kept playing—some gets shot with a blast of magic—and the voices upstairs crept louder.

“You wanna turn it up?” I mumbled eventually, keeping my eyes on the screen.

He snorted, but didn’t move. “You mean blow out the speakers just to drown out the sound of my parents slowly imploding? Might be an upgrade from the acting.”

“You’re deflecting.”

“And you’re clingier than usual,” he shot back. “Didn’t say anything.”

I elbowed him. Lightly. Like a warning nudge. Still me. Still capable of violence.

Usually, that would’ve made him laugh. That sharp little bark of amusement he always tried to pass off like it wasn’t real. Tonight, nothing. He just leaned back into the couch cushion and let out a long breath through his nose. Not a sigh. Just... letting air out.

A drawer slammed upstairs. Maybe a cabinet. The sound made the pipes shudder.

He didn’t flinch. But his hand finally landed on my shoulder. Settled there. Casual, almost. Like it didn’t mean anything.

“You good?” I asked.

He shrugged, eyes still on the TV. “I’m not the one yelling about Tupperware at ten p.m.”

“I didn’t ask about them.”

That made him go quiet. For a second too long.

“I’m used to it,” he said finally, like that was a get-out-of-jail-free card.

Like that made it okay.

I didn’t push. Didn’t say anything else. Just leaned into him a little more. Not enough to smother, just enough to remind him I was there. That someone was.

The show kept playing. The screen flickered. A hero screamed about justice, or friendship, or both. I didn’t really hear it.

But I heard the static. The buzz of the basement TV. The soft creak of the couch springs. The sound of someone pretending this wasn’t all weighing down on him.

After a while, the episode ended. Another started. We didn’t move.

His hand was still on my shoulder. Not gripping, not awkward — just there. Heavy and warm through the sleeve of my hoodie. I could feel his thumb shift once or twice, like he wasn’t sure what to do with it. He didn’t look at me.

And I didn’t look at him.

The TV buzzed, the opening credits playing over the speakers. Still, neither of us was really watching.

I shifted a little, testing the weight of the moment. He didn’t move.

“I should probably get going,” I said, but didn’t actually go.

“You don’t have to,” Bill said, almost offhand — but not really. His voice was lower than usual, like he was trying not to sound like he meant it.

Which meant, obviously, that he meant it.

I squinted up at him, not quite facing him. Just enough to see his jaw clench a little. He wasn’t smirking. He always smirked.

“Don’t go all soft on me, Dickey,” I muttered.

That got him. His mouth twitched — not a smile, not really, just a flicker of something dry and defensive. “Says the girl glommed onto my arm like a barnacle.”

“Please,” I snorted. “This is strategic proximity. I’m claiming warmth. Like a true apex predator.”

“You’re a weirdo,” he said, but it was way too gentle to sting.

“And you’re a walking anxiety rash, but here we are.”

He huffed. Almost a laugh. Then he leaned his head back against the ugly plaid couch and let out a long breath through his nose. His hand didn’t move from my shoulder.

We sat like that a little longer. The noise from upstairs had stopped, or maybe we’d just tuned it out. The basement felt still. Dust floating in the glow of the CRT screen. A kind of half-dark that made it easy to pretend things didn’t matter.

Chapter 21: 2008 - "No Surprises"

Chapter Text

I don’t slam the door behind me.

I just shut it, slow and soft, like that’ll make the words hanging in the air between us less real.

The house feels different.

Like it’s holding its breath.

I drift into the kitchen, feeling nothing and too much all at once. The floor squeaks under my socks. The overhead light hums like a bug zapper. Somewhere, faintly, I can hear the shower running.

I don’t think.

I just move.

The junk drawer sticks like it always does, and for a second I think maybe it’s a sign. Like maybe if I just close it again, push past the urge, I’ll feel better.

But I don’t.

My fingers find the little baggie wedged between expired coupons and loose batteries. My emergency stash. The one I pretended I didn’t need anymore.

I spark up right there, leaning against the counter, the lighter flickering weakly against the kitchen’s bruised yellow light.

The smoke is harsh, bitter, but it settles into my lungs like something familiar. Something close to peace.

I sink down onto the cold tile floor, knees pulled up to my chest, and stare at the faded wood grain of the cabinets across from me.

The first few hits are easy. Mechanical.

Then it creeps in.

The ache.

The shame.

The deep, sour exhaustion that lives in my stomach like a second heartbeat.

I let my head thunk back against the cabinet door. Close my eyes.

Maybe he means it this time.

Maybe he’ll go back.

Maybe he’ll sit there, and talk, and bleed out all the things he thinks make him unlovable.

Maybe.

I laugh — or try to. It comes out like a cough.

God, I’m so tired of playing roulette with hope.

Every time I think maybe —maybe— things will change, it just ends up spinning back to the same losing number.

I’m tired of betting on losing dogs.

A tear slides down the side of my face before I even notice it. It tickles my temple, slow and sticky. I wiped it away without ceremony.

I’m not even crying because of him.

Not really.

It’s everything.

The house that doesn’t feel like home anymore.

Our friends, who either pity me, us, or our situation, but never say it aloud, because they don’t want to make things worse.

The way I look in the mirror some mornings and don’t even recognize myself — this brittle, angry girl hiding under too much eyeliner and fake jokes.

I thought staying in Eltingville would be good for me. Help me work through the shitstorm that had been in my head for the last ten years.

Instead, it feels like I brought all my old ghosts with me and fed them after midnight.

The water shuts off upstairs. Pipes groan in the walls.

I take another hit, long and slow, and watch the kitchen blur at the edges.

Maybe he’ll come downstairs.

Maybe he’ll apologize again, that same cracked, desperate way that always makes my chest hurt.

Maybe I’ll forgive him.

Maybe I won’t.

Right now, it doesn’t matter.

Right now, it’s just me, a dirty kitchen floor, and a buzz thick enough to drown out the sound of my heart breaking.

The floor creaks overhead. Slow, uneven footsteps.

The kind of steps you take when you’re not sure you deserve to make noise.

I tilt my head back and stare at the water stains blooming across the ceiling. They look like continents on a map of some world that doesn’t exist anymore.

The stairs groan.

Each step is louder than the last.

By the time he reaches the kitchen, I’m a little too buzzed to move. Or maybe just too tired.

Bill stands there, dripping wet hair clinging to his forehead, wearing one of my oversized black hoodies and a pair of plaid pajama pants that don't quite fit. He looks like a kid who lost his mom in a grocery store.

His eyes land on me. On the little makeshift ashtray. In the haze clinging to the low kitchen light.

Something flickers across his face. Guilt. Sadness. Maybe even something like shame.

He shuffles forward, his socked feet sliding on the tile. He stops a few feet away.

“Didn’t know you still...” He rubs the back of his neck. “…you know.”

I don’t answer right away. I’m too busy trying to blink him into focus.

His outline sways a little, like a bad reception channel on an old TV.

“Sometimes it’s easier,” I mutter, voice rough and small. “Than feeling everything raw.”

He flinches.

I hate that I notice.

For a second, it’s just us.

Two pathetic satellites stuck in each other’s gravity, neither one strong enough to break orbit.

He crouches down in front of me, slow and careful, like he’s approaching a wounded animal.
The hoodie rides up a little at his knees. His hands fidget, picking at a loose thread near the hem.

“I’m sorry,” he says. Voice low. Wrecked.

I believe he means it.

I also believe it’s not enough.

My head feels heavy. I let it loll against the cabinet again. “Saying it doesn’t fix anything.”

“I know.”

Silence gnaws at the corners of the room. Bill shifts, hesitates, then carefully reaches out — not touching me, just hovering close, like maybe he’s asking permission without the words.

I don’t pull away.

I don’t lean in either.

After a long moment, his hand settles lightly on my knee. Barely there.

Not a grab.

Not a demand.

Just contact. Fragile as paper.

We sit like that, breathing the same heavy air, lost in the wreckage we built together.

His thumb brushes back and forth, slow and thoughtless.

“Marzia…” he says. My name breaks in his mouth.

I squeeze my eyes shut, forcing the tears back in my eyes.

“Don’t,” I whisper. “Not tonight.”

The weight of everything — the sadness, the rage, the stupid, stubborn hope — presses down so hard it feels like I might crack in half.

Bill nods, almost invisible.

He stays there, kneeling on the cold floor, hand warm and tentative on my leg.

Like he’s trying to anchor me.

Or maybe himself.

I let my hand drift down, covering his.

Not holding.

Just… being.

We don’t say anything else.

There’s nothing left worth saying.

Chapter 22: 1998 - "Fade Into You"

Chapter Text

The sun hits my eyes through the blinds, slicing the room into pieces.

I roll over and bury my face in the pillow, heart hammering like I ran a marathon. My skin feels hot. Too tight. Like my body’s still stuck somewhere between asleep and awake.

It was just a dream, I tell myself.

But the feeling won’t shake off.

His hands—rough and warm, cupping my face like I was something fragile. His voice, low and wrecked, saying my name like a secret. The kind of look you don’t come back from.

I squeeze my eyes shut. It’s not real. It’s not real. It's not—

But the ghost of it lingers. Crawling under my skin. Making the air feel too thick to breathe.

I sit up, scrubbing a hand through my hair. Trying to shake it off. Trying to pretend it didn’t mean anything.

Just a dream. Stupid, random, meaningless.

It’s not like he feels the same.

It's not like it matters.

It’s not like we’re gonna—

I shove my legs over the side of the bed and stand up fast enough to make my head spin.

Today’s Pete’s party. I have a million things to do. No time to sit here marinating in imaginary bullshit.

No time at all.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The smell of coffee and frying bacon drags me down the stairs before I'm even fully awake.

The kitchen’s already alive — Toni and Marco squabbling over who gets the last clean thermos, Ma flipping pancakes like she’s in a diner, and Papa hunched over the kitchen table strumming a battered guitar, mumbling something about the good old days with Waylon Jennings. He’s wearing his worn-out jean jacket and that red bandana he never takes off, even in the shower.

I slide into a chair just as Marco accidentally elbows Toni in the ribs.

"Easy, kids," Ma calls over her shoulder, not even turning around. "You'll break the furniture before you break each other's faces."

Toni grabs a pancake off the stack and tosses it onto a paper plate. "Mornin’, Marz," he says, flashing me a grin that looks way too innocent.

I eye him suspiciously. "Mornin'."

"You’re lookin’ awful chipper today," Marco adds, grabbing a coffee mug. "Dream about your boyfriend last night?"

I nearly choke on air.

"I don’t have a boyfriend," I snap, heat rushing to my face.

Toni leans against the counter, smirking. "Sure, sure. You and Bill just cuddle for the health benefits, right?"

“We don’t--”

Ma snorts. "Oh, leave her alone. It’s nice she found her old friends again." She flips a pancake so hard it nearly hits the ceiling. "Better than her sittin' up in her room like a ghost."

I scowl down at my plate, stabbing at a pancake a little too aggressively.

"It's not like that," I mutter.

Papa looks up from his guitar, blinking like he just noticed a conversation was happening. "You know," he says, voice slow and syrupy, "Waylon used to say a good woman could keep a man outta all kinds of trouble. Course, he didn’t listen worth a damn."

Everyone pretends to listen respectfully, even though we've all heard this story about nine thousand times.

Marco nudges me with his elbow. "Just sayin', Marz. If you ever wanna practice keepin’ someone outta trouble, that Bill kid looks like he could use a lotta practice."

Toni snickers.

I shove a pancake in my mouth just to shut myself up.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Bill’s basement already looked like the inside of a convenience store dumpster by the time I got there.

Josh was buried under a mountain of snack bags, "helping" by eating half of them. Jerry was quietly setting up cups and hiding the blue bottle of MD 20/20 like he was smuggling plutonium. And Bill — of course — was stomping around, barking orders like he thought he was running some elite nerd SWAT team.

"Marz, decorations. Josh, chips patrol. Jerry, stop standing around and maybe find the tape?"

"You're welcome for the booze, jackass," Jerry muttered, already nursing a drink.

Josh snorted through a mouthful of Cheetos. "Yeah, way to contribute, Jer. You brought something, unlike somebody." He shot a look at Bill.

"Location is everything, idiots," Bill snapped, hands on his hips like that settled it.

I rolled my eyes so hard I saw my brain. I dug into my skirt pocket and tossed a small bag onto the table. "Compliments of Grandpa Willie."

Bill squinted at it. "Wait. Is that—?"

"No, Billiam, it’s fucking oregano." I said deadpanned.

Josh snorted and laughed loudly. “Yeah sure, oregano. Marz, a stoner? Never in a million years.”

“Well I thought you wouldn’t stay a fatass forever, so…” I shrugged.

Jerry burst out laughing, almost choking on his beverage. “Oh shit, Marz, that was great. Guess Mississippi made you a bad girl?”

Bill muttered something I barely caught — something about me being "bad" in ways that made my ears burn — but when I turned, he was pretending to mess with the TV cables like he hadn't said anything at all.

Which would've been easier to ignore if he hadn’t been weird for weeks now. Too many weird looks. Too much not-shoving. Too much weird, almost-cuddling.

And judging by the way Josh and Jerry were eyeing us like they were waiting for fireworks, I wasn’t the only one who noticed.

"Hey, genius," I said, tossing a streamer at Bill's head, "maybe if you plug it into the actual TV port instead of the 'microwave' slot, we'll get sound."

Bill caught the streamer mid-air with a stupid smirk. "Maybe if you knew anything about anything, you’d know that's the video out slot, dumbass.”

Josh cackled so hard he almost inhaled a Dorito. "MOM AND DAD ARE FIGHTING AGAIN!"

"Just wait," Jerry said without looking up. "They’ll be making out by the Cheese Puffs in fifteen minutes."

I flipped Jerry off. Bill went so red he practically matched the couch.

"I WILL MURDER EVERYONE IN THIS BASEMENT," Bill barked.

"Damn, Bill, don’t bust a testicle.” I said, grinning as I walked past him — and shoulder-checked him just lightly enough to make it seem like an accident.

Bill, predictably, shoved back.

Only, because he's a dumbass who forgets that I'm sturdier—nicer way of saying I’m fatter. He shoved too low—and promptly lost his balance, crashing sideways into the couch like a tranquilized rhino.

Josh lost it, howling and clapping like a seal. Even Jerry cracked a smirk.

I just smirked down at him. “Well, that was graceful."

Bill scrambled upright, flailing. "YOUR FAULT!"

"Maybe if you weren't so distracted by your dreams—" Josh started, grinning like the little demon he is.

Bill's whole face exploded red. "WHAT DREAMS?!" he screeched, voice cracking halfway through like he was thirteen again.

Josh just gave him an eyebrow waggle. I flipped him off for good measure, but my face was burning.

God. Damn it.

Jerry, bless his heart, didn’t even bother looking up. “You’re both so obvious it’s physically painful.”

"We are NOT," Bill and I snapped at the exact same time.

And then we just stared at each other, breathing hard, the whole room buzzing like someone had left a radio tuned to "Awkward Silence FM."

Bill glared at me.

I glared right back.

If we’d been cartoons, there would’ve been visible lightning bolts between us. Or maybe those stupid anime nosebleeds.

Josh saved the day—and my last three brain cells—by lobbing a bag of Doritos right between us like a live grenade.

"Break it up, lovebirds." he crowed.

I snatched the Doritos mid-air and stalked toward the snack table, trying not to spontaneously combust.

Behind me, Bill made a sound like a car starting in subzero temperatures, and Jerry just muttered, "This party's gonna be a nightmare."

Josh, still laughing like a lunatic, said, "Nah, man. Best night of our lives."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Pete showed up like fifteen minutes late, looking like he expected a normal hangout. Baggy jeans, oversized Metallica tee, backpack probably filled with action figures and shame.

When he saw the streamers, the sad little card table stacked with snacks, and the four of us standing there grinning like idiots, he just froze.

“What the hell is this?” he said.

“Surprise,” Josh said, throwing his arms up like a used car salesman. "You survived another orbit around the sun, loser!"

Pete blinked, genuinely stunned. "You guys... you actually remembered?"

"We got snacks," Jerry said, deadpan, like that somehow explained everything.

"And illicit substances," I added, shaking the bag of "borrowed" contraband at him.

Bill crossed his arms, trying to look too-cool-for-this while very obviously vibrating with pride. "This house is the best present. You’re welcome."

Pete gave this weird half-laugh, half-sniffle and scratched the back of his neck. "Man, my dad just chucked a Playboy at me this morning and told me to 'go nuts.'"

A silence fell over the basement. Awkward. Heavy.

Pete shrugged it off like it was no big deal, even though it kind of was, and dropped his bag on the couch. "Alright, let’s get wrecked."

And that was the official start of Pete’s 18th Birthday Bash 1998.

I sparked up first—because of course I did—and passed it around. Jerry cracked open the sad bottle of stolen booze. Josh mixed something together that looked and smelled like drain cleaner, proudly announcing it was a "signature cocktail" before almost puking after one sip. Pete powered through it because he had something to prove, probably.

Bill, meanwhile, pretended to be above it all, even as he stole swigs when he thought no one was looking.

He was extremely bad at it. I caught him every time.

Somewhere around the third round of "who can burp the alphabet," Josh suggested Truth or Dare, because obviously the night wasn't cursed enough.

We were already gone enough to agree.

First up: Jerry got dared to sing Dancing Queen by ABBA.

No hesitation. Dude belted it out like he was auditioning for Eurovision. I almost died laughing.

Josh, on a Truth, had to admit he stole one of Bill’s TMNT figures when they were kids and still had it.

"You what?!" Bill screeched, shoving him.

"Relax, it's not like you ever noticed it was missing," Josh said, throwing popcorn at him.

Pete’s Dare was to chug a glass of the Josh Special™—a violent green concoction that smelled like death and regret. He did it in one gulp and immediately looked like he regretted being born.

Then it was my turn.

Pete grinned at me, still reeling in disgust from the concoction he’d chugged. "Marziaaa, truth or dare?"

"Dare," I said immediately. Dumb. So dumb.

Pete grinned like the devil. "Show us the last song you listened to."

Whatever. Easy. I yanked out my janky MP3 player, hit play, and cringed.

The room was filled with the dramatic cinematic opening from X Japan’s “Tears”. It’s a good song, melodramatic as hell.

“Wait, did he say dry your tears with love?” Josh started laughing, almost falling over. “That’s fucking-- OH MY GOD!”

"Screw you," I said, cheeks burning. "I know for a fact you were listening to "R2D2 We Wish You a Merry Christmas"."

"From what year?”

“1980, lowball me again, Joshua.”

Josh glared at me and then huffed. “It’s almost Christmas, sue me.”

"Aren't you supposed to be Jewish?"

"Oh, shove it up your ass, Marzia!"

Bill, weirdly, wasn’t laughing. He just watched me with this unreadable look — half amused, half... something else.

Made my stomach twist a little.

And then it was Bill’s turn.

Josh rubbed his hands together like he was about to summon Satan. "Truth or Dare?"

Bill glared daggers. "Dare."

Josh's grin could’ve powered a city. "I dare you to kiss Marzia."

Silence. Instant, nuclear silence.

I coughed. "Jesus Christ, Josh."

“Payback, bitch.” He grinned at me.

Bill looked like he wanted to throw himself into a woodchipper. "No way. No. Forget it."

Josh cackled. "Chicken?"

Jerry just shrugged. "Rules are rules."

Pete, face flushed, chanted softly, "Do it. Do it. Do it."

I wanted to sink into the couch and die. Maybe set the couch on fire first and then die.

Bill looked at me, eyes wide and panicked.

I gave him the flattest look I could muster. "Just get it over with, Romeo."

He swallowed hard. "Fine. Fine."

He staggered over, still a little wobbly, and grabbed my face — way more gently than I expected. His hands were weirdly warm. Or maybe my face was cold. Or maybe everything was backwards because I was a little high and very stupid.

And then he kissed me.

It was supposed to be a joke. A quick peck to shut everybody up.

It wasn't.

It was clumsy, sure — he bumped my nose, and we were both kind of shaky — but it got very real, very fast. His hands slipped into my hair, mine fisted in his jacket, and somewhere in there it stopped being a dare and started being something else.

Something electric.

Something that made my stomach drop to my toes and explode into firecrackers.

It was…better than the first time.

Someone wolf-whistled—probably Pete—but it sounded a million miles away.

When we finally pulled apart, blinking like we’d just been hit by a truck, the room was dead silent except for Pete hiccuping.

Bill stumbled back, mumbling something incoherent, and I wiped my mouth like an idiot even though I immediately wanted to punch myself for it.

Maybe it was my nerves or maybe it was the liquor, but…a wave of nausea washed over me and judging from my other companions, I wasn’t alone in my misery.

"Alright!" Josh crowed, breaking the spell. "PARTY’S OVER, EVERYBODY OUTSIDE BEFORE WE PUKE ON BILL'S MOM'S CARPET!"

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

We ended up sprawled out on Bill’s front lawn, all of us groaning and retching like dying animals.

Josh was throwing up into a bush.

Jerry was lying flat on his back, mumbling the words to Dancing Queen.

Pete was hugging the lawn sprinkler like it was the last good thing in the world.

I sat there, dizzy, clutching my stomach, trying not to die — or worse, think about what just happened.

Bill was a few feet away, face down in the grass, flipping off the sky.

And honestly?

I kinda wanted to kiss him again.

God help me.

Eventually, the puking slowed down to a manageable level of misery.

Pete was still lying face down in the sprinkler, muttering about how water was "nature’s Gatorade." Jerry wandered off somewhere, probably to go find more water or to just die quietly behind the bushes. Josh crawled toward the porch like a dying soldier in a war movie, dramatically groaning with every inch.

Bill was still in the grass, not moving.

I dragged myself up to a sitting position, wiped my mouth on my sleeve as elegantly as I could manage, and stared at him.

Even from here, I could see he was awake. His fingers kept twitching like he was fighting himself.

I didn’t know what the hell possessed me—maybe the booze, maybe the weed, maybe the fact that my brain was fried sunny-side up—but I staggered to my feet and wobbled over.

I stopped next to him. Hovered, awkward. My shadow fell across his back.

Bill groaned. "What."

I crossed my arms, feeling like a complete idiot. "You okay?"

He rolled halfway over, squinting up at me with one eye open, looking pissed off and weirdly vulnerable at the same time.

"Peachy," he croaked. "Just thinkin’ about killing Josh in his sleep."

I snorted. "Get in line."

Bill just looked at me then. Not mad. Not smug. Just... looked.

It lasted about two seconds, but it felt like forever.

My stomach flipped so hard I thought I was gonna hurl again.

"You’re still a bad kisser," I blurted, because I’m a genius under pressure.

Bill’s mouth twitched like he couldn’t decide whether to punch me or laugh. "Yeah? Well, you’re worse."

I didn’t answer. Couldn’t. My throat was tight and my brain was screaming and my heart was doing cartwheels like a drunk gymnast.

Instead, I nudged his foot with mine—a stupid little half-kick that said whatever, we’re fine, who cares, nothing happened, shut up.

He kicked back, barely a tap.

It was stupid. And small. And it made my chest ache in a way that scared the hell out of me.

I turned before I could say something even dumber and stumbled back toward the porch, leaving him lying there under the stars.

Behind me, Bill muttered something I couldn’t quite hear.

Could’ve sworn it sounded like, "Happy birthday, Pete."

But maybe that was just wishful thinking.

Chapter 23: 2008 - "Lua"

Chapter Text

Bill makes good on his promise.

I know because I catch him scribbling in that ugly-ass notebook his therapist gave him. It’s got a stock photo of a seagull on the cover. Very inspirational. He always glares at it like it insulted his mother.

He doesn’t know I’ve seen him writing in it—curled up on the floor by the couch, pen clutched like it might bite him. He mutters under his breath the whole time, like he’s arguing with the page.

“This is so stupid,”

“Like writing about my feelings is gonna do anything but piss me off.”

But he keeps writing anyway.

And I don’t say anything.

Some things don’t need applause.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It’s almost Pete’s birthday.

I bring it up without thinking, just offhand, when we’re laying around in our soft clothes, half-watching a Venture Bros. rerun neither of us is really paying attention to.

“Remember his eighteenth?” I say, smiling into my hoodie sleeve.

Bill snorts, head tilted back over the arm of the couch.

“Remember it? I’m still haunted by the smell.”

We were so stupid that night. Drunk off blue raspberry Mad Dog, high on some of Grandpa Willie’s house special. Someone dared Pete to drink this god-awful concoction Josh made and he nearly puked all on himself.

I think it was Josh who dared us to kiss.

“I dare you.” I reminded him with one of my eyebrow’s raised.

Bill laughs, soft and hoarse.

“Jesus. Yeah. You still had got a streamer tangled in your hair from that party, and I—"

He stops. Glances at me.

“I think that was the first time I realized I had... y’know. Feelings.”

It slips out so naturally that it takes a second for either of us to realize he said it. And then he goes pale, like he wants to cram the words back in his mouth.

I blink. Then grin, slow and stupid.

“Wow. Took you long enough.”

His head jerks toward me.

“Wait—you knew? Like, then?”

“I caught feelings first,” I say, stretching my legs out across his lap. “Months before. But you were too busy screaming at Josh about Star Wars to notice”

“Hey. He talked shit about Return of the Jedi, everyone knows that’s the best Star Wars movie! It was war!”

“Uh huh.”

He doesn’t argue further. Just stares at me like I’ve yanked the floor out from under him.

We didn't say anything for a while after that. We just put on another DVD—some dumb horror movie with bad practical effects and too much fog—and end up tangled together on the couch, my cheek pressed to his chest, the steady rise and fall of his breathing lulling me into something close to sleep.

I wake up to my Nokia buzzing on the floor.

Bill’s gone. Couch’s still warm where he was.

The screen lights up: Mama.

“Ciao, Ma,” I say, voice still gravelly with sleep.

“Marzia, tesoro! Sei sveglia?” Her voice is bright, a little too cheerful. She’s always like this when she’s fishing for information.

“Yeah, yeah. Just woke up. What’s up?”

“I was just calling to see how the roommate search is going.”

I swallow.

“It’s...still in progress.”

She hums suspiciously.

“So no one yet?”

Before I can answer, there’s a loud yelp from the kitchen. Something clatters, and Bill shouts:

“SON OF A—WHO PUT THE METAL FILTER IN THE PLASTIC TRAY?!”

Dead silence on the line.

“...Marzia,” my mom says slowly. “Who was that?”

I rub my face.

“That was... Bill.”

Pause.

“Bill..as in Bill Dickey?”

“Yeah.”

More silence. The disapproval is so loud I can practically hear her rosary beads shaking.

“Ma, it’s not—he’s not—we’re just roommates.”

“Hmph. I remember when you two were “just friends”. Then he burned down that comic shop, and you cried for two weeks.”

I wince, I can’t find the words to argue, because I knew she was right. The day I visited him in the hospital, all bandaged and burnt, still haunts me, but not as much as the words he said.

Finally, she sighed on the other end of the line, breaking the silence that was hanging between us.

“You’re an adult. I trust you. But you were so sad back then, Marzia. I just don’t want to see you like that again.”

I nod, even though she can’t see it.

“I know.”

We hang up after a few more gentle warnings and a reminder to eat something that isn’t toaster waffles.

When I wander into the kitchen, Bill is holding an ice pack to his hand, scowling at the coffeemaker like it betrayed him.

“Who was on the phone?” he asks without looking at me.

“My mom.”

He stiffens like a deer in a crosswalk. “…She hates me, doesn’t she?”

I shrug. “She’s Catholic. She believes in forgiveness.”

He relaxes a little at that, even though I don’t tell him she also believes in being extremely, extremely Italian about grudges.

The rest of the day is a blur of soft clothes, bad TV, and existential dread. Bill’s on his second bowl of cereal when Jerry and Mandi show up unannounced.

Jerry immediately raises an eyebrow. “You two look like warmed-over ass.”

Mandi offers a gentler reponse. “Rough night?”

I gesture vaguely at the ceiling. “Eh, just the usual.”

We all pile onto the couch and click through channels until we land on Iron Chef reruns. Somewhere between commentary about squid ink risotto and wasabi ice cream, we fall into talking.

Mandi and Jerry have so much more going on for them. They moved in together, they got some cats, and they’re even talking about getting married.

It warms my heart that Jerry and Mandi found each other. They seem perfect together.

I tell them about my students and my job as a Pre-K teacher—because even when everything else is broken, my kids make me feel like I have a heartbeat.

“There’s this one kid,” I say. “Tiny thing. Loves dinosaurs and band-aids. He came up to me during snack time and asked why I looked so sad all the time.”

Mandi gasps, hands to her chest. “Oh my God.”

Jerry winces. “Oof.”

Even Bill goes still beside me, spoon halfway to his mouth.

I laugh, but it sounds thin. “What do you even say to that, you know? He’s four. He thinks sadness is like catching a cold.”

The silence that follows is a little too heavy.

No one knows what to say, so we let Iron Chef fill in the blanks.

Bill’s knee bumps mine. It’s not an apology, not exactly. Just a reminder.

I’m still here.

Yeah…you’re still here.

Chapter 24: 1998 - "My Favorite Game"

Chapter Text

Pete passes me the joint like it’s some kind of holy relic and not just the last of the skunky backyard weed we split the cost on.

We’re parked on his back porch, both of us hunched in flannels and thrift store jackets, boots propped up on a rusted-out milk crate. There’s a horror movie playing in the background—Phantasm II, I think—but we’re not really watching it. We’re just letting the blood and synth soundtrack wash over us while we pretend we’re not avoiding the real stuff.

“I’m telling you,” Pete says, exhaling smoke into the frozen air, “if a flying metal death ball came at me, I’d just accept it. No running. Just open arms and vibes.”

“You wouldn’t even try to dodge?” I grin. “Scream a little?”

“I’m not built for cardio, Marzia. I’ve made peace with that.”

I snort. “Fair.”

The porch smells like pine needles and weed. The screen door creaks when the wind kicks up, and it’s freezing, but it’s kind of nice. Itchy and awkward in the way only winter break can be when you’re seventeen and everything feels like it’s both too much and about to end.

Pete leans back against the railing, hoodie pulled up like a little goth Jedi. “You ready for midterms?”

“Not even remotely,” I mutter, taking a drag. “I’ve got three essays due and I haven’t opened my backpack since finals. I might just drop out and start a commune in the Catskills.”

Pete gives me a solemn nod. “Academic self-destruction is very punk rock.”

I smirk and stare out across the snow-dusted backyard. “Says the guy who forgot his locker combo and just stopped using it.”

“Those textbooks are dead to me. Like, spiritually. I’ve moved on.”

There’s a quiet beat, and I can feel him watching me. I don’t look at him. I focus on the shriveled string of Christmas lights across the fence like they’re suddenly fascinating.

“You know,” he says, slow and thoughtful, “you act different around Bill.”

That yanks my attention back like a slap to the face.

“What?”

“You do,” Pete says, shrugging, not mean, just honest. “You get all weird. Not bad weird, just... glitchy. Like you’re buffering.”

“I do not.” I scoff, too fast.

He raises an eyebrow. “Denial is also punk rock, apparently.”

I try to think of something clever to say, but “glitchy” sticks in my brain like a splinter. Because I do feel different around Bill. Lighter and heavier all at once. Like I’m floating just a little too close to something hot.

But I don’t say that.

Instead, I check my knockoff Casio and curse. “Shit—we’re late. He’s gonna throw a fit.”

Pete groans. “Do we have to go?”

“Yes, Pete. It’s club night. If we miss two in a row, Bill’ll summon something.”

We stomp out the joint, Febreze our jackets like idiots with actual Febreze, and head off down the icy block.

When we get to Bill’s basement door, it’s already half-open. Inside, I can hear Jerry muttering about continuity errors in the X-Men cartoon while Josh cackles at something probably disgusting.

We clomp down the steps, shaking snow off our boots. The basement’s the usual chaos: dim lighting, half-empty soda cans, a paused Sega game on the screen. It smells like Doritos and teen boy failure. Posters peeling off the wall like they’re trying to escape.

“’Bout time,” Bill mutters, slouched in his folding chair like a pissed-off gargoyle. Arms crossed, legs spread like he owns the floor.

“We were watching Phantasm II,” I say, unzipping my coat. “Sorry. I was learning how to not outrun death spheres.”

Bill’s eyes flick to Pete. Not friendly. Not subtle.

“You two’ve been hanging out a lot lately,” he says, flat.

Pete just shrugs. “Marz knows her horror shit.”

Bill grunts, his gaze sliding to me. It lingers a beat too long. “Weird. You almost pissed yourself during the clown scene in The Brave Little Toaster.”

My cheeks heat up. God, I hate that. “I was like five. And that clown was horrific, okay?”

“Mm.” Bill picks up the Sega controller, messing with the cords. “Some of us don’t change. Like cockroaches. Or Pete’s GPA.”

“Hey!” Pete throws a gummy bear at his head.

Josh guffaws like a donkey. Jerry sighs, probably praying for all of us to spontaneously combust.

And I—idiot that I am—just feel my stomach twist.

Because Bill’s being a jealous little bastard.

And it shouldn’t feel good.

But it does.

Not in the healthy, butterflies-in-the-stomach way. More like a shot of battery acid to the chest.

He’s petty. He’s possessive. He masks it in jokes, but it’s there. It always has been.

And I should hate that. I do hate that. But my heart doesn’t care.

Pete is easy. Comfortable. He makes me laugh without trying. I don’t have to measure myself around him.

But with Bill?

It’s like walking a tightrope over a live wire.

When I sit beside him on the carpet, Bill shifts closer. Barely. A fraction.

But I notice.

I always notice.

And when our hands brush during the inevitable chaos of club night, I don’t pull away. I don’t say anything. I just sit there, still and humming with static.

Because falling for Bill Dickey isn’t romantic.

It’s chemical. It’s self-inflicted. It’s a dare I keep taking, over and over again.

Like playing chicken with a train just to see if I can beat it.

Because sometimes, the most familiar pain is the one you mistake for love.

And I haven’t learned how to jump yet.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

December 19th, 1998

I click on the shitty lamp next to my bed and stare at the blank page in my journal. The little stars on the corner of the paper look smug, like they’re daring me to figure out what I’m feeling. I chew the pen cap until it almost snaps.

Start simple, right? Just facts. I write:

Went to Pete’s. Watched Phantasm II. Cold as hell but chill.

I pause. That sounds like a postcard. Not like the actual night, not like the weird breathless way the air felt when Pete said I act different around Bill. Not like how it stuck in my chest for the next two hours.

I add:

He’s not wrong. I do get weird around Bill. Floaty, he said. I think that fits.

I stop again. Stare at the ink.

Then I write:

Bill got jealous. Not in a normal way either. Not in like a “hey are you two dating?” way. More like a “why the hell are you talking to him when I exist?” kind of way. Possessive. Like I’m something he left on a shelf and doesn’t want anyone else touching.

I tap the pen against the page. My handwriting’s gone all jagged. The word possessive sticks out like a splinter.

And the worst part is—I liked it.

I cross that line out. Hard. Dig the pen into the page so hard it almost tears.

I liked it.

I shouldn’t. I know I shouldn’t. That kind of jealousy is stupid and gross and not flattering. It’s not a compliment. It’s not healthy. He doesn’t get to act like he owns me. He never did.

Then why do I still feel that weird buzz in my stomach when he looks at me like that?

I clench my teeth. The journal shakes a little in my hands.

God, what’s wrong with me?

I rip the page out before I can overthink it. Just tear, clean across the spiral, and ball it up in my fist. I chuck it into the corner like it’s going to poison the air if I keep it near me.

The lamp’s still glowing that pale yellow, but I don’t want to look at anything anymore. I slam the journal shut, toss it aside, and flop backward onto my bed.

Groan.

Loud and long into my pillow.

I don’t know what’s worse: the way he looks at me, or the way I’m starting to like it.

And that’s where I leave it.

That’s where I have to leave it.

Because if I start pulling at that thread, I’m pretty sure everything’s gonna come undone.

Chapter 25: 2008 - "Happy X-Mas (War is Over)"

Chapter Text

I’d been dreading today like a dentist appointment you can't reschedule.

Not because of the holiday. Christmas at home is usually fine—warm food, too many hugs, and just enough wine to take the edge off.

But this year?

This year the roommate situation came to light.

So now I get to spend Christmas Day facing the firing squad disguised as my loving, chaotic family.

I park a block away—because our street has the worst snow removal in Staten Island—and trudge through slush up to the porch. The cold bites through my boots. My fingers are already numb.

The door creaks open before I even knock.

“Marzia, la mia bambina!” Mama pulls me into a hug that smells like roast turkey and Chanel No. 5.

“Ciao, Mama,” I murmured into her shoulder, feeling my entire spine decompress like a slinky.

She keeps her arm draped over my shoulder as we head inside. “Drive alright? You make it in one piece?”

“Little slick in spots, but yeah. I’m here.”

“Aunt MarMar!” My nephew Julian comes barreling toward me like a sugar-high bullet. I barely have time to brace before he’s latched onto my knees.

“Hey, buddy!” I crouch to scoop him up. “How’s kindergarten treating you?”

“I get to color and run fast!” he beams, like he’s cracked the code to the universe. Then he zips off to Anna, my sister-in-law, yelling something about macaroni crafts.

“It’s been forever, Marz!” my brother Antonio says, giving me a side-hug.

“It was Thanksgiving four weeks ago, Toni,” I say, but hug him back anyway.

Marco leans against the fridge with the same smirk he’s had since middle school. “Yeah, but a lot can happen in a month, huh, roomie?”

I roll my eyes so hard I see static. “Not that much.”

Dad chuckles from the recliner, already halfway into a Bud Light. “I’m just glad we’re all back under one roof.” His voice cracks a little. The man gets sentimental around the holidays. Can’t blame him. Grandpa Richard died the day after Christmas eight years ago. Dad found him—still sitting on the porch in his favorite rocking chair, stereo playing “The Part Where I Cry.” He hasn’t touched that song since.

“I know, Daddy.” I kneel next to him and give his hand a squeeze. “Me too.”

The moment hangs heavy for a second. That familiar ache that hits when someone’s missing.

I slip into the kitchen to pour myself a glass of wine while Mama sets the turkey down like it's a sacred offering. She hums something soft—Dean Martin, maybe—as she rearranges the gravy boat like it personally offended her.

Then, quiet enough so no one else hears:

“How’re things with your roommate?”

I freeze mid-sip. Of course. She waited until we were alone.

“They’re fine,” I say quickly. “He, uh… he started going to therapy.”

Mama raises an eyebrow, not in judgment, just acknowledgment. “Well… no offense, Marzia, mia cara… but it’s about damn time.”

I bark a short, nervous laugh and take another sip. “Yeah.”

She steps closer, rests her hand over mine. “Marzia…” she says softly, carefully, like she’s approaching a wounded animal. “I don’t pry. But I see how you talk about him. Even when you’re tryin’ not to.”

I start to open my mouth—to deny it, change the subject, pretend I don’t know what she means—but she squeezes my hand before I get the chance.

“I’m not asking for details,” she says. “You’re grown. You got your own life now. But promise me you’re takin’ care of you, too. Not just hovering around someone you’re hoping’ll fix himself.”

Then she turns back to the table, adjusting napkins like she didn’t just chuck a grenade into my chest.

“Love can make you real patient,” she says over her shoulder, calm as anything, “but that doesn’t mean it isn’t wearin’ you out.”

The words hit so hard, I forget how to breathe.

My fingers tighten around the stem of my wine glass. The red sloshes, threatening to spill, but all I can do is stare down into it like it’s supposed to have answers. It doesn’t. It just wobbles—like me.

I want to laugh it off. Say something snarky. Pivot to a safe topic.

But nothing comes out.

Because the truth is…I don’t know if I love Bill.

Or—worse—I don’t know if I ever stopped.

God, I wish it were simple. I wish I could just hate him. Or write him off. Or tuck him away like a half-read comic I stopped caring about. Something to shove in a longbox and forget.

But he’s still there. In my house. On my futon. In my kitchen at 2AM, microwaving leftover spaghetti and looking at me like he’s trying to remember who I am.

I keep telling myself we’re just roommates. That it’s easier this way. That it works.

But sometimes…

Sometimes he stares a second too long.

Sometimes I linger in the hall just to hear him laugh at some terrible infomercial.

And sometimes—when I hear the door open—I smile before I remember I’m supposed to still be mad at him.

Mama hums, totally unaware she just cracked open something I’ve been taping shut with mental duct tape for months.

I take another sip of wine. Bite the inside of my cheek. Pretend I’m not quietly falling apart in the middle of her kitchen.

Dinner gets called like it’s the last supper. Dad says grace, eyes closed tight like he’s bracing for something. The table bursts into motion—dishes passed around, turkey carved, wine refilled. I top off my glass before anyone notices I’ve already drained the first.

Conversation starts bouncing around like a pinball machine.

Mama and Dad go first. He’s thinking about retiring—says the trucking’s catching up to him. He doesn’t look anyone in the eye when he says it.

Then Marco and his girlfriend Lindsay talk about moving in together. They’re still in that smug, everything-is-great phase, which makes me vaguely nauseous.

Antonio and Anna start listing off the chaos that is raising Julian. I love my nephew, but the kid is basically a gremlin in Velcro shoes.

Eventually, Mama turns to me with a warm little smile. The unspoken “your turn” hangs in the air.

I sigh, swirl the wine, and force a half-smile.

“Well…” I start. “The kids at school are doing alright. Most of the class can tie their shoes now. And they’re making it to the bathroom on time—mostly.”

A weak laugh follows. I take another drink.

Anna beams. “I bet you’re amazing with them, Marz. I don’t know how you do it. I can barely keep up with this one.” She gestures at Julian, who’s aggressively mashing potatoes into his face like it’s performance art.

Toni leans in with a grin that should be illegal. “Yeah, our Marzia. Real angel. Total saint. Letting strays live on her couch and everything.”

I shoot him a look sharp enough to draw blood. “Yeah, you know me. Never could resist a fixer-upper.”

Marco snorts. “Emphasis on stray.”

Mama cuts in with a warning glare. “Basta. You two.” Then to me: “Ignore them, innamorata. You know they’ve got the emotional range of drywall.”

I nod, give her a little smile. Out of the corner of my eye, I catch Dad’s hand tightening around his silverware. The knife trembles in his grip, knuckles white.

His voice cuts through the clatter like a warning shot. “That boy pulls any of that shit again…”

“Logan,” Mama says quietly, placing a hand on his wrist.

“Camilla.” His voice is low, but it’s heavy.

She doesn’t let go. Just rubs slow circles into his wrist until he exhales hard and sets the knife down.

Then, gentler: “Just… be careful, Mariz. You always want to save the sick puppies. But sometimes… they don’t want saving.”

I stare down at my plate. I’ve barely touched it. The turkey’s cold now.

I know he’s right. Not everyone can be saved. Some people are just broken in ways you can’t unbreak.

But that doesn’t mean there’s nothing good in Bill.

I’ve seen it. I know it’s there.

Even if nobody else does.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
After dessert and a third glass of wine, I finally make my way back home. The cold air sobers me a little as I pull into the driveway, headlights briefly catching the snowfall still blanketing the street.

Inside, the house is dim, lit only by the soft, flickering glow of the TV. Bill’s already home—curled up on the couch, half-lost in the light of Frosty the Snowman. His hazel eyes are heavy, sleep or sadness clinging to them. Honestly, I can’t tell which.

“How’d it go?” I ask, slipping off my coat and sinking into the cushion beside him.

He lets out a bitter little laugh. “About as well as you’d expect.”

“Damn.”

“Yeah.” He scrubs a hand over his face. “Everything was fine…until Mom brought up the fucking fire.”

I glance over at him. His jaw’s tight, eyes unfocused. But the guilt’s there—quiet and creeping in at the edges. It’s not the self-destructive kind I’m used to seeing in him. This is heavier. Older. Like it’s finally starting to settle in his bones.

“Yours go better?” he asks, still staring at the screen like he’s trying not to flinch at the memories.

I sigh. “I had three glasses of wine, if that tells you anything.”

He turns his head, eyebrows lifting. “You don’t even like wine.”

I shrug. “Did tonight.”

Silence falls between us, soft and not unwelcome. The cartoon snowman sings quietly in the background, his voice tinny through the speakers.

I reach for the remote. “Let’s watch something that’s not holiday-related. Please.”

He finally looks at me—really looks—and his lips twitch up into something resembling a smile. “Dark Knight Rises?”

I groan. “Fine. But if you start quoting the Joker again—”

“No promises,” he says, already smirking.

The movie starts. Familiar dialogue fills the room. I stretch out across the couch, legs draped casually over his lap. He doesn’t shift away—instead, he glances over, eyes tracing my face with something caught between a question and a plea.

His lips part like he wants to speak, then close again.

I get the hint.

Without a word, I open my arms.

He moves toward me slowly, like he’s afraid I’ll change my mind. Then his weight settles against me, head resting against my chest, his body folded into mine like a worn blanket. His feet dangle over the edge of the couch, as always.

My arms wrap around him. His slide behind me, holding on like I’m something real in a world that stopped making sense.

Outside, the wind picks up, rattling the windows and hissing against the siding. Snow continues to fall in slow, heavy flakes, cloaking the world in silence.

The movie plays on. But I’m not paying attention anymore.

Because there’s something blooming in my chest—slow and warm, stubborn and dangerous.

I try not to name it.

But I know what it is.

And I know I’m not ready to let it go.

Chapter 26: 1998 - "Let Me Sleep (It's Christmas Time)"

Chapter Text

There’s a weird smell in Bill’s basement.

It’s kind of like musty carpet mixed with old comic ink and whatever brand of teenage boy funk gets trapped between layers of unopened X-Men figures and empty Cheez Doodles bags. But honestly? I’ve missed it. More than I’d ever admit.

“About time,” Bill grunts as I stomp the snow off my boots and shut the door behind me. He’s sitting on his normal squeaky folding chair like some twisted Santa Claus in a Spawn hoodie. “You’re late.”

“I had to wait for grandpa to finish telling us about the time he and Waylon tag-teamed Dolly Parton,” I deadpan, with a roll of my eyes as I peel off my scarf.

Pete sprawled across the beanbag chair like a corpse that just finished a two-liter of Surge. “Was he in front or in the back?”

“Bleh, I didn’t ask,” I say, with a shiver of disgust as I drop onto the couch next to Josh, who’s currently halfway through assembling a Millennium Falcon model. Jerry’s cross-legged on the floor with a clipboard and a pile of RPG dice that could kill a man if thrown right.

Bill tosses a wrapped package at me without even looking. “Merry Crapmas.”

“Wow. You shouldn’t have.”

“You’re damn right I shouldn’t have,” he snaps, then snorts. “But I did.”

They’re all pretending like this isn’t a thing, but it kind of is. Everyone’s got a tiny little gift in their lap or under the folding table. Nothing big. Nothing fancy. But it’s these idiots. I think this is... as close to sentimental as they get.

Pete hands Josh a roll of Spider-Man toilet paper. Josh grins like he just got a box set of Star Wars autographs.

Jerry gifts Bill a sealed copy of Justice League Europe #1. “Don’t ask what I paid.”

Bill tries not to look touched. Fails.

And me? I got a set of glitter pens from Josh—“For your weird manga shit,” he said with a shrug. Pete gave me a mix CD titled Nihilism and Neon Hair: Vol. 1, and Jerry handed me a laminated character sheet.

None of them made a big deal out of it. No hugs. No “Welcome to the club!” signs.

But then Bill cleared his throat.

He slid a small, square box across the coffee table toward me. Didn’t say anything. Didn’t even look at me.

I opened it.

Inside was a homemade pin—clunky and crooked, clearly made by hand, probably in some mad rush. But it had an “EC” carved into it, painted over with red nail polish.

“Eltingville Club,” I said softly.

No one said a word. Not even Pete.

I looked over at Bill, but he was pretending to dig through his comic bins, cheeks pink from either the heater or something else.

I pinned it to my jacket anyway.

The snowball fight started because Pete beaned Josh in the face with a wadded-up paper plate.

That’s usually how things go around here. No warning. Just chaos.

One second, we were arguing over whether The Phantom Menace was going to ruin the franchise, the next, we were outside, screaming obscenities and launching snowballs like we were trying to storm the beaches of Normandy.

Bill shoved a handful of snow down Jerry’s hoodie.

Josh screamed something about “Gene Roddenberry’s vengeance.”

I tripped on a snowbank and got tackled by Pete.

And for a while, there was nothing but laughter echoing through the suburbs. Just the sound of four nerds and one displaced goth girl acting like idiots in the cold, the kind of moment you don’t realize is important until it’s already melting away.

Bill and I ended up behind the shed, catching our breath. My cheeks were red. His nose was running. We were both grinning like morons.

He looked at me, eyes a little softer than usual, and nodded toward the pin on my jacket. “It’s not official unless you get pelted with snow by all four founding members.”

I smirked. “So it’s hazing now?”

He smirked back. “You love it.”

I didn’t say anything.

But I didn’t take the pin off, either.

Chapter 27: 2009 - "Sometime Around Midnight"

Chapter Text

What’s there to say about it? We’ve made another rotation around the sun without the planet blowing up like the Death Star in A New Hope. Congrat-u-fucking-lations, humans. I still don’t get why there’s so much fanfare. It's just another day.

That’s what I kept telling myself while Bill and I stumbled through our morning, then our afternoon, and eventually our evening. I hadn’t planned anything—God knows Bill sure as hell didn’t. The couch gremlin was probably online somewhere arguing about the latest Batman issue and how they “ruined the franchise.”

Okay. I’m being a little disingenuous.

He hasn’t been doing that bad. Still in therapy. Still journaling. Still bitching about it—but hey, at least he’s fucking doing it.

He doesn’t complain about showering (that much) anymore, he only drinks at night, and he’s cut back on the smoking.

Progress?

Maybe.

And it’s not just me seeing it.

Jerry and Mandi have had front-row seats to the slow, painful evolution of Bill Dickey: The Human Being™. They’ve been supportive in that careful, not-overbearing way that says we're here for you without smothering us.

Josh and Pete—who had been mostly MIA since the October intervention trainwreck—have started easing back in. Josh texts sometimes to ask if I’m alive, or if I’ve kicked Bill out yet. Y’know, standard friendly banter. And every so often, a twelve-pack shows up on my doorstep with a note in scratchy handwriting: So you don’t kill his stupid ass – P.

It’s not exactly emotionally available, but hey… they're trying.

So yeah, I wasn’t expecting to hear a knock on the door at 9 PM.

Bill and I were parked on the couch, half-listening to some late-night TV host drone about the past year like any of it actually mattered. I answered the door wearing the rattiest hoodie I own and a pair of pajama pants.

“Hey, Marz!”

Jerry and Mandi stood outside—with Pete grinning like a lunatic, holding up a 24-pack, and Josh behind him, awkwardly offering a bag of chips with a sheepish smile.

“Happy New Year, fuckers,” Pete grinned.

I blinked. “Uh… what are you guys—”

“It’s New Year’s,” Mandi smiled warmly. “We figured you two could use some company.”

“So we grabbed these idiots and came over,” Jerry added.

Pete flashed another grin. “What? Not happy to see us, Marz?”

I stood there, caught off guard by this surprise half-assed party. I fumbled for a response, but luckily, I had backup.

“Who’s that, Marz—” Bill shuffled up behind me, pausing when he saw the crowd. He was wearing one of my hoodies and a pair of Green Lantern pajama pants. “What the hell is this?”

“It’s New Year’s,” Pete repeated, holding up the beer like it explained everything. “Let’s get wasted!”

Josh finally spoke up, his grin a little softer. “We’re not letting you two spend New Year’s alone.”

“You guys in?” Jerry asked.

I glanced at Bill, a smile tugging at the corners of my lips. He looked back at me, smirked, and shrugged.

“Why not.”

For a moment, it almost felt like no time had passed. Like it was still ‘98 and we were teenagers again—making shitty jokes, giving each other hell, and eating our collective weight in gas station junk food.

Dick Clark's New Year's Rockin' Eve blared from the TV. Random pop stars screamed into microphones for their fifteen minutes of fame. I wasn’t paying much attention. Josh and Pete were mid-argument about the new Power Rangers series while Jerry was annihilating Bill in Magic: The Gathering.

I laughed as Bill got salty over his loss. Of course Jerry won. He’s a literal professional—why Bill even tries is beyond me.

I cracked open another beer and slumped further into the couch. Mandi was next to me, the two of us like exhausted camp counselors watching over a group of chaotic twelve-year-olds.

“The more I watch this,” Mandi muttered, nodding toward the TV, “the more I wonder if any of these people ever change.”

“That guy’s been hosting this since we were kids,” I replied, taking a sip. “And he doesn’t look like he’s aged a day.”

“Mmhmm. Fuckin’ Hollywood.”

“I’m twenty-eight and I already have crow’s feet. How does Dick Clark’s old ass not have a single goddamn wrinkle!?”

Mandi laughed and gave my arm a playful slap. She took another sip and glanced over at Jerry, who was now trying to walk Bill through a strategy—while Bill half-listened with that classic Bill expression: part intrigue, part ‘why the hell am I doing this.’

“I think this is the happiest I’ve seen Jerry since college,” Mandi murmured, low like she didn’t want to jinx it.

I glanced at her, a smile twitching at the corners of my mouth. After everything—the fire, the fallout, the silence—I’d been so wrapped up in my chaos that I didn’t stop to think about how the others were doing.

Leaving town. Coming back. Realizing nothing was going to be the same ever again. I guess I just… shut everyone out.

God. Am I a shitty person?

“Hey, Marz!” Pete yelled from the balcony. “C’mon! Someone’s setting off fireworks!”

“Coming!” I called back, standing up and shaking the thoughts off for another night.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

After a few more drinks, jokes about our aging appearances, and getting halfway through Revenge of the Sith, most of the crew had tapped out. Pete was passed out upside down in the recliner like a dropped action figure, Josh had gone deadweight against the couch, and Jerry and Mandi were curled up on the floor, her head rising and falling with his chest. I tossed a blanket over them so they wouldn’t freeze to death. They didn’t even flinch.

Bill and I were the only ones still half-awake, sprawled out on the couch. I had my head on his chest, my fingers tracing lazy circles along his arm while the movie droned on in the background. His hands rested lightly at my waist—not holding me, just there.

“I think I’ve seen this movie a hundred times…” he mumbled. Josh’s snoring almost drowned him out.

“At least.” My voice came out hazy, the alcohol blurring everything just enough to make the world feel soft around the edges.

I glanced up at him, and he was already looking down at me. There was something different in his eyes—not soft, not romantic, not some Hallmark shit—but something real. Tired. Present. Quiet.

Maybe it was the TV glow playing tricks, or the heat from the beer, or the fact that it had been so long since I’d let myself want something—but it hit me all at once.

I leaned up, slow at first, giving him time to pull away.

He didn’t.

Instead, he leaned in too. Our lips met, and just like that, everything else fell away.

His mouth was warm and familiar, and I felt myself melt into it, one kiss spilling into the next. I shifted onto his lap, half for balance, half because I wanted to be closer. He groaned softly against my lips, his hands sliding up my sides, gripping tighter now.

“Marzia…” He groaned against my lips, grinding his hardening length against the crotch of my pajama pants.

I stifle a moan against his lips, feeling warmth beginning to gather in my panties. My breath gets heavier as I let my hands rest on his shoulders. I rest my head against his forehead, shockwaves of pleasure shooting through my body.

“Marzia…” he groaned against my mouth, grinding against the crotch of my pajama pants, already hard.

I bit back a moan, heat pooling between my legs. My breath hitched, hands clinging to his shoulders as I leaned into the contact, dizzy from the sudden rush.

His fingers slipped beneath the waistband of my pants, hand sliding down until he was cupping me through my underwear. He broke away from the kiss with a hiss beside my ear.

“Fuck… I want you so bad right now.”

A tremble rolled through me as he rubbed slow, deliberate circles over my clit through the fabric. My forehead dropped to his shoulder and I whimpered, my hips pushing into his hand without thinking.

“P-Please…” The word slipped out as a needy whine, way more desperate than I’d meant it to be. But it had been so long. Too long.

He tapped my hips. “Bedroom.”

I nodded quickly, climbing off his lap and weaving around the sea of unconscious bodies on the floor.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Once the bedroom door clicked shut, he was on me again.

He pressed me against the door, kissing me like he’d been starving for it. There was nothing delicate about it — just heat and want and years of unresolved tension snapping like elastic between us.

I moaned into his mouth as his tongue slid against mine. My body molded to him automatically, like muscle memory.

His hands were already under my hoodie. “Take it off,” he muttered roughly, breath hot against my lips. “Wanna see you.”

I hesitated for a second — it had been a long time since anyone had looked at me like that. Since he had. But I tugged the hoodie over my head, then reached behind to unhook my bra and let it drop.

He groaned low, hands sliding up to cup my breasts, calloused thumbs brushing over my nipples before his mouth followed. I gasped as he sucked and swirled his tongue over one, switching to the other with a hunger that made my knees weak.

My fingers twisted in his hair. My back arched. My whole body burned.

He pulled off my chest with a quiet pop and guided me to the bed. Stripping off his hoodie, he hovered over me, staring with that same look I’d only ever seen in flashes — something real, something raw.

“You’re so fucking beautiful…” he muttered.

He kissed down my body, his tongue tracing my stomach before hooking his fingers in my waistband and tugging everything off in one motion. I shivered, completely exposed under his gaze.

His fingers found my clit again, rubbing slow, precise circles that made my back arch off the bed. My breath stuttered.

“Goddamn…” he breathed, voice rough and reverent. “Always this wet for me, huh?”

My hips lifted helplessly into his hand. “Only…you…”

His fingers slowed for a second. “Only me?” he repeated, eyes locking on mine.

I moaned softly, nodding. “Y-Yeah…”

Even when we weren’t talking. Even when I thought we were done for good. I’d never let anyone else in.

He swore under his breath and pulled his hand away. “Fuck. I need to be inside you.”

He shoved his pants down — no boxers, of course — and lined himself up. He paused just long enough to meet my eyes, then pushed in slowly, inch by inch, until he was buried to the hilt.

I gasped, head falling back. The stretch made my eyes water, but it was the good kind — the overwhelming, breath-stealing kind.

He groaned in my ear. “Tight little pussy… my pussy.”

Then he started to move — slow at first, then faster, his thrusts deep and unrelenting. His hips slammed into me, the pressure relentless and perfect. My nails dug into his shoulders as my legs wrapped around him, body shaking with every stroke.

“Ah—fuck, Bill…” I hissed through clenched teeth, trying to keep quiet. Everyone was still out there.

He grunted and grabbed my thighs, pushing my legs up and folding me almost in half. My breath caught. I knew this angle — I’d seen it in a doujin buried at the back of my closet. Apparently, so had he.

At this angle, every thrust hit deeper. I cried out, barely holding back a sob as he rocked into me, hitting spots that made me see stars. He leaned down, circling my clit again.

My mouth opened in a silent scream, body trembling as the orgasm built fast, hard, and impossible to stop.

“Bill…oh my God—fuck—I’m gonna—”

“Do it,” he groaned. “Cum for me. Cum on my cock.”

That was all it took. I shattered around him, pleasure tearing through me like a wave. My body clenched tight, and he cursed, burying himself deep with a final thrust before spilling inside me.

He collapsed beside me, face-down into the pillow, breathing hard.

I was no better — my chest heaved, skin flushed and damp. My body still buzzed.

Eventually, he turned his head to look at me. His expression was… different. Softer. Calmer. Older.

Was it age?

Therapy?

I didn’t know. But the way he looked at me…

It did something to my chest. Something dangerous.

He reached for me, and I didn’t hesitate. I slid in close, curling against him, letting his warmth settle around me like a weighted blanket.

His heartbeat thundered in my ear.

And for the first time in years, I let myself wonder:

Was he feeling it too?

Chapter 28: 1999 - "Doll Parts"

Chapter Text

If there’s a more depressing sound than the 7:50 bell echoing through the linoleum tomb that is Eltingville High, I haven’t heard it.

Maybe it’s the sound of Pete slurping the last of orange juice from a crumpled vending machine bottle while Josh rants that Batman: The Animated Series is the only thing holding western animation together. That’s a strong contender.

But really—winter break barely gave me a chance to recover from the emotional whiplash of being showered with that handmade pin and then pelted with weaponized snowballs by four emotionally stunted nerds. And now we’re back in the hormone zoo.

“You still smell like powdered cheese,” I mutter, elbowing Pete as we shuffle into Joe’s Comics after school.

“That’s the smell of victory, Marz,” he grins, brushing chip crumbs off his Korn hoodie like they’re badge fragments.

Joe’s Fantasy World hasn’t changed—still smells like dust, vinyl, and childhood dreams. Joe himself, behind the counter, is the same grubby-ass neckbeard with an air of permanent disappointment and superiority. I still remember when Marco knocked down one of his displays when we were kids. He almost popped a testicle.

I barely get two steps in before Bill freezes mid-rant, pointing at a bright orange flyer duct-taped to the New Releases wall.

“GOLDEN STATE COMIC-CON – January 16th!”

“Holy shit,” Jerry whispers. “That’s like… the next town over.”

“We’re going,” Bill declares, as if the convention were a challenge meant to prove his honor. “All of us.”

“Hell yeah,” Pete says, fist-pumping with a rolled-up Wolverine. “First official Eltingville Club con trip.”

Josh adjusts his glasses. “We’ll need a prep strategy: routes, panels, vendor priorities. You think they’ll have bootlegs? I need to finish my Bubblegum Crisis set.”

Bill stares at the flyer like it’s his life’s purpose. “We gotta start planning. Now. No dead weight. No rookies.”

Then his eyes flick toward me.

“What?” I say, caught between amusement and annoyance.

He crosses his arms. “We’ve got… a situation.”

“Oh god,” Jerry mutters, rubbing his temples.

Bill gestures at me as if solving a logic puzzle. “Look—Marzia’s solid. She’s got good taste. Weird, but good. But we can’t take her into the con jungle if she can’t hold her own in a debate.”

Pete nods solemnly. “We can’t have her fumbling when some greaseball quizzes her on Hellboy continuity.”

“Dude,” I snapped. “I love Hellboy!”

Bill doesn’t back down. “Oh really? Tell me, what year was the first issue of Seed of Destruction released?”

I pause, the question catching me off-guard.

Bill raises an eyebrow.

“…Okay. But that doesn’t mean—Hellboy can still get it.”

Bill sucks in a breath and pinches the bridge of his nose. “Goddammit, Marzia… that’s exactly what I’m saying!” He flings his hands as if on a courtroom stage. “We’re going to a con, not a slumber party. It’s a battlefield of neckbeards. We need to train you.”

“I don’t need training,” I say, my tone clipped.

“You kinda do,” Josh chimes in from the bootleg shelf without looking up.

I glare at them all. “You’re all assholes.”

Pete pats my shoulder. “Yeah, yeah, but you’re still here, ain’t ya? Now come on—we’re starting Nerd Boot Camp in Bill’s basement. Hope you like yelling.”

A whiteboard looms over a table, flashcards stuck to it in childish handwriting. We’re in full speed-argument drill mode, and I’m pretty sure Jerry made me debate the ethics of Clone Saga twice just to see me sweat.

“Pete, you can’t yell ‘PLOT ARMOR’ every time someone mentions Spider-Man 2099!” I bark.

“Can and will,” Pete replies, launching a Cheez Doodle at my forehead.

Bill, always the drill sergeant, prowls over. He catches me spacing out while Pete explains Robotech timelines like a caffeinated conspiracy theorist and lowers his voice so only I can hear:

“You’re doing fine. Just… don’t let them talk over you. You’ve got stuff to say. Say it.”

I blink, almost smiling. “Thanks, Dad.”

“Shut up,” he retorts, cheeks flushing, then returns to his tirade about trivia and nerd lore.

The next day, I’m grabbing my stuff for first period Trigonometry when Jerry slides up. “You know,” he says as we walk, “they’re being jerks about it, but we’re glad you’re coming.”

I raise an eyebrow. “To the con?”

He clarifies, “Yeah—this is a big deal for us. Back when Bill and I were in middle school, we used to dream about hitting the big time and buying imported figures from Japan. That was our destiny, even if it sounds stupid now.”

There’s a pause. “Thanks,” I say, “even if I have to survive trivia torture to prove I’m worthy.”

He shrugs. “It’s a rite of passage.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

There’s a smell in the store that could legally be classified as a biological weapon—a cocktail of dust, melted plastic, and simmering sadness. We’re killing time, like always. Bill’s at the counter, mid-rant with some dude about why The Phantom Menace will “absolutely NOT suck” because “Lucas is involved and that’s FINAL.” Pete is rummaging through discount bins like he’s defusing a bomb, and Josh is ignoring everyone while flipping through a bootleg Sailor Moon artbook with enough typos to make my eyes bleed.

“You’re telling me Jar Jar’s not gonna ruin the whole thing?” some guy asks, eyebrows arching.

“I’m telling you Lucas is a genius,” Bill snaps, practically foaming. “Anyone who says otherwise is a mark for the Spielberg industrial complex!”

I nudge Pete. “How long do you think before Bill starts frothing and Joe has to break out the spray bottle again?”

Pete shrugs. “I’m just waiting to see if this guy swings first.”

Business as usual. Nerd combat. Dollar comics. Unspoken insults flung like shuriken. And for the most part, I blend in fine—I quote X-Men continuity, know every Tokusatsu series from the '70s to now, and I even beat Jerry in a Gundam Wing trivia-off last week (which I’m still high on).

Until Carly DeMarco’s name comes up.

“See that girl in gym? Redhead with the boobs?” Jerry says casually—as if he’s not setting fire to the part of my brain where my self-worth lives. “She asked Bill if he had a girlfriend.”

Bill, without blinking, declares, “She wouldn’t last five minutes around us.”

Everyone laughs. Even Josh, who probably thought we were joking about a game. Jerry adds something about “normies,” and Pete mimes vomiting into a long box.

I laugh too—but it stings. Not because it’s funny. Because Bill didn’t say “I’m not interested.” He said she wouldn’t survive.

Like that’s the bar for being with him. And I wonder—am I just the girl who somehow made it through the gauntlet? The one who didn’t run when Bill was screaming at a twelve-year-old over his take on Dune?

I thought I was more than that. Now, I’m not so sure.

I drift over to the front counter. Bill’s still grumbling, picking through “Joe’s Picks” shelf with a grumble. He doesn’t look at me when he says, “You want this?” as he nudges a bagged issue of Gen¹³ toward me.

I raise an eyebrow. “Is this an offering? Am I being sacrificed to the continuity gods?”

He rolls his eyes. “You like it. I found it in the trade bin. Figured you’d complain less if I gave you something.”

“Oh, how romantic.” I take it, my hands trembling a bit I try to ignore.

We walk back to Bill’s after Joe kicks us out for loitering again. The basement smells of old Doritos and burnt plastic. Pete names a dead mouse under the couch “Professor X.” I curl up on the couch, listening to the guys argue over who’d win in a fight—Spawn or Robocop—like the fate of the universe depends on it. My eyes are half-closed, until Bill hurls a pillow at my face.

“Goth girl, you dead?” he asks.

“Not yet,” I say, forcing a laugh. “But thanks for checking.”

He doesn’t press. He never does. That’s Bill in a nutshell: ready to tear your façade down with nerd-level intensity but never quite willing to go soft.

Eventually, it’s just the two of us. The others bail—Jerry has a history paper to finish, Josh needs to get home before his mom calls the cops, and Pete vanishes like a cryptid.

I’m half-asleep on the beanbag, flipping through the comic Bill gave me.

“You know,” Bill says suddenly, sitting on the floor next to me, “if you’re gonna hang with us at the con, you’d better start studying. Last thing I need is someone weeping in the dealer room ‘cause they got owned in a Spider-Man trivia challenge.”

I blink. “You’re… assigning me homework?”

“You think we can show up to a convention with someone who doesn’t know Gwen Stacy’s death issue number?” he says, shaking his head. “It’s a matter of pride.”

I snort, “Wow. You must really love me.”

He freezes for a second, then scoffs. “Yeah, sure. Right after I admit Batman & Robin is underrated.”

My laugh comes out tight. I bite my cheek. Then I watch his long fingers rifling through a box of dog-eared What If? issues—those same fingers I’ve imagined on my own, over and over.

I want to yell, “What am I to you? A teammate? A convenience? A backup singer in your nerd-rock band?”

But I just ask, “You really think I need training?”

He looks at me. His face is unreadable for a moment, then softens as he says, “I think you’re smart. But cons aren’t fun and games—they’re blood sport.”

I nod. That’s it. That’s all I can say.

I don’t sleep much that night.

Instead, I memorize Gwen Stacy’s death issue.

Just in case.

Chapter 29: 2009 - "Slow Show"

Chapter Text

Mornings after used to mean Advil, stale Doritos, and wondering where my shoes ended up. Now they come with the added bonus of waking up tangled in a t-shirt that doesn't belong to me, covered in someone else’s sweat, and staring at the ceiling wondering if I should smother myself with a pillow or just light the house on fire and vanish like a disgraced magician.

I blinked the crust out of my eyes and turned my head.

Yup. Still here.

Bill was snoring. Mouth open. Hair a mess. One hand curled near my bare thigh.

God help me… I didn’t hate it.

In fact, I had missed it. Sleeping this close to him. We hadn’t had sex since October. It’s not like we came to an agreement to stop. We just hadn’t done it.

I sat up slowly, doing the world’s saddest walk-of-shame shimmy to get my pajama pants back on. I was tying the strings on them as I walked down the hallway when I froze.

Goddammit.

Pete.

Rubbing his eyes. Sitting at the table. In his boxers.

He blinked at me, looking at my obviously dazed, disheveled appearance and then he smirked.

That fucker.

“You know, if you guys were gonna fuck, the least you could’ve done was not announce it to the entire suburb,” he said, grabbing a handful of chips from one of the leftover bags.

I opened my mouth.

Closed it.

Opened it again.

“Eat your fucking chips, Pete.”

“Oh, I am, Marz. I am.” He popped one in his mouth and crunched it. “Tastes like scandal.”

Behind him, Jerry wandered into the room rubbing his temples. Mandi followed, yawning, wrapped in a blanket. Josh groaned from the couch, flipping onto his side with the grace of a dropped potato sack.

Jerry’s eyes scanned me quickly. Hair? A sex-toussled mess. Pajamas? Clearly pulled on in a hasty attempt to make myself decent.

Obviously, not a good cover up job, but we’re not used to having guests.

His eyebrow arched. “You two finally cave?”

“Oh my God,” I muttered, pinching the bridge of my nose.

Mandi covered her mouth like she was trying not to laugh. “We heard things.”

“No, you didn’t,” I shot back.

“Pretty sure I heard the words ‘tight little—’”

“NO YOU DIDN’T!”

Josh snorted from the couch. “Don’t worry, Marz, we only really heard Bill.”

Before I could start throwing coasters at all of them, Bill shuffled out of the hallway shirtless, rubbing his neck like he’d just woken up from cryo-sleep. His hair was pointing in seven different directions, and he was rubbing his back.

The silence that hit was immediate. Deafening.

He froze.

Everyone stared.

Pete let out a barking laugh. “Damn Marz, you made Grandpa Bill throw his back out.”

“Pete, I swear to God.” I muttered, storming past them toward the kitchen.

“C’mon Marzia, we’re just kiddin’ you.” Mandi giggles and smiles at me.

I grumbled and started to fill the coffee maker up with grinds and a filter. Nothing better for a hangover than coffee.

A few minutes later, Bill sat down next to me at the table. I didn’t look at him.

He didn’t say anything, either.

No follow-up joke. No grumble about Pete being a shithead. Just silence.

I stared at the coffee as it filled the pot, the slow drip matching the weird, heavy pause in the room. The others had migrated to the living room again, mercifully distracted by some loud argument over what to watch, but I could still feel the weight of him next to me — still, rigid, a little too quiet to feel normal.

I snuck a glance.

He was hunched forward, arms braced on his knees, fingers twisting the frayed hem of the shirt he hadn’t bothered changing out of. His brows were pulled together, just a little. Not in that cartoon-villain way he usually wears when he’s pissed. This was something else. Subtler. Sharper.

He wasn’t looking at anything. Or maybe he was looking at everything—the floor, the counter, the wall like it had personally betrayed him.

A muscle in his jaw twitched.

Bill didn’t fidget like this unless something was chewing at him. And the silence? That was new. Bill didn’t do silence unless it was weaponized.

Now it just felt… heavy.

“You good?” I asked, keeping my voice low. Casual. Like I wasn’t bracing for him to snap or brush me off.

He nodded, quick. Too quick. Didn’t look up.

“Yup,” he said.

Short. Flat. The kind of yup that said please don’t ask me that again.

So I didn’t. But I also didn’t move away.

The coffee pot clicked. I poured two mugs.

One for me. One for him. Set it down gently in front of him like I was laying a trap and didn’t want to startle him.

He stared at it like it had eaten his last slice of pizza.

Finally, he spoke. Not looking at me. Not even looking at the mug.

“I thought I’d be… better at this by now.”

It came out low. Barely a breath.

And just like that, my chest got tight.

I didn’t answer. What could I say to that? That he was better? That he was trying? That he hadn’t bitten Pete’s head off or thrown a tantrum or started a fight with Josh about Aliens vs Predator?

He wouldn’t believe me. Not right now.

So I just took a sip of my coffee and stayed quiet.

Because maybe what he needed wasn’t a pep talk.

Maybe he just needed someone to sit next to him and not ask him to be okay.

After a minute, I shifted closer. Didn’t make a show of it. Just leaned into him and let my head rest against his shoulder.

He didn’t say anything. Didn’t flinch or pull away.

He just… let it happen.

And we sat there like that—two messed up people, pretending coffee and silence could hold our shit together—while our friends argued about which Power Rangers team had the most realistic arsenal in the next room.

It wasn’t a fix.

But it was something.

Chapter 30: 1999 - "No Rain"

Chapter Text

“What the hell are you wearing?” were the first words out of Bill’s mouth the morning of the convention.

I narrowed my eyes at him. “Dude, I’m Raven. Teen Titans?”

He looked me up and down. “If she was a bootleg knock-off figure from China, maybe.”

I furrowed my brows as I felt my face heating up. Stupid asshole.

I spent the better half of three weeks making this costume.

Okay…I thrifted the dress and made cuts in the seams…and the earrings aren’t fully accurate, but it was still a labor of love!

“Oh lay off, Bill.” Jerry finally came to my defense, probably being urged by his mom more than anything. “At least she resembles Raven.”

“Yeah, don’t act like you didn’t make your last costume out of cardboard and paper mache.” Pete called, hopping into the backseat of Jerry’s mom’s minivan.

“That was totally different and--”

“Just get in the fucking car, Bill.” I shoved past him, taking the seat beside Jerry. “We’ll miss the whole convention if you keep standing here complaining.”

He opened his mouth like she wanted to say something, to scream at us all, but after a shove from Josh, he finally decided to hop his happy ass in the car.

Finally, the first Eltingville Club con trip of ‘99 was ready to begin.

Jerry’s mom dropped us off two blocks from the convention center because she “didn’t want to get stuck in nerd traffic,” which, in her words, “smelled like mustard and failure.”

Josh had BO by the time we hit the sidewalk. Pete was already salivating over the exclusive Power Rangers zord re-release. Jerry was muttering about our route plan like we were about to storm Normandy. And Bill… Bill was chain-crunching sour gumballs and muttering insults about fake fans under his breath like a demon chewing glass.

And me? I was walking behind them, my cape swishing behind me as we entered a sea of cosplayers and neckbeards alike. As we finally made it inside the convention hall, I began to feel a surge of confidence inside me. I had done it. The hours of pouring over Grandma’s old sewing books and digging through Goodwill bins had finally paid off!

But the second I saw the other cosplayers—the pros with perfect wings and foam armor and hair that didn’t deflate in humidity—my confidence got sucker punched. I suddenly felt like a mall goth in Halloween leftovers.

Still, I followed the guys inside. What else was I gonna do—go home and cry into my Doom Patrol back issues?

The con floor was a beast—loud, crowded, chaotic. Pete nearly dislocated a shoulder elbowing a kid for a boxed Micronauts set. Jerry bee-lined for Artist Alley, nearly knocking over a life-size Boba Fett display. Josh yelled “This is BULLSHIT!” at a vendor charging fifty bucks for a bootleg Macross figure.

Bill, of course, complained.

“Half these hacks wouldn’t know Kirby dots from skid marks,” he muttered, scanning a print wall with disdain like he was grading homework. “And look at this overpriced trash. What’s next, a $20 pin of some big-titty anime chick with cat ears?”

“That one’s a guy,” I pointed out.

He blinked. “I stand by my point.”

Pete ran up, practically shaking with glee. “They’ve got a Battle Beasts crate for five bucks a scoop! I’m gonna clean house.”

“Try not to have a stroke,” I said. He didn’t hear me—he was already gone.

Josh was trying to barter down a dealer who looked like he'd fought in ‘Nam. “You’re telling me this—” he jabbed a finger at a half-melted Godzilla toy “—is worth twenty bucks? It doesn’t even ROAR.”

The dealer flicked it. It made a sound like a dying cat coughing up change. Josh snorted, then handed over a crumpled ten. “Fine. But I want a sticker too.”

Jerry had already filled a shopping bag with comics from the $1 bins and was lecturing the vendor about why Green Lantern/Green Arrow was “the superior socially aware team-up.”

I was browsing through whatever imported manga I could find. A few of them were in English, but it was so broken that it read like Yoda-speak.

“Y’know,” Bill said out of nowhere, glancing at my outfit, “That bootleg Raven costume you’re wearing isn’t the worst thing I’ve seen today.”

It was half a compliment, delivered like a slap. But my chest did a dumb flutter anyway. I hated that. I hated him for causing it.

Somehow, in between shouting about continuity errors and stalking bargain bins, it happened. They started bonding.

Bill found a dusty Robotech cel that made him go glassy-eyed. Jerry bought a knockoff Gundam print with warped legs and called it “a conversation piece.” Josh debated a ten-year-old over whether Greedo shot first and lost.

Even Pete got weirdly quiet at a longbox of first-print horror comics, thumbing through them like they were ancient scrolls. When he pulled out a beat-up Creepy #7, I swear he whispered “Holy shit” like he was in church.

It was… peaceful. Or as peaceful as it gets with this crew of caffeinated goblins.

They even waited for me when I stopped to admire a print of Trigon looming over the Titans. I said it looked cool. Jerry called it “objectively trash.” Pete just shrugged.

Bill didn’t say anything. Later, I caught him stuffing it into my bag.

The spiral hit around noon. That’s when I saw her.

Other Raven. Perfect Raven. She had the boots, the jewelry, the body type, the confidence. She floated through the crowd like she belonged on a cover page, while I stood nearby sweating under my cloak.

At that moment, I almost wished I could morph away whenever I felt like it. And as if that wasn’t bad enough, some neckbeard waddled past me and said,

“Raven’s supposed to be mysterious, not frumpy.”

I laughed like it was funny.

It wasn’t.

I peeled off from the group for a while and sulked behind the tabletop RPG booths. A girl with a giant cardboard mech suit brushed past me and I wanted to die. I was Raven, dammit. Raven didn’t get insecure. Raven wouldn’t let catty cosplayers or greasy trolls get to her.

So why did I feel like a joke?

That’s when Jerry found me. “You okay?”

I shrugged. “Yeah. Just…this costume’s itchy.”

He didn’t believe me. But Jerry’s the kind of guy who knows when to shut up. He pulled a Twizzler out of his hoodie pocket, handed it to me like a peace offering, and said,

“Trivia room’s got a DC Comics round.”

So I went.

Some girl was already onstage, trashing casuals and name-dropping creators like she’d been bottle-fed by Alan Moore himself. She ended a rant with.

“If you can’t tell Crisis pre- from post-, maybe stick to Sailor Moon, sweetheart.”

And something in me snapped.

The fuck is the matter with Sailor Moon?

I raised my hand. “I’ll play.”

The guys all turned in unison.

“Yo.” Josh murmured.

A lazy grin stretched across Pete’s face. “Whoa.”

Jerry just nodded, like this was the natural next stage of my evolution.

Bill crossed his arms. “You sure you wanna embarrass yourself? The questions don’t come with pictures.”

“Eat a Batarang,” I muttered, and stepped up.

It was rough at first. My hands were sweaty. My voice cracked. The host asked something about Captain Atom and I choked.

But then I got one.

Then another.

Then they asked about Donna Troy’s fourth origin story and I nailed it—down to the issue number and artist change mid-run.

Silence.

Then a slow, stunned clap from Pete. Josh muttered, “Yo.”

I didn’t win the whole thing, but I won my round.

As I walked back, Bill didn’t look at me.

“You trying to make the rest of us look like casuals?” he said finally. “You’re gonna get us beat up.”

But his mouth twitched. Just slightly.

The ride back was pure con hangover.

We were crammed into the back of Jerry’s mom’s minivan like a bunch of poorly packaged action figures. Jerry was talking about how the artist of the knockoff print “probably meant the legs to be that way.” Pete fell asleep holding his horror mags like it was his baby. Josh was making Godzilla hump the back of the driver’s seat and giggling.

Bill sat next to me, our arms brushing every time the van turned. Neither of us said anything.

He kept rolling one of those sour gumballs around in his hand, like he wanted to offer me one but couldn’t figure out how to do it without looking like anything less than a “true alpha male”.

Outside, the sun dipped behind the trees. Inside, it smelled like Funyuns and sweat and cheap vinyl.

I stared out the window and thought about how I didn’t hate them. About how I didn’t hate being part of this. About how maybe—just maybe—it was okay to love something loudly and badly.

Even if it hurt a little.

Even if I felt pathetic.

Even if the cloak itched and the earrings weighed my ears down.

“They’re awful,” I whispered.

“What?” Bill mumbled beside me.

“Nothing.”

Chapter 31: 2009 - "The Blower's Daughter"

Chapter Text

You know that feeling you get when something’s going to happen?

I’d been getting it for weeks.

After the New Year’s party and that morning-after weirdness, it settled in. Low and gnawing. Not panic, not dread—just... something wrong. Something is coming.

Life went back to normal. Or whatever passed for normal in our version of it.

I went back to work. My students—tiny chaos goblins with Velcro shoes and sticky fingers—were surprisingly excited to return from Winter Break. Then again, when you’re four, everything’s still magical. Even alphabet worksheets.

Bill, on the other hand, fell back into his routine: wake up late, scroll Reddit to argue about continuity errors no one cares about, microwave something vaguely edible, sulk, sleep, rinse, repeat. And therapy, once a week. He was still going. Which shocked me, honestly. I’ve known Bill since we were five. The guy used to treat introspection like it was a government conspiracy.

But he kept going.

Still, something was off. The snark was there, but it was hollow. He hadn’t yelled about Josh's “garbage taste” in at least a week. He didn’t even correct Pete when he said Alan Moore created Ghost Rider. He just... looked at him and said, “Yeah, sure,” like his brain was somewhere else entirely.

He was quieter. Faded, almost.

Like someone had taken a Sharpie to his edges.

Nothing could have prepared me for what I found when I got home.
I got home from work, placing my tote bag on the rack by the door and felt my guts tie into knots. It was too quiet. No lights on. No TV static buzzing in the background. No angry grumbling over message boards.

The door to the bathroom was cracked open.

The light was still on.

And Bill was slumped over the floor, half on his side, half propped against the bathtub. Pale. Lips a little blue. An empty bottle of Old Crow on the floor next to him. The same bottle he swore he was only keeping “for emergencies” three months ago.

He wasn’t moving.

My heart stopped—and then slammed back into motion.

“Bill?”

No answer.

I dropped to my knees and shook his shoulder. He groaned, barely. A sound like static and gravel.

“Bill, wake up. Wake up.” I slapped his cheek gently. His skin was clammy.

My hands were shaking as I reached for my phone.

“Come on, come on—”

I dialed 911.

“911, what’s your emergency?”

“My—my roomate, he’s—he’s passed out. I think—I think he has alcohol poisoning—he’s breathing, but it’s shallow, and he’s not waking up. Please.”

“Ma’am, I need you to stay calm. Can you tell me his name?”

“William Allen Dickey,” I said without thinking.

“Date of birth?”

“November 13, 1981. Please, just hurry.”

They asked for the address. I gave it. They said help was on the way.

I stayed kneeling next to him, fingers tangled in his shirt, counting his breaths.

One. Two. Three.

Too slow.

When the EMTs arrived, I backed up to let them in. I don’t even remember what I said. Everything felt dreamlike. Too fast and too loud. But they moved with a kind of practiced calm that made it worse, somehow.

Like they’d done this before.

Like people like Bill—brilliant, loud, and impossible—were just another Tuesday.

They got him on the stretcher. Hooked him up to something. He didn’t wake up.

One of the EMTs told me what hospital they were taking him to. I nodded, empty and hollow, too high on fear and adrenaline to even vocalize a response. I thanked them and closed the door behind them once they were gone.

The silence that followed was unbearable.

I didn’t cry. I couldn’t. Not yet.

I just stood there, hands shaking, staring at the dent in the rug where he'd been.

And then I moved—on autopilot—grabbing my purse from the chair, putting my shoes back on, and my keys from the table by the door.

I paused by the door.

Tried to breathe.

It didn’t work.

I turned the knob and stepped into the cold, night air.

Chapter 32: 1999 - "Sour Times"

Chapter Text

Thank God the con landed on a Friday. I was wrecked by Sunday. My feet felt like I’d walked through glass, my ears were still ringing from screaming nerds and some idiot with a plastic Keyblade, and I was fifty bucks lighter.

Stupid convention food. Can’t even get a sad, freezer-burnt corn dog without coughing up three bucks.

I cracked an eye open and blinked at the red glow of my alarm clock: 1:00 PM. Outside, the sun glared off last night’s snow like it had a personal grudge. I rolled out of bed like a corpse and shuffled down the hall, still in my pajamas.

I expected to hear Papa yelling at old Willie Nelson reruns again. Something about "real music" and "when men still had balls." But it was quiet. Not silent—just… different.

He was talking. Talking. Calmly. Almost wistfully. To someone.

I peeked down the stairs and stopped cold.

Bill. Freaking. Dickface Bill. Sitting in my kitchen, across from Papa, who was leaning back and rambling about his Navy days like we were in a Hallmark special.

“What the hell is—”

Bill looked up, and for once in his miserable life, didn’t say anything. Just gave me this awkward half-nod like I’d caught him shoplifting Bibles.

“There’s my sunshine,” Papa said, beaming.

“Morning, Papa,” I mumbled, still trying to piece together reality.

“This fella came by lookin’ for you. Thought I’d keep him company. He’s got good manners, this one.”

Bill cleared his throat. “You didn’t answer your phone, so I figured, whatever, I’d just swing by.”

I dug my flip phone out of my pajama pocket. Four missed calls. I winced. “Yeah, I was dead to the world.”

He shrugged like it was no big deal, but didn’t meet my eyes. Papa was grinning at us like a Cheshire cat about to ruin someone’s life.

Then he dropped the nuke.

“So… you sweet on my granddaughter?”

Boom.

Bill froze. I forgot how to breathe.

“He’s just my friend,” I said way too fast, voice cracking like a teenager in a deodorant commercial.

Papa nodded, hands up like a hostage negotiator. “Sure, sure. Your grandma and I were just friends, too.” He grinned wide, like he’d just delivered the punchline of the century.

I felt my ears catch fire. I didn’t even have to look at Bill to know he was going red behind the ears, too.

“Relax,” Papa chuckled, pushing himself up with his cane. “I’m just messin’. I won’t say nothin’ to Camilla. But if I end up with a great-grandbaby—”

“PAPA.”

“Okay, okay,” he laughed, walking to the door. “I’ll be out back pluckin’. Holler if you need me.”

The door shut behind him, and the room got ten times quieter.

I slumped onto the arm of the couch. “Came by to make sure I didn’t die in my sleep?”

Bill rolled his eyes. “No, idiot. Our bags got switched. You left your weeb shit in mine.”

He held up a plastic bag like it was radioactive. I grabbed it and peered inside. A Pikachu plush. The one I’d stared at for a full ten minutes before talking myself out of it.

My chest did a weird little flutter. Disgusting.

“Uh. Thanks,” I said, voice scratchy. My cheeks were burning, and not from the radiator.

Bill gave a tiny nod, suddenly super interested in the M*A*S*H* rerun on the TV. I stared at him, hesitating, then just blurted:

“So, uh… you doing anything today?”

He glanced at me sideways. “I was gonna clean my comic sleeves. Why?”

“I mean... I’m not doing anything, so… if you wanted to hang out or something... whatever.”

He stared like I’d just spoken Klingon. Then let out a sharp laugh.

“You’re seriously asking me to hang out with you?”

I crossed my arms. “If inhaling ancient comic mold and alphabetizing your long boxes is too intimate for you, I totally understand.”

Bill snorted, then finally smiled for real—a crooked little thing. “Yeah. Okay. We can hang out.”

I nodded, trying to sound casual. “Cool. I’m gonna go brush my hair,” I said, already halfway up the stairs before he could grunt out a reply.

The second I hit the bathroom, I shut the door behind me like I was sealing a vault and leaned against it, exhaling hard.

I stared at myself in the mirror, not moving.

Pathetic.

I grabbed the hairbrush from my vanity and started yanking it through my black and blue hair, trying not to wince at every knot like I was not currently falling apart in slow motion. I tied it up in a ponytail, then brushed my teeth until my gums tingle.

Maybe I’m fat, but I’m not gonna be the girl with a stink-mouth. Not in front of him. Or, you know, in general.

I popped my birth control pill like it was communion and muttered a little thanks to the Gods of Modern Science for one more day of not bleeding out like a stabbed anime character.

Hoodie. Black. Oversized. Pulled on over my shirt like armor.

Then back downstairs, pretending none of that happened.

Bill was sitting on the edge of the couch like it had insulted his taste in comics. He glanced up as I came back in, then immediately looked at the TV like it was the only thing in the room worth acknowledging.

“So,” I said, dropping onto the couch beside him with just enough space between us to keep the tension festering. “You wanna watch something or just sit here being allergic to eye contact?”

He snorted. “Depends. You got anything good, or is it all just Sailor Moon and crap with crying eyes the size of dinner plates?”

I narrowed my eyes. “You wish you were worthy of Sailor Moon.”

He scoffed. “I’m more of a Devilman guy. Old-school. Violent. Unapologetic.”

“Wow,” I deadpanned. “So edgy. So misunderstood.”

“Look, if you’ve got anything with giant robots, blood, or boobs, I’ll survive.”

I got up and started flipping through my VHS shelf. “Okay, let’s see... Akira, Perfect Blue, Urotsukidoji— wait, no, not unless I want to be permanently banned from hosting guests.”

He leaned forward, suddenly interested. “You have Urotsukidoji? Jesus, you’re more of a perv than Jerry.”

I turned slowly. “You don’t get to slut-shame my anime collection, Oedipal Complex.”

He shrugged like it was a compliment. “Fine. What else?”

I tossed Perfect Blue onto the coffee table. “Psychological horror. Meta. Disturbing. You’ll love it.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Is that the one where the pop idol—”

“Yes.”

“...Cool.”

There was a weird silence after that. Not bad. Just...weird. Then he said, “Put it in before I start judging your rewinding skills.”

I rolled my eyes, popped the tape in, and sank back down next to him, pretending I didn’t care how close we were sitting now.

It was totally casual.

Totally.

The screen crackled to life as the tape spun up with that faint wheeze-and-clunk sound only a VCR could make. Grainy previews rolled by—some bootleg trailer for a Guyver knockoff and a tracking bar that kept jittering like it was trying to escape the screen.

Then, Perfect Blue began.

That chirpy J-pop intro hit like a brick wrapped in bubblegum. The fictional idol group CHAM! bounced across the screen, sparkly-eyed and saccharine.

Bill grimaced. “This is how it starts? What the hell is this, a Lisa Frank fever dream?”

“Shut up and watch,” I muttered, curling one leg under me. “It gets messed up real fast.”

He crossed his arms but didn’t look away. I caught him glancing sideways when one of the characters mentioned quitting the idol scene to become an actress.

“Relatable,” he said. “Except I never had a fanbase to disappoint.”

“Except yourself,” I shot back.

He smirked. “Wow. Did you rehearse that one upstairs?”

“Maybe.”

The movie kept going. Mima’s descent into paranoia and delusion crept in like a slow fever. The colors got colder. The music is sharper. You could practically feel the sweat under her skin. At some point, the room got darker, quieter—except for the occasional VCR whir or Bill scratching at his sleeve.

About halfway through, there was a particularly brutal scene—the one with the fake assault on the film set.

I felt him freeze for half a second. Like, noticeably still. Then he shifted on the couch, just a little, like his body didn’t know what to do.

“Yikes,” he muttered under his breath. “This was definitely not on Toonami.”

I kept my eyes on the screen. “Nope.”

We didn’t speak for a while after that. The silence was heavy, but not the bad kind. Just the kind where you’re both pretending to be too focused to say anything while secretly wondering if the other person feels weird about sitting this close.

By the time Mima was screaming at her reflection, I could feel Bill’s knee a fraction of an inch from mine. Neither of us moved. Neither of us acknowledged it.

Then he said, voice quieter than usual, “This is actually... good.”

I blinked. “What?”

“The movie,” he said, not looking at me. “It’s... y’know. Intense. Smart. Screwed-up in a good way.”

“Well, yeah,” I said. “I don’t have trash taste. I know you think I do, but I don’t.”

He snorted. “Didn’t say you did.”

“You implied it.”

“I always imply everything. Keeps people guessing.”

“Yeah, like whether or not you’ve ever actually experienced a human emotion.”

We both looked at the screen again.

Mima curled up in bed, talking to herself.

Bill scratched the back of his neck. “You ever feel like that?”

I turned to him. “Like what?”

“Like you’re two people. The one people think you are, and the one you are when no one’s watching.”

I stared at him, genuinely stunned he’d said something vaguely introspective.

“...Yeah,” I said. “All the time.”

He nodded slowly. Then added, “Doesn’t mean either one of them isn’t annoying.”

I threw a pillow at him. He caught it before it smacked his face, but only barely.

“Jackass.”

He smirked and threw it back.

The movie finished up, and neither of us said anything else.

I didn’t want to ruin the moment. But after a while, I mumbled, “Hey… you wanna go upstairs? My room’s warmer. Plus, I’ve got a CD player that doesn’t sound like a dying fax machine.”

He raised an eyebrow, skeptical. “You sure that’s why?”

I rolled my eyes, sitting up and scooping the bowl off my lap. “Yeah, I’m luring you to your doom, obviously. C’mon.”

Bill followed me up without protest. He knew the way—this wasn’t his first time. But it felt different this time. Quieter. More loaded.

My room was dim, lit mostly by the string of purple fairy lights I’d nailed around the edges of the ceiling and the red glow from a cheap lava lamp on my nightstand. Incense drifted from a skull-shaped holder, and a small altar in the corner glittered with polished stones, black candles, and dried herbs. On the shelf above it, next to my old Sailor Moon VHS tapes, sat a carefully guarded paperback copy of Hellboy: Seed of Destruction with a cracked spine and way too many dog-eared pages.

Bill gave the room a cursory once-over, then made a beeline for the shelf. I tried to intercept, but he was too fast.

“Is this—oh my God—is this a shrine to Hellboy?” he said, grinning like he’d just unearthed buried treasure.

“I swear to Christ, Bill, if you say one word—”

“Too late. You’re in love with a giant red demon man with a stone fist and daddy issues.”

I grabbed a pillow off my bed and hurled it at his face. “He’s misunderstood and honorable and actually really hot if you read the comics.”

He caught the pillow, laughing. “You’ve got a type, Lindberg.”

“You’re not my type.”

“Didn’t say I was. But I do have at least one fist and severe emotional repression, so I’m halfway there.”

He plopped himself backward onto my bed like he owned the place. I stood frozen for a second, trying to decide whether to kick him off or lie down next to him.

I chose the latter.

We laid there in silence, side by side. Not touching. Not speaking. Just buzzing with static under our skin.

Eventually, I felt his pinky brush mine.

Tiny. Intentional.

I didn’t pull away.

Instead I flipped on the TV and laid back next to him. It was playing Walker Texas Ranger. It’s kind of cringy, but I’ll be damned if its not entertaining as shit.

Bill was lying next to me, legs stretched out and resting his head on the pillow beside me. He hadn’t said anything in a while, which for once, I appreciated.

My fingers twisted the frayed sleeve of my hoodie.

“She left the radio on all the time,” I said suddenly.

Bill didn’t look away from the screen, but I saw him pause. Like a cat catching the tail end of a movement.

“My grandma,” I clarified, picking at a loose thread. “Country music. Songs that sound happy but are actually heartbreaking when you stop to listen to them..”

He glanced at me then. Just for a second.

“She hated silence,” I said. “Said it made her feel like she was already dead.”

I laughed, but it came out wrong. Too sharp. Too brittle.

“She was kinda metal, honestly.”

Bill cracked a half-smile. “Yeah. Sounds like it.”

There was a long pause. My throat itched. I wasn’t sure what I was doing. Why I was doing it.

“She was..everywhere in our house in Mississippi,” I said quietly. “We’d find random trinkets of hers everything, like she wasn’t leaving us, even though she was gone…”

I waited for him to say something dumb. Something like “that’s weird” or “probably just misplaced things”.

But he didn’t.

Instead, he just nudged my arm gently, kind of like he was trying to snap me out of it. Like that was his version of a hug. And maybe it was.

I glanced over at him and his arm stays pressed to mine, I can feel the heat radiating off him through his flannel.

We watched Chuck Norris roundhouse kick a guy into a stack of barrels in complete silence.

After a minute, I leaned over just slightly and rested my head on his shoulder.

He went completely still, like I was a bird that might fly away if he moved too fast.

I could feel his heart beating.

And he didn’t say a word.

The room was silent, aside from the television playing in the background. I didn’t notice it before, but we had inched closer to each other. It happened so quickly, that I don’t think neither of us even noticed it.

I made the mistake of turning my head to glance at him and his eyes met mine. I can’t even remember which one of us started it. I don’t even know what brought it on. The emotional vulnerability, the TV show, or the fact that everything between us was finally unravel, but our lips were on each other.

He pulled me closer when I returned the kiss, his hand hesitantly going to my hip while the other one tangled in my hair.

My head was spinning, my face was hot, red as our lips moved against each other. I’d been wanting to kiss him again since Pete’s birthday. His lips felt so nice against mine.

He rolls over on top of me, placing me firmly under him. He pulls away from me for a second, looking down on me before his lips are right back on mine. I kissed him back, my breath catching in my throat, caught off guard by the passion of the gesture.

My hands gently rest on his shoulders while his arms trail down to my waist, resting on the dips in my hips. His tongue darted out and tickled my bottom lip. I gasp softly as he slips his tongue inside, his movements are sloppy and clumsy, but they didn’t make my head spin any less.

My eyes fluttered shut as our tongues mingled, tangling with one another. My head and heart are a flutter of emotions. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t see this coming, but with the weird signals he had been throwing me lately, I didn’t know what to think. Don’t get me wrong though, I am overjoyed, because, I’ve been slowly losing my mind over this idiot for the part half of four months.

I find myself melting into him more, letting myself give into his lips and his touch until suddenly he pulls away.

He looks down at me with wide eyes, the pupils in his eyes blown out with a small ring of hazel around the black orbs. Then he got up abruptly, not even looking at me and walked out of the door. He didn’t say a word, but I knew he was gone when I heard the front door shut.

My breath was still heavy, face still red, mind still racing, blown.

I can’t believe that just happened…

Chapter 33: 2009 - "Camisado"

Chapter Text

Hospitals at night are liminal.

Too many blinking lights. Too much white noise. A place where time goes to get lost and nobody looks anyone in the eye.

I drove like a ghost. I don’t even remember the drive. I don’t remember locking the door, grabbing my coat, starting the car. I must’ve, because I ended up in the emergency parking lot at Eltingville Memorial Hospital like I’d teleported there through muscle memory.

The inside smelled like bleach and quiet dread.

I checked in at the front desk. Told them his name—again. William Alan Dickey. Said it without choking. Just like on the phone. Like I’d been practicing it for years without realizing it.

They asked if I was his wife. I lied.

They let me sit.

Now I’m in this beige waiting room full of old magazines and chairs that are somehow both too hard and too soft. There's a TV bolted into the corner playing muted news reruns. I’m not watching it. Nobody is.

My legs won’t stop bouncing. My fingernails are chewed raw.

There’s this clock on the wall that clicks once every minute like it’s keeping count of my patience, or my panic. I’m not sure which.

I can still smell the Old Crow. It’s in my hair. On my sweater. I keep thinking I should go to the bathroom and wash my hands, scrub the feeling of his skin off my palms, but I can’t stand the thought of not being here when someone comes out to say something. Anything.

It’s been an hour.

Or maybe more. The vending machine in the hallway just ate someone’s change and they kicked it. That’s how I know time is passing.

A nurse walked past with a clipboard a little while ago and my heart leapt into my throat. But she kept going. Just someone else’s bad night.

I want to scream. Or cry. Or break something.

Instead, I sit here like I’m in detention. Except this time I’m not the one who messed up.

This time I don’t get to fix it.

My phone buzzes. Text from Jerry:

“Hey, everything okay? You didn’t call back.”

I stare at it. I don’t type anything. What would I even say?

No, Jerry. Nothing is okay.

Bill tried to quietly disappear, and I caught it too late.

I put the phone down and rub my eyes.

I don’t know how to do this.

I don’t know how to be the one who waits.

Not when it’s him.

The nurse finally comes back.

“Are you here for William Dickey?”

I shoot out of my chair like my body remembers how to move before I do. “Yes.”

“He’s stable,” she says, calm and clinical. “Still unconscious, but he’s responding to treatment. You can see him, but he might be out for a while.”

She says more things—fluids, alcohol level, blood pressure—but they barely register.

He’s alive.

That’s all I hear.

I follow her down the hall.

The door creaks open.

Bill’s inside, looking pale and drained, hooked up to a machine that’s beeping way too slow for my liking. His chest rises and falls in that fragile way that makes you paranoid it’s going to stop at any second.

He’s there. But not really.

I sit down in the chair next to him.

And for the first time since I was twelve, I reached for his hand first.

He doesn’t squeeze back.

But I hold it anyway.

The room was too bright. Hospitals always feel like they’re trying to gaslight you into thinking everything’s fine because the fluorescent lights won’t shut up about it.

Bill hadn’t moved. Still pale. Still hooked to machines that beeped steadily like a metronome built for dread.

I was still holding his hand. He hadn’t flinched.

I didn’t know if that made it better or worse.

Then I heard footsteps. Two sets. Hesitant.

The door creaked.

I didn’t have to turn around to know who it was.

“Marz?” Jerry’s voice—soft, cautious. Like he didn’t want to scare the air.

I looked up. He was standing just inside the doorway, jacket still zipped, hands jammed into his pockets. Mandi was behind him, her eyes already scanning the room like she was cataloging everything. The machines. The drip. The way my fingers were still tangled in Bill’s.

I blinked, slow. Couldn’t speak.

Jerry stepped forward. “We tried calling you both. You didn’t answer. We drove by, saw your car was gone. Figured—”

He looked at Bill.

His voice died.

Mandi crossed the room, slower this time. Her boots clicked softly against the tile. She looked at Bill, then at me. She didn’t ask what happened.

She already knew.

She just crouched next to my chair and reached for my other hand.

Her fingers were warm. Steady.

“Is he—?” Jerry asked, voice cracking just a little.

“Stable,” I said, barely above a whisper. “They said… he’ll be okay. Physically.”

Nobody said anything for a long time.

Jerry moved to the end of the bed, standing awkwardly like he was trying not to cast a shadow. His eyes were shiny, rimmed red, but he blinked fast and looked away.

Mandi didn’t let go of my hand.

I kept staring at Bill.

“You should’ve seen him,” I said. “Just… on the floor. Like he was nothing. Like he didn’t even care if I found him.”

“Yeah,” Mandi said softly. “That tracks.”

I looked at her, surprised.

She shrugged. “He’s Bill. He jokes and picks fights and acts like he’s invincible. But the second he thinks nobody’s watching… he just folds.”

Jerry nodded, slow. “He’s been off lately. More than usual.”

“I should’ve done something sooner,” I said, voice cracking. “I saw it. I knew something was wrong, and I just kept thinking maybe if I didn’t poke at it, it’d go away.”

“No,” Jerry said, finally looking up. “You’re not responsible for the way Bill drowns.”

“He didn’t ask for help,” Mandi added. “Because Bill doesn’t ask for help. He makes fun of it. Acts like it’s weakness. Like if he pretends hard enough, it’ll stop being true.”

She looked at him again. Her mouth tightened. “But it doesn’t stop.”

Bill stirred then—just the faintest twitch of his brow. A breath that wasn’t shallow.

I froze.

Mandi and Jerry both leaned in.

He didn’t wake up. Just turned his head slightly, mouth slack, brow furrowed like he was in a dream he didn’t like.

Jerry pulled the chair from the corner and sat, elbows on his knees. “I don’t know what the hell he’s thinking,” he muttered. “But I hope when he wakes up, he realizes we were watching. We always were.”

I looked back at Bill. His chest rose and fell, slow but steady.

“I don’t think he ever believed that,” I whispered.

Mandi squeezed my hand again. “He will,” she said. “Because now we’re not gonna let him forget it.”

The first sound was a groan.

Bill stirred, shifting against the stiff white sheets like they’d personally offended him. His face scrunched, mouth dry, eyes half-lidded and unfocused.

Then came the voice.

“Ugh. Hospital lighting. Great. Guess I didn’t die.”

He sounded like a used car trying to start in February.

I stood up instinctively, still holding the now-empty coffee cup I’d clung to all night like a relic. Jerry looked up from the chair near the window. Mandi didn’t move from her spot beside me.

Bill blinked blearily at us.

“Aw, hell. If this is a deathbed scene, can someone at least wheel in a Sega Saturn and let me go out with dignity?”

Jerry let out a breathy laugh—equal parts disbelief and relief. “Nice to see your ego survived.”

Bill squinted at him, then at Mandi. Then at me.

His voice came out quieter this time. “...What happened?”

“You nearly killed yourself, you idiot,” Mandi said flatly. No sarcasm. Just the truth.

He flinched. Not physically—but behind the eyes. Then forced a smirk that was trying too hard to look effortless.

“Eh. I’ve had worse hangovers.”

“You were unconscious, Bill,” Jerry said, soft but firm. “Your blood alcohol was through the roof.”

“Well,” Bill rasped, licking his cracked lips, “glad to know I’m still consistent. Always overachieving.”

“No one’s laughing,” Mandi snapped.

He glanced at her, eyes narrowed, mouth twitching. “You are. Internally. Admit it. I’m hilarious.”

But his voice wobbled at the end. And he looked at me like he wasn’t sure if I was going to speak or disappear.

I didn’t say anything.

Not yet.

Just stared at him, taking inventory of everything that was still here.

A nurse came in. Checked his vitals. Told us we’d need to give him space soon.

Mandi touched my arm on the way out. “You okay?”

“Later,” I said. “I’ll be fine. Just—later.”

Jerry gave me a look before leaving. One of those classic Jerry looks. Concern, patience, worry—laced with guilt like he should’ve seen this coming. But he didn’t say anything.

He never does when it really matters.

When the door clicked shut behind them, I finally sat down.

Bill let out a breath like he’d been holding it the whole time.

“So,” he said, voice quieter. “How bad is it?”

I stared at the wires in his arm. The faded bruises blooming just below the tape.

“Bad,” I said.

He nodded like he expected that.

“You stayed?”

“I found you,” I said, sharper than I meant to. “You think I was gonna leave after that?”

Bill looked away. “Wouldn’t blame you.”

That broke something in me.

I stood up. Took a shaky breath. “You know what’s funny? You act like nobody sees you. But we do, Bill. We always have. You’re just so obsessed with being the tragic antihero that you can’t accept that we might actually care.”

He winced. “Jesus, Marz…”

“Don’t ‘Jesus’ me. I thought you were dead when I walked in. I thought you were gone. And I’m standing here, still trying to figure out if I’m mad at you or just—scared to death.”

Silence.

Then, almost too soft to hear:

“I didn’t think it would go that far.”

“It did.”

He swallowed. “I’m sorry.”

I nodded.

Then I left.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The front door clicked shut behind me.

The house was still.

Too still.

The shoes he always left crooked by the mat. The dent in the couch where he always slouched like he owned it. The half-eaten sleeve of Chips Ahoy on the counter. All of it—there. Still humming with the echo of him.

I stood in the doorway of the bathroom for a long time.

The floor was clean now. I’d scrubbed it before I left for the hospital. But I could still see him there. Crumpled. Pale. Quiet.

The silence wasn’t peaceful. It was haunted.

I walked past the couch. Stopped at the coffee table. His mug was still there from the morning before. I picked it up, stared into the cold ring of old coffee, and set it down again.

Every corner of this place was saturated with him.

His mess. His noise. His absence.

I sank into the arm of the couch, hugging one of the throw pillows he always mocked me for owning.

And finally, alone—

I cried.

Chapter 34: 1999 - "Climbing Up the Walls"

Chapter Text

I feel like I’m going to implode.

No, that’s too dramatic, not implode.

Spontaneously combust?

With any luck.

It’s not like I can talk to anyone about this. I would rather eat glass than admit anything like this to Josh. Pete wouldn’t be much help. His perceptive ass already knew something was up so he’d probably just tell us to bang and get over with it (like that would solve anything). Jerry…I could probably talk to him, but, I don’t know. Fuck!

I’ve been avoiding Bill the best I can, but it's hard considering our situation.

I mean, we’re part of the same club, we go to the same school, we live on the same fucking block. I can’t even safely walk down the sidewalk without the fear of making awkward eye-contact with that dick.

He’s not really a dick…yes he is. He is a dick! A dick who kissed me, ran off, and then acted like I didn’t exist for two weeks.

Goddammit…

As I walk down the street, my messenger bag slung across my body, I mentally prepare myself for yet another club meeting of awkward eye-contact and acting like everything is just as it's always been.

I finally make it to Bill’s house and knock on the door, expecting to see his mother, wrapped in a bathrobe like a ghost of despair and failed marriage, but instead I see a different face.

“Yeah?” Behind the door is a short girl with dyed purple hair, painted deep purple lips, and a scowl on her face. I almost didn’t recognize her.

“Hey, Jane. I’m here to see your brother.” I reply with a friendly smile. I’ve been back in Eltingville for six months and I can’t believe this is the first time I’ve seen her. I guess she just hasn’t been home when I’m over.

From what I heard the times I’ve been over, I can’t really blame her for wanting to keep her distance.

“Wait, Marzia?” She raised an eyebrow at me and looked me up and down.

“Yeah, it’s been a while, huh?” I ask with a smile.

“Yeah, no shit. You been back for a while?” She asked, her eyes lingering on my ear, nose, and lip piercings.

I nod. “Yeah, came back when school started. It’s good to see you again, I love your hair.”

Jane flashes a grin at me. “Thanks, I do it myself.” She stepped aside and let me inside. “Asshole is downstairs in his nerd den. If you ever wanna ditch him and come hang out with me, I’ll be in my room.”

I glance back at her and smile, silently wondering if I should take her up on her offer. It would certainly be less awkward and not as emotionally traumatizing.

But, if I missed a meeting, Bill would probably try (and fail) to summon Cthulhu to take my soul…or some stupid shit like that…either way, I make my way down to the basement against my better judgement and prepare for whatever litany of shit the boys have planned for us for the evening.

As soon as I made it down the stairs, I could hear Josh screaming like a fucking banshee about how the Star Wars prequels are going to the death of the franchise. Typical spirited club discussion.

I silently take my seat at the table, sliding in beside Jerry, who had chosen to stay silent through this whole rant at fear of being the next target of Josh-zilla’s war path.

“And another thing--” Josh paused when his eyes locked onto me. “Oh, Marz is here.”

“Finally.” Bill huffed, slumped down on his chair. “I don’t think I have to even say it, again, but you’re late.”

I rolled my eyes. “Yeah, yeah, put a sock in it. Mama had the night off and wanted to have dinner with us. Sue me.”

As if on cue, Pete looked at us with a crooked grin that said he knew way too much. “So are you two gonna start kissing now or--”

“What the fuck?” My head whips over to him so fast I almost get whiplash.

“No one kissed anyone--” Bill screamed out, far too defensively. Smooth, William. Real smooth.

Pete cackles loudly, nearly falling out of his chair. “Calm down, jeez, I’m just fuckin’ with ya!” He managed to say through wheezes of laughter. “I can’t help it when you two make it so easy.”

I can feel my face burning and at that moment, I want nothing more than to evaporate into a puddle and sink through the floorboards.

Jerry, the last shred of sanity and human decency in this group, finally speaks up. “Hey guys, should we get back to the meeting, I mean it is a school night and--”

“Yes!” Bill responds, far too eagerly, far too quickly, trying to get the heat off of him. “Jerry’s right! We should get back to the meeting, because we have important things to attend to, yes.”

Josh, who had been silently watching us, lets out a sound that sounds like a deflating balloon and laughs. “Like what?”

Bill freezes, like someone shot him with a freeze ray, even stuck in a position with his arm raised up in the air. “Like-- You know--” He stumbles over his words.

Oh God, he’s floundering. And I know that if we don’t move onto something else, this meeting could turn into an interrogation.

“Bill, didn’t you say something about wanting to contact the ghost of someone…who was it…?” I snapped my fingers, trying to remember.

He glances over at me out of the corner of his eye. “Gene Roddenberry.”

“Yeah, Gene Roddenberry!” I slap my table. “Let’s try and contact him!”

I can feel the others' eyes on me, looking at me like I had sprouted wings and started flying around. But, luckily for me, our resident horror buff unwittingly saved me from my social demise.

“You mean we hold a seance?” Pete raised an eyebrow before smirking widely. “Hell yeah, now that’s what I’m talkin’ about. I knew having a goth girl around would be fuckin’ sick!”

“Yeah!” Josh pumped his fist up but quickly paused. “Wait, how do we do that?”

I feel a smile stretch across my lips as I open up my bag. “I figured this would come in handy today.” I pulled out a Ouija board and set it on the table between all of us.

Bill and Jerry stared down at the board with wide eyes like I had just pulled out a dead kitten from my bag.

“Bidibidi…I knew you were weird, Marz, but this is new even for you.”

“Do you even know how to use that thing?” Bill asked, crossing his arms at me with that normal smug sense of self-importance he always had.

“Of course, I fucking do, Billy-boy!” I snapped back. I get the proverbial heat off us and this is how he chooses to thank me!? “Maybe you don’t know how to fucking use it? Ever think of that, William!?”

Bill narrows his eyes at me, a flush raising up on his cheeks, extending to his ears as he glares at me. “You goth bit--”

“Alright, alright, that’s enough, you two.” Pete stepped in between us, playing the reluctant peacekeeper. “Don’t wanna scare the spirits off.” He cackled.

I roll my eyes at that. It obviously doesn’t work like that, but for now, I’d let him have it.

“Yeah, don’t we need other stuff if we’re gonna do this?” Jerry added. “Like candles?”

I look over at him and nod. “Yep and some salt wouldn’t hurt. You know, just in case.”

“Salt?” Josh raised an eyebrow. “Are you making fries?”

“No, dipshit.” Pete glares over at him. “Salt keeps demons out. That’s like Ghost Knowledge 101!”

“Fine, let’s go get the shit.” Bill was already stomping towards the stairs.

The rest of us fell into line behind him, filing up the stairs into the kitchen like we were some kind of weird army of soldiers.

Once we were in the kitchen, Bill started rummaging through the overhead cabinets, looking for the salt with a scowl on his face.

Cereal boxes, stale Pop-Tarts, and god-knows-what came raining down as Bill ransacked the cabinets like a raccoon on a sugar bender. I watched a can of SpaghettiOs hit the counter and bounce onto the floor with a wet-sounding thunk.

“Jesus fuck,” Bill muttered, digging deeper. “It has to be in here somewhere…”

“No offense,” Pete said, lounging against the fridge like the trash gremlin he was born to be, “but your kitchen looks like the apocalypse looted a bodega. You guys ever throw anything out?”

“Salt’s not even in that cabinet,” came a voice from the hallway.

We all turned at once.

Jane.

Leaning against the doorframe in a ripped Bauhaus tee, purple lipstick, and a stare sharp enough to skin a man alive. She looked like she hadn’t slept and also like she didn’t care if we ever did again.

Bill groaned like someone had just stabbed him in the knee. “What now, Goth Gremlin?”

“I said I have the salt. I borrowed it for my altar, genius. Maybe if you ever left your nerd cave, you’d notice I exist.”

Pete lit up like someone handed him a Slayer demo tape. “Wait—altar?”

That piqued my interest too. I blinked. “You have an altar?”

She smirked. “Candles, salt, herbs, stuff for warding, intention-setting. Protection spells. Y’know—regular witchy shit.”

“Aw, that’s sick.” Pete whispered to Josh like Jane couldn’t hear him from five feet away.

Bill rolled his eyes so hard I swear I heard them creak. “Great. Can we please just get the salt? We’re doing something dumb and nerdy. You wouldn’t get it.”

“Oh, I get it,” Jane said, her gaze sliding toward me with amusement. “You guys summoning dead nerds or just holding a séance for your social lives?”

“Gene Roddenberry,” Jerry offered gently, like a kid confessing to shoplifting a candy bar.

Jane blinked once. “...Okay, that’s kinda metal. Marzia, come with me. I’ll grab the salt and some candles you can borrow. Just don’t let him touch them.”

She jerked her thumb at Bill without looking at him. I swear I heard him grind his molars.

I smiled. “Deal.”

As I passed him, he muttered under his breath, “Traitor.”

“Jealousy’s a bad look, Dickey,” I said, sweetly.

He glared at me. I pretended not to notice.

Jane’s room smelled like clove and incense and teen rage. The walls were painted a deep purple, and there were posters of Siouxsie and the Banshees and The Craft tacked up between strings of dollar-store fairy lights. There was a small table by the window with a little altar—candles, dried rose petals, a chunk of amethyst, and yes, the salt. Of course it was pink Himalayan salt. Of course.

“Here,” she said, handing it over. “Don’t let my idiot brother knock this over or I’ll curse him with acid reflux.”

“Already cursed, I think,” I muttered, and she snorted.

She handed me a few candles too. They were black and smelled faintly of vanilla and soot. I felt... weirdly touched. It was the most sisterly moment I’d had all week, and it wasn’t even my sister.

Back in the basement, the table was cleared. The lights were off. Four unevenly-sized candles flickered around the Ouija board like we were trying to summon Hot Topic’s seasonal clearance section.

Pete immediately ruined the mood by licking his finger and dabbing it in the salt.

“Dude, are you trying to summon hypertension?” I smacked his hand away.

Bill sat slouched in his seat like he’d rather be anywhere else, arms crossed, mouth doing that tight line thing he always did when he was trying to pretend he wasn’t sulking.

Across from him, I set the candles down and lit them. Calm. Cool. Collected.

Like I hadn’t kissed him two weeks ago.

Like he hadn’t run out like I’d bit him.

Like I wasn’t still dreaming about it.

My fingers brushed the planchette. I took a breath.

Time to raise the dead.

The candles flickered like they were in on a joke we hadn’t heard yet.

The salt circle was… mostly intact. Pete had smudged a little of it leaning in to light his candle with mine. I said nothing. There was no point.

Josh crossed his arms and slumped back in his chair like he was being forced to watch a foreign film. “This is stupid.”

“You’re stupid,” Pete shot back helpfully. “We haven’t even started.”

“I’m just saying—” Josh gestured at the board like it owed him money. “Ouija is fake. It’s mass-produced Hasbro garbage. Same company that made Candy Land.”

I leaned over the board, narrowing my eyes. “You done, Milton Bradley?”

Josh huffed. Jerry offered him a Cheeto in silent truce. It worked. Barely.

I straightened up, inhaled, and tried to channel my inner Midnight Syndicate album cover.

“I call upon the spirits of the beyond,” I said, dramatically enough to make Pete go “Oooooh.” I ignored him. “Gatekeepers of the veil, watchers of the liminal. We ask for guidance. For knowledge. And for good vibes only.”

Bill snorted beside me. “Good vibes only, really?”

“Don’t interrupt my ritual, William.”

He muttered something under his breath, but when I glanced at him, his lips twitched like he was trying not to smile.

I set my fingers gently on the planchette. “Everyone touch it.”

Pete’s hands slammed down like he was at a blackjack table. Bill and Jerry followed with more hesitation. Josh sighed like we were wasting precious Mystery Science Theater rewatch time, but relented.

All of our fingertips touched.

For a moment, nothing happened. Just the low buzz of the basement’s ancient overhead light, the shifting of someone’s sock on carpet, a crackle from one of Jane’s candles.

Then—

The planchette jerked.

Everyone froze.

“Okay, who moved it?” Josh barked.

“I didn’t,” Bill snapped back. “And if you think I’d waste my time faking this, you clearly don’t understand the sanctity of Gene Roddenberry.”

“That’s because it’s fake,” Josh growled. “It’s just subconscious muscle movement.”

“Then stop using your dumbass subconscious and let the spirits speak!” Pete yelled.

The planchette moved again. This time slower. More deliberate.

J.

E.

R.

“Jerry,” Pete whispered. “Oh shit. The ghost wants Jerry.”

“I didn’t do anything!” Jerry held his hands up like he was being arrested by the undead.

Suddenly, from the corner of the room, there was a metallic clink—followed by the unmistakable sound of a soda can tipping over and rolling across the floor.

Bill shrieked.

It wasn’t a manly shriek. It was a full-bodied, glass-cracking, squeaky-throated yelp. If a banshee had stepped on a Lego, that’s what it would’ve sounded like.

We all stared at him. Wide-eyed.

He cleared his throat and adjusted his glasses like nothing happened. “That was… strategic. I was testing the alertness of the group.”

“Uh huh,” I said, trying not to grin.

Pete was losing it. He had tears in his eyes. “I’m putting that on your gravestone, man. ‘Died bravely. Screamed like a cartoon mom.’”

Bill flipped him off.

Meanwhile, my hand was still touching his. I hadn’t moved it. Neither had he. Our fingers kept brushing. Not enough to be obvious, but enough to notice. My stomach was doing weird little flips. I told it to shut up. It didn’t listen.

We all looked back at the board.

The planchette started moving again. Slower this time. Uneven. Like it wasn’t sure what it wanted to say.

G.

O.

H.

“‘Goh’?” Josh read. “Is it trying to say go home? ‘Go hug yourself’? What the hell is goh?”

Then the planchette slid up, fast.

To GOODBYE.

Dead stop.

The candle nearest the board flickered out.

Just snuffed. No breeze. No warning. Just gone.

No one said anything.

Even Josh didn’t make a joke.

After a few seconds, Pete muttered, “Dude, Gene Roddenberry just rage-quit our seance.”

Bill exhaled slowly. “That was… weird.”

His voice was quieter. No sharpness. No sarcasm.

I glanced at him out of the corner of my eye. His face was still—too still. Like he was trying really hard not to react to the fact that something might have actually happened.

I wanted to say something—make a joke, poke the tension—but I didn’t. I just left my hand where it was. Still near his.

And he didn’t move it.

Jerry coughed awkwardly. “Sooo… do we, uh, clean up now?”

Josh got up so fast he nearly knocked over his chair. “Yes. Yes we do. And we burn that board.”

“It’s mine,” I snapped.

“Then you burn it.”

Chapter 35: 1999 - "Pictures of You"

Chapter Text

Birthdays in my house were never subtle.

Not with Camilla Lindenberg wielding a frosting spatula like it was an extension of her soul, and definitely not with Papa narrating everything like it was the lost tapes of the Grand Ole Opry.

"Did I ever tell ya 'bout the time me and Waylon nearly missed the Amarillo show 'cause a possum crawled into the gas tank?"

That’s how my birthday started. With that sentence. At ten in the morning.

By the time five o'clock rolled around, the kitchen smelled like sugar, frying oil, and testosterone—because Antonio and Marco were home. Which was rare. Usually, they were off at someone else's party, being loud, obnoxious, and hitting on anything will legs and a pretty face.

Marco was sitting on the counter, eating from a bowl of chocolate chips that were definitely supposed to go in the cake.

"Marz, tell me again why you invited the Nerd Herd?" he said around a mouthful, grinning.

"You mean my friends? No shit." I said, tying the back of my shirt and checking my reflection in the microwave door. “Also, you call them that and Pete’s gonna start humping your leg. He feeds off attention.”

Antonio smirked, arms crossed. "We’re just saying, if this is your way of inviting Bill over without inviting Bill over..."

"I swear to God—" I pointed my eyeliner at him like it was a knife.

"Language, missy!" came Mama’s voice from the kitchen, even though she was elbow-deep in buttercream.

"Sorry, Mama!" I called back, then dropped my voice. "Anyway, they’re not here for me, they’re here for cake. And soda. And probably to yell about Star Wars."

"Right, right," Marco said with mock seriousness. "Not about you. Not about how Bill stares at you like he’s trying to crack the Da Vinci code with his eyeballs."

I felt my face go hot. "You’re the worst."

"No we're not," Antonio sing-songed.

"You’re lucky I haven’t hexed you yet."

Papa cackled from his recliner in the living room, where he was holding court like always. “That’s how you know it’s love. When they give ya hell before dinner.”

Mama peeked out from the kitchen. Her cheeks were flushed, probably from trying to frost a cake while fielding the circus that was my family. “Marzia, sweetheart, can you grab the sodas from the garage? And if those boys aren’t here by six, I’m starting without them.”

“They’re coming,” I said, even though I had no idea. Pete would show up even if invited to a funeral. Jerry would be polite. Josh... probably would be dragged here just to argue with someone about Batman continuity. And Bill?

...Bill was a coin toss I didn’t want to flip.

Before I could spiral about it too much, there was a knock at the door.

Antonio jumped up like a lion spotting prey. “I’ll get it.”

“Don’t scare them,” Mama warned.

“No promises,” he said.

I hovered behind him as he swung the door open.

Pete was first through the door, grinning wide and already halfway into the chip bowl on the hallway table.

“Yo! House smells like diabetes! I love it.”

Jerry followed, smiling shyly, holding a gift bag that looked like it came from someone’s mom’s stash of emergency presents. “Hi, Mrs. Lindenberg. Happy birthday, Marzia.”

“Thank you, Jerry,” I said, genuinely touched.

Josh came in grumbling about snow in his shoes.

And then came Bill.

He looked... decent. Hair mostly flattened, clean jacket and jeans, and a face that looked directly at me for a half-second before pretending like I didn’t exist.

Figures.

"Well, well, if it isn’t the Cult of the Comic Book," Antonio announced.

Marco leaned in from the hallway like a goddamn sitcom character. “Hey, which one of you’s Bill?”

Bill stiffened like he’d been asked to recite poetry.

“That’s him,” Pete volunteered helpfully, pointing a Dorito-covered finger.

“Ohhh,” Antonio said, dragging the syllable like he was flavoring it. “So, you’re the one making our baby sister write emo poetry in her diary.”

“Antonio!” I snapped, face flaming.

Logan—Dad—stepped in just in time to stop the complete emotional homicide. “Alright, alright, let them breathe, boys. Welcome, kids. Glad you made it.”

He gave them the patented exhausted-dad nod: part respect, part resignation.

“Thanks for having us, sir,” Jerry said.

From the kitchen, Mama called out, “You all can come in, I just finished the frosting! Don’t touch anything yet!”

Pete leaned over and whispered to Bill, “You’re totally red in the face. Are you gonna cry or propose?”

Bill elbowed him in the ribs. “Shut the fuck up.”

I didn’t miss it though—how his eyes caught mine as I stepped into the room. I’d dressed a little nicer. Still me—I just threw on a black dress, torn fishnets, a necklace with a tiny vial of glitter—but the look I got from him?

It made my heart jump into my throat.

And of course, Marco saw it.

“Goddamn,” he said lowly to Antonio. “He looked at her like she invented Slayer.”

“I know, right?” Antonio muttered back.

I pretended I didn’t hear anything and ducked into the kitchen to grab plates before I lost the will to live.

We crammed around the dinner table like some weird punk-rock version of Norman Rockwell—if Norman Rockwell painted families with piercings, trucker hats, and four teenage boys trying to one-up each other with trivia and fart jokes.

The food was classic Lindenberg fare: big steaming platters of pasta, garlic bread that could kill a vampire at fifty feet, fried meatballs, and Mama’s legendary roasted vegetables—which nobody touched except Jerry, bless him.

Papa poured everyone sparkling cider like it was a damn wedding toast, humming something twangy and old under his breath. Probably Willie again. Always Willie.

“So, Pete,” Mama asked, handing him a basket of rolls, “how’s your mother? Still doing yoga?”

“Yeah,” Pete said, already on his second helping of meatballs. “She can do that crow pose thing. Looks like she’s possessed.”

“She’s flexible,” Papa said thoughtfully, which made everyone pause for a second too long.

Marco nearly choked on his Sprite. “Papa, no!”

“What? I meant like a cat!” Papa protested.

“Please stop talking,” I muttered, taking a long swig of cider like it was whiskey.

Across the table, Bill hadn’t said much. He was doing the old “brood and chew” routine, eyes fixed on his plate, elbows tucked in like he was trying to minimize his existence.

And yet... he kept sneaking glances.

At me.

Every time I laughed. Every time I shifted in my seat. Every time I reached for a dish.

I saw it. Felt it.

And so did my brothers.

“Oh, hey Marz,” Antonio said loudly, “didn’t you wear that dress to Winter Formal last year?”

I blinked. “Yeah, what about it?”

“It’s just—” He gestured vaguely toward Bill without even looking at him. “Interesting you picked it tonight. Just saying.”

Marco leaned in. “Matches your eyeliner. Real gothic romance vibes.”

“Real subtle, jackasses,” I snapped, stabbing a meatball with enough force to shake the table.

Pete, naturally, was loving this. “So what I’m hearing is... Bill’s into tragic Victorian heroines. You a Jane Eyre guy, Bill? Wuthering Heights?”

“Ghost in the Shell,” he muttered into his water glass.

Josh made a disgusted sound. “I swear to God, if we start talking anime at the dinner table—”

“You’re the one who owns three Gundam models and a bootleg Rei Ayanami mousepad,” Pete shot back.

“Shut up, Pete!”

Jerry, trying to keep the peace, gave Mama a polite smile. “This is really great, Mrs. Lindenberg.”

Mama beamed. “Thank you, sweetheart. At least one of you is raised right.”

“Can I live here instead?” Jerry asked, dead serious.

Meanwhile, Bill was still quiet. Still broody.

I nudged him under the table with my knee. Just a tap. Just enough.

He glanced up at me.

And for once, he didn’t look away right away.

Just blinked.

Then, awkwardly, he whispered, “You look... nice.”

His voice cracked a little on nice.

I felt heat crawl up my throat.

“Thanks,” I whispered back. “You don’t look like a rotting cryptid, so I guess that’s progress.”

He smirked.

And for a second, the rest of the room disappeared.

Just me. And him. Under the too-bright lights. Surrounded by spaghetti and chaos and warmth.

Then Antonio slammed his hands on the table like he was breaking into a courtroom drama.

“Alright! Cake time! I call corner piece with the most frosting!”

“Sit your ass down,” Mama said, already rising to go get it.

“I second cake time,” Pete declared. “I’m not saying I came here just for cake, but—”

“You came here just for cake,” Jerry said.

“And Marzia, I guess,” Pete added, grinning.

I leaned back in my chair, trying not to let the fluttering in my chest show on my face.

Bill was still beside me. Not touching me. But close.

And I swore, when he looked at me this time, it wasn’t awkward.

It was soft.

Almost… shy.

They were singing.

Off-key, half-sincere, way too loud.

“Happy Biiiiiirthday to yoooooou—”

Mama was beaming. Pete was doing harmonies that didn’t exist in this dimension. Jerry was actually singing like a normal person. Josh looked like he wanted to die. And Bill… Bill was mouthing the words like it physically pained him to participate in anything mildly sentimental.

Papa had his arm around Dad, both of them fighting back tears. While Antonio and Marco were singing as animatedly as possible.

They're so fucking embarrassing...

I stared down at the cake.

White frosting, uneven swirls, a few goth-y purple roses piped into the corners for my “aesthetic.” Eighteen flickering candles melted slowly into the sugar. Tiny, blazing reminders that I wasn’t a kid anymore.

Eighteen.

Legal adult. College applications. Rent someday. Taxes. Fun stuff.

But also—freedom.

Real freedom. Real decisions. Real heartbreak, maybe. Real love.

Real everything.

I wasn’t sure if I was ready for it.

I wasn’t sure if I had a choice.

“—Haaaaaappy Biiiiirthday, dear Marziaaaaa—”

I blinked. Looked up. They were all watching me.

Bill was watching me.

That same unreadable expression on his face—like he was stuck between saying something dumb or something vaguely sentimental, and he couldn’t pick which one would hurt less.

“Make a wish!” Mama called from the kitchen, drying her hands on a towel.

I inhaled.

Held it.

Wished for something I couldn’t put words to.

Then blew out the candles.

The room erupted in cheers, and I smiled like I wasn’t still a caught between childhood and whatever came next.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

An hour later, the living room was a warzone of empty soda cans, discarded wrapping paper, and the sound of Die Hard 2 blasting through the TV speakers like it was trying to break the sound barrier.

I was on the couch, wedged between Jerry--quietly mouthing every line and Bill--arms crossed, smirking whenever a guy got punched off a snowmobile.

Pete was on the floor, face-down in a bag of Doritos like he’d achieved spiritual enlightenment via MSG. Josh was mid-rant about how the first Die Hard was better, and honestly, no one was arguing. We just let him burn himself out.

Mama was in the kitchen, washing dishes, humming a little tune under her breath that didn’t match the explosions coming from the TV at all.

Then—

Bang.

The front door flew open like we were in a sitcom.

“My Marziaaaaa~” came the unmistakable wail of country twang.

Oh no.

No no no no—

“Don’t you knoooow I’ve come a long, long waaaay—”

My father, Antonio, and Marco were standing in the doorway, guitars in hand, wearing dopey-ass cowboy hats, strumming like they’d just walked off the Grand Ole Opry stage.

Singing their own rendition of “My Maria” by Brooks and Dunn, but with Marzia instead of Maria.

“LOGAN NO!” Mama hollered from the kitchen.

“LOGAN YES!” Papa called back from the hallway, clearly in on it.

I slapped my hands over my face and groaned.

“My Marziaaaaa~ ” Marco sang, with painful sincerity. “I been longing to see her when she's around, she takes my blues away”

“My Marizaaaaa~” Dad sang while Marco and Antonio sang the counter melody. “oh, Marzia, I love you, girl, oh, my Mazia~”

Bill choked on his soda.

Jerry blinked like he was buffering.

Josh yelled, “What the hell is this, a bootleg of Hee-Haw!?”

Pete screamed, “THIS IS THE GREATEST DAY OF MY LIFE.”

I sank deeper into the couch, praying for spontaneous combustion.

Oh God, why...why me?

I felt a giggle bubbling up inside me as I cover my face. It felt like it was practically on fire.

They're so stupid...

My family might be embarrassing as hell. But they were mine.

And in the middle of that chaos—Bill glanced at me. Really looked.

And he smiled.

Not sarcastic. Not crooked.

And maybe, just maybe, that was enough of a birthday present for me.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The living room was a graveyard of sugar crashes and post-party hangovers.

Pete was snoring into a half-empty bowl of Cheetos. Jerry was curled on the recliner like a Victorian orphan, clutching a throw pillow like it might rescue him from the horrors of our social dysfunction. Josh? Fully starfished on the floor, one sock missing, muttering something about midichlorians in his sleep.

The TV had been paused on some grainy VHS frame of Bloodsport. The room was dim, lit only by the flickering blue of the screen and the soft hum of an appliance somewhere deep in the kitchen.

I was sitting on the couch, legs tucked under me. I got cold so I pulled a hoodie over my dress.

Bill sat on the floor, back against the couch, arms looped around his knees like some brooding comic book character that never made it past his own pilot.

Everyone else was asleep.

It was quiet.

I should’ve said something. Maybe teased him. Maybe made fun of how red he got when Antonio gave him a noogie. But I didn’t. I just watched the blue light flicker on his face and listened to him not say anything.

Until he did.

“You looked nice today.”

It wasn’t loud. Wasn’t cocky. Just… there.

I blinked. “You sayin’ I normally look like crap?”

He huffed a laugh through his nose. “No. I’m saying…I dunno. You just did. Shut up.”

I smirked. “That’s romantic, Dickey. Shakespeare’s weeping in his grave.”

He tilted his head back against the couch cushion, looking up at me. “You really think I’m good at this?”

“This?”

“Any of it. This stupid, gay feelings bullshit.”

I shrugged, my voice soft. “You’re getting better.”

A pause. Not heavy. Just…suspended.

“I’ve been thinking about that night,” he said, still staring at the ceiling.

My stomach twisted.

“…Yeah?”

“Yeah. And the days after. When I… y’know.” He waved vaguely, like “ran away like a panicked squirrel” was too many syllables.

“I remember,” I said. “Pretty vividly.”

He looked at me finally. His voice dropped a little. “I didn’t leave because it was bad. I left because it wasn’t.”

The room felt warmer all of a sudden. Or maybe that was just me.

“You confuse me,” I said, brushing a loose thread from my sleeve. “You act like you don’t care and then do shit like this.”

“I do care.” He said it fast. Like it slipped out before he could stop it.

I looked at him. Really looked.

No smirk. No smug defense mechanism. Almost like he'd ripped a mask off.

“I care about you, Marzia,” he said again, quieter. “I don’t know what to do with that, but I do.”

God. Of course, this would be the moment my heart tries to crawl out of my ribcage.

“...I care about you, too,” I said. “I have for a while.”

Another beat.

Then, just like that, he was climbing up from the floor, slow, careful—like he was afraid to scare me off. He sat next to me, close. Closer than before.

And then—

He kissed me.

Not like last time. Not chaotic and breathless and “what the hell are we doing.”

This one was slow. Intentional. Still a little awkward—he kissed like someone who’d read about it in comics but never practiced—but it made my chest ache in the best way.

I kissed him back.

His hand slid to my hip. My fingers twisted into the sleeve of his jacket. The TV buzzed low in the background like white noise and somewhere in the house, the pipes groaned like they were cheering us on.

The kiss deepened.

Sloppy. Honest. Hungry in that "we have no idea what we’re doing but we really want to" kind of way.

His hand was trembling a little when it touched my cheek. Mine wasn’t any better when I rested it over his chest, feeling his heart hammer like a jackhammer inside a tin lunchbox.

At some point, I pulled back just enough to whisper, “Upstairs.”

He nodded like it physically hurt him to stop touching me, and we stood—moving quietly, tiptoeing past the battlefield of nerd corpses in the living room.

He steps on a Dorito. We freeze, trying not to laugh as we went up the stairs.

Upstairs, the door to my room clicked shut behind us like a secret.

And then we were kissing again.

Not frantic, not desperate—just slow. Careful. Like if we weren’t, it might disappear.

Bill shrugged off his jacket, fumbling with his shirt. He got stuck halfway through pulling it off and let out a muffled groan of frustration.

I stifled a laugh and helped him wrangle it off. “You gonna lose a boss battle to cotton?”

“Shut up,” he muttered, cheeks already red.

My fingers trembled as I reached for the zipper on my dress. I eased it down and stepped out of it, bumping into my dresser with a loud clunk because of course I did. My face went hot.

His eyes were already on me.

But it wasn’t gross. Not ogling. He looked like someone standing in front of the Sistine Chapel—equal parts reverent and overwhelmed.

“You’re…” He swallowed. “You’re really pretty.”

The words hit harder than I expected. No sarcasm. No jokes. Just honesty.

I kissed him again, soft and slow, guiding him toward the bed.

We tumbled into it, a little awkward, limbs tangling and the mattress squeaking beneath us. He moved gently, easing me onto my back, like he was scared I’d disappear.

For a second, we just… stayed there. His hand on my hip. My fingers curled into the back of his neck.

He looked at me like he was still trying to process the fact this was happening. Like I was some rare, sealed-in-box collectible he couldn’t believe he was allowed to touch.

“You okay?” he asked softly.

“Yeah,” I breathed. “You?”

He breathed out. “I've never done this before, ya know….”

“Neither have I.”

He leaned down and kissed me again, and this time, there was a little more heat behind it.

He kicked off his jeans and hesitated with his boxers. His hands faltered, unsure.

So, I took the lead.

I reached behind my back and unclasped my bra. His eyes widened like he’d just seen the Ark of the Covenant.

I grabbed his hand and placed it on my breast. He swallowed hard and gave it a tentative squeeze.

“You… uh…” I cleared my throat. “Like them?”

He blinked rapidly, nodded. “A lot.”

He kissed my shoulder. My collarbone. His lips trembled against my skin like he didn’t know where to start.

When his mouth found my nipple, I gasped, threading my fingers through his hair. He groaned softly, the sound buzzing against my skin.

He swallowed hard and pulled down his boxers, shaking them free and pushing them on the ground. Then his lips were back on mine, and I felt his legs slide between mine, his hips pressing against my center, pushing my panties a little closer to my slit.

He groaned as he rutted gently against me, his cock sliding against my clothed folds. I moaned into his mouth, the friction hot and dizzying.

Then he paused.

“Okay, uh—” He reached for his jeans, rifling through the pocket. “So. Real talk. Another reason I panicked and bailed last time…”

I blinked. “What?”

He pulled out a crumpled foil square. “I didn’t have one of these.”

My face flamed. “You got a boner from making out with me.”

His ears turned red. “It was a biological response, shut up.”

I laughed—nervously, giddily—and watched him roll the condom on, awkward but focused.

He looked down at me, the blush still high on his cheeks. “Can I… put it in?”

My throat tightened. I nodded. “Yeah. I’m ready.”

He reached down and pull the panties down, biting his lip at the reveal of skin. He guided himself to my entrance, eyes never leaving mine. And then—slowly—he pushed in.

We both stilled.

It hurt. Not unbearably. But enough that I sucked in a breath and clenched the sheets beneath me.

“Shit,” he breathed. “You’re… really tight.”

I bit my lip, holding onto his arm, letting my body adjust. He hovered above me, forehead to mine, hands cupping my sides like I was something precious.

“You okay?” he whispered.

“Yeah,” I murmured. “Just… go slow.”

He nodded and started moving—tentative at first, like he was afraid he’d break me.

It was awkward. A little clumsy. Neither of us knew what the hell we were doing.

But it didn’t matter.

Every breath. Every moan. Every twitch and stumble—it was messy and weird...but fuck, it was intense.

He moved faster, hips finding rhythm. I moaned and arched into him, dizzy with the sensation.

“You…” he gasped, “feel amazing.”

I reached between us and started circling my clit, trying to match his rhythm. That coil inside me started winding tight, tighter.

“Marz…” he groaned. “I-I’m close…”

“Me too,” I breathed. “Don’t stop.”

I came first—hard and sudden—my whole body curling around him. He followed seconds later, gasping my name like it physically left his body.

He stilled, shuddering, then collapsed on top of me, careful not to crush me.

We lay there, sweaty and tangled, our breathing the only sound in the room.

It wasn’t perfect.

But it was real life.

With all the awkwardness that comes with it.

Afterward, he curled around me like I was his safe place. I buried my face in his shoulder and listened to the sound of his heartbeat slowly calming under my ear.

We didn’t say anything. No confessions. No big declarations.

Just the soft, shared quiet of two people who’d finally let themselves feel it.

The spark between us had ignited into a roaring fire.

Chapter 36: 1999 - "Glory Box"

Chapter Text

If I ever go missing, start your search in the basement. There’s at least a 90% chance I’ll be found buried under a pile of comics, a crumpled Funyuns bag, and Bill Dickey.

Not that I’m complaining.

Well… not yet.

It’s been a few weeks since my birthday. Since that night. Since we crossed the threshold from “mutually repressed flirtation” to “feral codependent mess.” I’ve basically fused to his side like some goth-themed parasite who feeds on sarcasm and unresolved trauma.

Currently, I’m half-lounging, half-glued against him on the futon that smells like a frat party for Dungeon Masters. His arm’s looped around me like he thinks someone’s gonna rip me out of his grasp. Thumb brushing slow circles on my hip. Possessive. Subtle. But there.

I like it.

God help me, I love it. Being held like this? Touched like I matter? Wanted so much it makes him twitch when I even think about standing up? Yeah, I’m addicted.

“You realize you’re sitting in my personal airspace, right?” Pete deadpans from across the room, poking a Dorito into his mouth like it’s a pipe. “Some of us are trying to breathe oxygen, not pheromones.”

“Grow gills,” I mutter without looking up.

Josh groans. “You two are like horny conjoined twins. I’m gonna start charging rent for eye contact.”

“Ten bucks says Bill gets a hard-on every time she says his name,” Pete chimes in.

“JOSH—!” Bill blurts at full volume, ears already atomic-level red.

My lips twitch. I lean in.

“Bill,” I whisper low in his ear.

He flinches. Physically flinches. Like I zapped him with a cattle prod.

Jerry, ever the last flicker of decency in this hell-club, makes the sign of the cross like he’s preparing for emotional exorcism.

Bill groans and buries his face in my hair. “Can we just start the goddamn meeting before Josh says something that gets us put on a government list?”

"We're probably already on one..." I murmur.

“You’re the president,” Pete says, flopping onto the beanbag like he’s reenacting consumption. “Preside.”

Bill sighs dramatically, but his grip on me doesn’t loosen. If anything, he pulls me closer. Like he’s claiming territory. Like he’s daring the others to say one more thing.

It makes my heart flutter....and okay, maybe I lean into it a little. Maybe I twirl the hem of his T-shirt around my finger like it’s a nervous tic. I feel his pulse jump.

Pete makes a gagging sound. “Christ, she’s imprinting on him. Disgusting.”

Josh follows with another gagging noise. “Yeah, you two are disgusting.”

Jerry just sighs and mutters under his breath. “I knew this would happen.”

I kiss Bill’s cheek just to shut them up.

He doesn’t even pretend to protest.

By the time the “meeting” dissolves into screaming about Highlander II retcons and whether Han shot first, the room looks like the aftermath of a very nerdy civil war. Josh is starfished on the floor with one sock missing. Pete’s laying in a Dorito coma. Jerry’s trying to clean up whatever mess everyone else made.

And Bill hasn’t let go of me once.

Not once.

He keeps his arm around me like I’m a collector’s edition copy of Watchmen and someone just threatened to read it without gloves.

I shift slightly to get up—just to get a soda—and his fingers twitch like I pulled a thread out of his ribcage.

“You thirsty?” he says fast. “I’ll get it. What do you want?”

“I can—”

“No, seriously. Stay here.”

It’s not demanding. Not rude. Just urgent. Like letting me walk ten feet away might snap something inside him.

My stomach twists. Not in the usual good-flutter way. More like… butterflies with switchblades.

He vanishes up the stairs and reappears 45 seconds later with two sodas and a breathless look like he sprinted through hell to beat the vending machine timer.

He hands me the soda like he’s offering his soul in a can.

“You good?” he asks.

“I’m fine.” I smile. It’s only mostly fake.

He slumps back beside me, arm back around my waist in record time. Like the moment I was gone made the whole world tilt sideways.

And yeah.

Maybe I like that too much.

Maybe I lean in too much when he brushes my hair back. Maybe I make a mental note to hex anyone who makes him look at them even remotely the way he looks at me.

Like that girl at Joe’s last week. With the Harley Quinn shirt. I don’t give a damn if she owns every Tank Girl issue from ‘93—if she so much as breathes in his direction again, I’m binding her aura with hot glue and spite.

“You okay?” he asks, again, quieter.

“Yeah.” I lie, again.

He watches me for a second too long. Like he knows I’m lying. But he lets it go.

“You can stay over,” he offers. “Not for anything weird, just—sleep. I sleep better.”

I stare at him.

My heart does something it shouldn’t.

He looks down. Shrugs. “You don’t have to. I just… don’t like it when you’re gone too long.”

God.

I should say no.

I should.

“Okay.”

His whole body softens against me like I just gave him morphine.

Pete groans from the floor. “If I hear the phrase ‘Marzia and Bill’ one more time I’m calling Pinhead.”

“Do it,” I mutter. “Tell him we have a Lament Configuration made of Dorito dust and bad decisions.”

Bill doesn’t laugh. Just buries his face against my shoulder like it’s the last thing keeping him tethered.

And I let him.

Because even if it’s messy—

Even if I should be scared—

Even if I’m not totally sure where I end and he begins anymore—

It still feels better than being alone.

And that’s what makes it dangerous.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

By the time the last of them cleared out—Jerry with a soft “see you” and Pete shouting “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do!”—I could finally exhale.

Kind of.

The door closed. The echo of chaos faded upstairs. And then it was just me and Bill.

Alone.

He stood in the middle of the room like he hadn’t processed that part yet. That the world went quiet. That I could leave now. That I wasn’t stuck here with him, and he wasn’t stuck here with me.

And then his eyes snapped to mine.

That flicker.

Like he thought for half a second, I might just... vanish.

I offered him a half-smile. “So... thrilling club meeting. Really learned a lot about how deeply Josh fears female Jedi.”

He didn’t laugh.

Instead, he walked over and sat down beside me again. Closer this time. Knee to knee, thigh to thigh. Like he had to reassert the physical bond, now that the room had shifted from group dynamic to us.

“You don’t have to go home yet,” he said softly. Like it wasn’t a question.

I didn’t answer right away. I just picked at a loose thread on my sleeve and stared at his shaggy bangs until he started fidgeting.

“I wasn’t going to.” I said, eventually.

His shoulders dropped an inch. He leaned in, pressing his forehead to mine. “Good.”

I stayed still. Didn’t lean back. Didn’t push forward.

Just...let it happen.

I liked the warmth. The weight of him near me. I liked the way his voice went quiet around me, like he was scared to say the wrong thing and ruin it all. I liked being wanted so much it made him twitch.

I liked it.

Even though it was too much.

Even though my chest was starting to feel like a soda can left out in the sun, just waiting to explode.

I brushed my thumb along his knuckles. “So you sleep better when I’m here, huh?”

He didn’t answer.

Not with words. Just turned his hand and laced our fingers together.

God.

Goddammit.

I curled in closer and let my head rest against his shoulder. He sighed, almost shakily, like I’d given him morphine. Like being near me fixed something he didn’t know how to fix himself.

“I feel better when you’re here,” he said, voice muffled in my hair.

“I know.”

“I don’t mean just like...‘oh, I feel good.’ I mean like, if you weren’t here, I’d probably be punching holes in my wall or having a meltdown over Starfleet rankings.”

“I know, Bill.”

“I don’t want to be like my parents,” he added suddenly. “You know? Screaming. Or ignoring each other for weeks. I just want someone who doesn’t leave.”

My throat got tight. I pressed my lips to the side of his jaw, soft. Thought about what to say. Thought about not saying anything at all.

“You know I’m not going anywhere tonight,” I murmured.

“But tomorrow?”

There it was.

That twist in my ribs again.

I didn’t answer.

Just pulled the blanket off the back of the couch and wrapped it around both of us. Like that could make the moment stay frozen a little longer.

Like if I kept him warm, he wouldn’t get colder on the inside.

He rested his hand on my thigh, thumb drawing slow, absent circles. He always did that—like he needed to remind himself I was real.

And I hated how much I loved it.

I closed my eyes.

Let my head rest on his chest.

Listened to the stupid, too-loud Die Hard VHS still paused on the screen, flickering like a ghost of violence and one-liners and simpler distractions.

We didn’t talk after that.

We just sat there.

And somewhere in the quiet, I caught myself wondering—when did love start to feel like a lock?

And why did I keep handing him the key?

Chapter 37: 2009 - "Poison and Wine"

Chapter Text

Hospitals smell different in the morning. Less like death. More like disinfectant and coffee from the bottom of a scorched carafe.

I walked back in like I hadn’t been here the night before, sitting in a chair that might as well have had my name carved into it. Same humming lights. Same scuffed tile. Same exact nurse who offered me a granola bar like I was a toddler who’d fallen off the monkey bars.

She looked up when I stepped in and smiled. “He’s awake. Stable. Discharged as of ten minutes ago.”

My stomach flipped. “He’s being released?”

“Yep. We gave him the standard warnings, aftercare instructions, all that.” She leaned closer, like she was about to hand me a state secret. “He’s still kind of a pain in the ass, though.”

I snorted. “That tracks.”

She waved me toward the hallway. “He’s in 203. You’re taking him home?”

I hesitated.

“Yeah,” I said. “I am.”

He was already dressed.

Sort of.

That is—he had one sock on and was trying to tie his boot one-handed while keeping the other arm in his jacket, which he was currently losing a boss fight to. The hospital gown was bunched behind him on the bed like a dead jellyfish.

He looked up when I walked in.

“Oh great,” he said, deadpan. “My ride’s here. Do I need a car seat or are we doing this raw?”

“You’re lucky they didn’t make you leave in a wheelchair,” I muttered, stepping over to help. “You still smell like regret and rubbing alcohol.”

“That’s my new cologne,” he said, fumbling with the zipper. “Eau de Self-Destruction.”

He wasn’t slurring anymore, and his color had come back—mostly. But his face was tight around the eyes. His smile didn’t reach as far. His hands shook just a little, but he shoved them in his pockets before I could clock him on it.

We didn’t say much more on the way home.

He made one joke about the radio playing some Matchbox Twenty song he hated in high school, and I told him to shut up and drink his stupid Gatorade before he keeled over again.

He smirked like it almost felt normal.

It didn’t.

Back at the house, it was all muscle memory.

Jacket off. Shoes kicked into the corner. Fridge opened and closed. We didn’t talk about what happened. Not directly.

We never did.

Instead, we resumed our regularly scheduled program of being two exes who definitely weren’t in a relationship but also somehow ended up tangled on the couch every night like it was a goddamn John Hughes movie with trauma.

He flopped down first. Stole the good end of the couch like always. I joined him without asking. Like always.

The movie was some grainy old VHS from the stack we hadn’t donated. The Thing, maybe. Or The Fly. Something with gore and screaming. We weren’t watching it.

He’d pulled me in without thinking. One arm slung over my shoulder. His body radiating that twitchy tension like he was trying to hold still and failing. I leaned into it.

I liked the weight of him.

I always had.

There was a comfort in it. Like we’d slipped into the old rhythm without thinking. No questions. No definitions.

I'm not sure if I want to call it cuddling.

Every time I so much as leaned forward to grab a drink or adjust the blanket, I could feel the tiny twitch in his grip. A quiet, invisible “don’t.”

It was a little suffocating, but familiar...almost like when we first started.

I liked it.

Which… wasn’t great.

I didn’t have long to think about it, though, because then the landline rang.

The landline.

The only people who used the landline in 2009 were bill collectors, telemarketers, or—

Oh, no.

No, no, no—

I practically launched off the couch, elbowing Bill in the ribs in my rush. He made a low “ow” sound and sat up like I’d thrown cold water on him.

I grabbed the receiver. “Hello?”

“Marzia.” Mama’s voice was a mix of tired and suspicious. “Just got off a double at the hospital.”

My stomach flipped.

“Ran into one of the ER nurses. Said we had a William Dickey come in last night. Alcohol poisoning. Unconscious.” Pause. “They also said his wife called the ambulance.”

Oh shitshitshit.

I could feel Bill’s eyes on me from across the room.

“I—uh—yeah. He’s here,” I mumbled.

“Put me on speaker.”

“Mama—”

“Now.”

I sighed and tapped the speaker button like I was surrendering a weapon.

“Hi, Bill,” she said flatly.

He stiffened. “...Ma’am.”

“I’m not calling to yell,” Mama said, which was a lie. She always said that right before yelling. “But I do want to be clear. I know my daughter’s an adult. I respect that. But if you’re back in her life—this close—you better not make her clean up your messes again.”

Bill didn’t say anything.

No sarcasm. No deflection.

He just sat there, staring straight ahead like he was letting the words hit him full force. His jaw twitched.

“You hearing me?” she asked.

He gave the smallest nod. “Yeah.”

That was it. Nothing else. No defense. No protest.

She sighed. “Good. I don’t have to like it. But I love my daughter. And I see she loves you. So I’m giving you a chance. Don’t waste it.”

“I won’t,” he muttered.

I feel my stomach jump at mom’s words. I love him? I…maybe I still do…

It sounded more like a confession than a promise.

She exhaled again. “Alright. That’s all I had to say. Marzia, sweetheart—”

“Yeah, Mama?”

“I’ll call you later. You call me if anything changes. And keep the landline plugged in.”

“Okay. Love you.”

“Love you too. Bye.”

Click.

The silence after was thick enough to chew.

I didn’t look at him.

He didn’t look at me.

Then, finally, I dared a glance.

He was staring at the blank TV screen. Like it had answers.

“...You told the hospital we were married?” he said, finally.

My face went hot. “It was the only way they’d let me back there.”

“You could’ve said ‘girlfriend.’ ‘Ex.’ ‘Friend with disturbingly good taste in bad horror.’”

“They wouldn’t have let me in unless I said I was family.”

“You chose wife.”

“I panicked!”

He looked at me then. Really looked. Still pale. Still tired. But now with this look—this tiny crease in his brow like he wasn’t sure whether to laugh or die.

I smacked a pillow into his shoulder.

He grunted but didn’t move.

“I can’t believe your mom’s cooler about this than I am,” he muttered, like it offended him on principle. “Usually people yell longer.”

“She’s being nice because she assumes we’re in some kind of tragic Gothic love story.”

“We are in a tragic Gothic love story,” he said, dead serious.

“Minus the corsets and poetry.”

“Speak for yourself,” he muttered. “I’ve got like three angsty sonnets in me right now.”

I rolled my eyes and dropped back onto the couch beside him.

He didn’t wrap an arm around me right away.

But he did shift closer. Just enough to touch.

The silence settled again. Not uncomfortable. Not quite safe, either.

He spoke first this time.

“I don’t think I knew how bad it was,” he said, low. “Until I saw it through your eyes. Last night. In the hospital. You looked at me like I was… already gone.”

I stayed quiet.

“I don’t know when I became the guy you have to lie to nurses about,” he added. “Like I’m worth sneaking past security for.”

“You’re not,” I said, voice tight. “You’re a pain in the ass.”

He nodded. “Yeah. I know.”

“But I still stayed,” I said. “And you’re still here.”

He went quiet again.

“You think I can fix this?”

I didn’t ask what it was. We both knew.

“Yeah,” I said softly. “Not all at once. Not overnight. But… yeah. You can.”

He looked like he almost believed me.

And that was enough for now.

He leaned into my side.

I let him.

His arm curled around me again, tighter this time. Like it used to. When we were eighteen and stupid and completely sure we’d invented love.

I rested my head on his shoulder, and we didn’t say another word.

Not “I’m sorry.”

Not “I love you.”

Just the quiet, heavy truth between us:

We never really stopped.

Chapter 38: 1999 - "#1 Crush"

Chapter Text

Shit, I hate March. It’s the time of the year when the weather decides it wants to hem and haw like a neckbeard picking between scrolling on reddit and spanking it to anime boobies.

It’s fucking hell on my allergies.

But, I guess it’s not all bad.

We’re one step closer to graduating and being free of the shackles of high school for good!

Then what comes next…

I’ve got other things to worry about than the ever-present dread of life after high school, like Jerry’s birthday. It’s coming up in a week and, as luck just so happens, a Ren Faire was going to be in the next town over.

It’s like the Gods were smiling down on us…or maybe they’re glowering…

If someone ever stages a community theater production of Lord of the Flies, it’ll look a lot like an Eltingville Club planning meeting.

Josh was already yelling. Pete was sprawled upside-down on the beanbag chair, waving his arms like a medieval town crier high on Surge. Jerry was trying to keep the peace. And Bill was already trying to run the entire show like he’d just been handed the Holy Grail and a clipboard.

“Okay, so if we leave by nine-thirty,” he said, voice sharp as a tack, “we’ll beat traffic, park close, and make it in time for the first joust at 11:00 sharp.”

He was hunched over his notebook, drawing a route in pen, like the Ren Faire was Normandy and we were storming it in tactical formation.

I leaned over the back of the couch, sipping from my Big Gulp and watching him with a little smile. His hair was all over the place. His glasses kept slipping down his nose. He hadn’t looked up once in ten minutes.

I’m fucking obsessed.

God, I liked that about him and kind of hated it.

“I still say we just throw Jerry into a lake and call it a baptism,” Pete muttered.

Jerry gave him a flat look. “You’ve literally never planned a birthday in your life.”

“I planned one for my hamster in ’93,” Pete said defensively. “It had a hat.”

“Anyway,” I said, raising my voice slightly, “what if we don’t skip the harp tent? I heard they’ve got people who do live spellcasting demos. Real pagan vibes.”

I watched Bill out of the corner of my eye.

He didn’t even blink. “We’ll be at the blacksmith demo then. Can’t miss that.”

I blinked. “You don’t even like blacksmith stuff.”

“Yeah, but Josh does.”

Josh, who was currently drawing a dick on Pete’s shoe in sharpie, did not react.

I narrowed my eyes.

Pete noticed. He always does.

“So, what I’m hearing is, Marz wants a harp and Bill wants a hammer,” Pete said, innocently. “Man, opposites attract.”

“Shut up,” Bill snapped, still not looking at me. “I’m trying to organize.”

“You mean steamroll,” I muttered.

He glanced up at that.

Just for a second.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

By the time we’d settled on rides, routes, bathroom breaks, and exactly how many turkey legs counted as one serving of protein (Pete says three, Josh says five), everyone was halfway to passing out.

Except Bill.

Bill was still hovering over the schedule like he was about to fight God for a better time slot.

I was curled up on the couch, legs folded under me, sketching a dumb little Ren Faire costume idea for Jerry in the margins of a notebook. Something nerdy-cute. Maybe with elbow patches.

“I was thinking,” I said casually, not looking up, “I could make Jerry something cool to wear. Like a vest or something with runes.”

Bill looked up like I’d suggested we set the festival on fire.

“You don’t have to go all out for him,” he said. “It’s not your birthday.”

“It’s a gift.”

“Still.”

I stared at him.

And for the first time in a while, I didn’t smile.

Later, after the others left—Pete flipping us off affectionately, Josh bitching about how he was bringing his own food, and Jerry quietly thanking me for the costume idea—it was just me and Bill again.

The basement felt too still.

I sat on the futon. He was pacing.

“You really think we need to spend all day there?” I asked softly.

“We need to do it right,” he said, pulling off his jack and tossing it onto the back of the chair. “If we’re gonna go, we’re gonna go as a unit.”

“Like a cult?”

“Like a team.”

I twirled a piece of my hair around my finger. “You sure this isn’t just your way of controlling everything?”

He paused.

And for a second, I saw it—that twitch in his jaw. That spark of defensiveness that always hit right before the blowup.

But he didn’t yell.

He just sat next to me, eyes fixed forward.

“I just want it to be good,” he said. “For Jerry.”

I nodded.

But I didn’t believe him.

Not completely.

Because part of it was for Jerry.

But part of it was for him.

To prove he was still the one in charge. That even if the rest of us were catching on—I was still his. Still orbiting him like some moon caught in gravity.

I felt his hand on my thigh, slow and steady. Like it belonged there.

Like it always had.

“I like when you’re close,” he said. Quiet. Almost embarrassed.

I leaned in and whispered into the shell of his ear. “Then don’t give me reasons to pull away.”

He didn’t answer.

But his grip tightened.

And I knew.

He wouldn’t let go.

Not unless I made him.

Chapter 39: 2009 - "All I Need"

Chapter Text

It had been a few weeks since the hospital.

Since I found Bill passed out on the bathroom floor, smelling like Old Crow and self-destruction.

Now, it’s early March. The snow’s barely melting and school’s already trying to eat me alive again. Staff meetings. Curriculum audits. Budget talks that never go anywhere. I feel like I’m drowning in paperwork and dried-out Expo markers.

But through it all, one strange, steady thing remains:

Bill.

Yeah. I never thought I’d say that either.

But he’s trying — really trying. He hasn’t touched a bottle since the hospital. He’s still going to therapy. The dishes get washed before they fossilize. And, maybe the weirdest of all, I swear I smelled aftershave on him last week.

It’s quiet tonight.

The kind of quiet that settles in after too much has happened and no one wants to be the first to admit it.

We’re half-watching a warped VHS copy of Heavy Metal on the living room TV. The picture warps every few minutes, and the sound's too low, but neither of us makes a move to change it.

He’s sitting on the floor, back against the couch. I’m curled up above him, blanket over my legs, not touching but close. That kind of close you don’t acknowledge because you’re afraid the moment might skitter away if you do.

He leans back just an inch at a time. Like he wants the contact but doesn’t want to ask for it.

Eventually, I cave.

“This movie’s garbage,” I mutter.

He doesn’t look back. “It’s a garbage classic. There’s a difference.”

“Oh, so you get to like flawed media for nostalgia,” I counter, “but when I put on The Craft, suddenly it’s ‘trite Wicca exploitation.’”

He turns, halfway through a retort — but then sees my face. Stops. His mouth twitches. “Fine. Neve Campbell’s hot.”

“Damn right,” I say, nudging him in the back with my foot. “Even in a cardigan.”

Finally, he leans his full weight against the couch.

It’s subtle, but it settles something in me.

A little silence.

A little stillness.

“Are you ever gonna fix that lamp?” I ask, nodding toward the duct-taped mess in the corner.

“No,” he replies flatly. “That lamp is cursed.”

I smile. “Then why keep it?”

He shrugs. “I’m used to it being there.”

He’s not talking about the lamp.

I shift, slide down off the couch, sit beside him on the floor. Our knees brush.

“Me too,” I say, after a beat.

He glances at me — and I see it. That thing in his eyes he never says out loud. All that regret he tries to hide behind sarcasm. All that longing he keeps under his hoodie.

“What?” I ask gently.

“I’ve been thinking,” he says. “About… everything. About how I treat people. About how I treated you.”

His tone isn’t self-pitying. It’s just quiet. Worn out.

I reach for his hand without thinking.

“You’re not a bad person, Bill.”

He doesn’t look at me. Just stares ahead.

“I’ve been screwing things up since I was fifteen,” he says. “You know how it is. You do enough damage, and eventually you just... become it.”

“You’re not damage,” I say.

“You’re just saying that because you’re tired.”

I am tired. Exhausted, actually. Teacher-burnout-exhausted. The kind that seeps into your bones and makes you want to cry over dry erase markers and unpaid lunch duty.

But not because of him.

Not tonight.

“You’re not damage,” I say again, firmer. “You’re not even broken. Just… dented.”

That earns me the ghost of a smile.

“You’re the only person who ever makes me feel like I’m not wasting oxygen.”

My heart folds in on itself.

“I’m not going anywhere,” I whisper.

He turns to face me fully. His hand finds mine. Our fingers curl together.

We lean in at the same time.

The kiss is soft. Not hurried. Not aggressive. It’s like coming home to something you thought you’d lost. It’s slow. Thoughtful.

His hands slide to my waist.

My legs pull him closer.

The blanket slips off my lap as he moves, climbing into my space like he was always meant to live there.

His arms wrap around my waist. My fingers curl in the hem of his shirt. His mouth is warm, open, desperate in a way he’ll never say out loud.

When we break apart, he rests his forehead against mine.

“I still don’t know what this is,” he whispers. “Us.”

“Me neither,” I breathe. “But I don’t want it to stop.”

“Even if it hurts again?”

“Especially if it hurts again.”

He kisses me like he believes that.

We didn’t speak as our clothes came off.

Not because there was nothing to say — but because there was too much. Every glance, every brush of his fingers against my skin said it louder than anything we could’ve choked out.

Bill’s hands trembled slightly as he pushed my hoodie up. He didn’t ask this time — he just waited, watching my face, giving me the space to stop him if I wanted.

I didn’t.

I raised my arms.

The hoodie came off and joined the growing pile on the floor.

His lips skimmed the hollow of my throat. “You’re always so warm,” he murmured, voice thick. “Like you were made to fit under me.”

I flushed, but didn’t look away. “Then get under me.”

He huffed something that might’ve been a laugh — then kissed me again, deeper this time. Hungrier. Slower. Like he was savoring it.

I could feel how hard he was through his jeans. He pressed against me deliberately, rolling his hips once like he couldn’t help himself. I gasped into his mouth.

“Fuck, Marz…” he groaned, dragging his lips down to my chest. His mouth found my nipple and he sucked gently, tongue flicking, circling. I arched under him with a moan.

I palmed him through his jeans — and he swore under his breath, grinding into my hand.

His clothes came off quickly after that. Less fumbly, more certain. More wanting. Like his body remembered me.

I lay back, thighs parting instinctively as he moved between them, kissing the inside of my knee, then higher. His fingers traced the hem of my underwear.

“Can I?”

“Please.”

He peeled them off, kissed the soft skin of my hip, and just… looked for a second.

“God, you’re so fucking pretty.”

His mouth was on me in an instant and I arched my back slightly. His tongue was already flicking at my clit while he worked two fingers inside me.

I squeaked out, one hand going over my mouth while the other one balled in his hair, I whimpered and moaned under him.

His tongue was relentless, making me squirm and wiggle under every pass. My hand balls tighter in his hair as my other hand migrates up from my mouth to my blushing face.

Oh fuck. He’s gonna make me--

I let out a cry out as I hit my orgasm hard, backing arching, toes curling--my knees and thighs shaking as I came down. My blue eyes were just slits behind my lidded eyes.

He lifted up and glanced at me, panting heavily, lips glistening with a mixture of saliva and my essence.

I reached for him. “Come here.”

He lined himself up, and with a long exhale, slid inside me slowly — inch by inch — like he was trying to keep the world from breaking apart too fast.

My body stretched around him, and it was so much, but I didn’t want it to stop.

Bill’s forehead dropped to mine.

“Still okay?”

I nodded. “Don’t stop.”

He started to move, slow and careful at first, like he didn’t trust himself not to fuck it up. His hands braced on either side of my head, but his body was everywhere — covering me, surrounding me, filling me.

Every roll of his hips made me gasp. Every breath he stole from my mouth made my heart thud louder.

“You feel…” he groaned, “Jesus, Marzia—like you were made for me.”

I wrapped my legs around his waist and pulled him deeper.

“You love how I feel, don’t you?” I whispered against his ear. “How I wrap around you. How I want you…how I need you.”

He let out a broken moan, pace faltering, but then his thrusts got deeper. More purposeful. Like he couldn’t hold back anymore. One hand slid between us, fingers circling my clit with perfect pressure that made me cry out.

“Fuck—right there,” I gasped. “Don’t stop, please—”

He groaned and leaned down to kiss me, swallowing my moans as his rhythm picked up.

I was shaking, writhing, nails digging into his back as everything tightened inside me — heat pooling, pleasure winding like a rubber band about to snap—

And then I broke.

My orgasm hit fast and hard, making my whole body jerk under him as I cried out his name. My walls clenched around him, and he nearly lost it right there.

“Holy fuck, Marzia—” he growled, slamming into me once, twice more before he came with a strangled sound, burying himself as deep as he could and trembling above me.

He collapsed, breath hot and ragged against my throat. I could feel him trying to catch it, his hand sliding up to rest on my chest where my heart was still pounding like a war drum.

For a while, we didn’t move.

He just lay on top of me, softening inside me, and I held him — arms around his back, legs still tangled with his, like letting go would undo everything we’d just sewn together.

Eventually, he shifted, slipping out of me with a quiet sigh, and reached down for the blanket off the back of the couch. He wrapped us both up in it like some dumb, cozy cocoon.

We didn’t speak right away.

The room was too quiet. Too warm. Too much like the kind of quiet that makes you feel like if you say one wrong word, the spell breaks.

Bill was still pressed against me, one hand curled loosely over my hip like he was trying to make sure I didn’t disappear.

I traced a lazy line across his shoulder blade, thinking — wondering.

What were we now?

Where did this leave us?

“Guess I should go to bed, it’s already late.” I said, voice low.

His fingers tightened just a little. Not enough to stop me. Just enough to say don’t.

“You could,” he murmured, somewhere between a tease and a plea.

I didn’t say anything.

Neither did he.

He just pulled me in closer, like the conversation had already ended — or like he wasn’t brave enough to have it.

Maybe I wasn’t either.

So, we stayed there.

Tangled up in each other.

Not together.

But not apart, either.

Chapter 40: 1999 - "Love Will Tear Us Apart"

Chapter Text

“I swear to God, if you play The Smiths again—”

That’s how our Renaissance Faire-slash-Jerry’s birthday hybrid trip started.

Jerry managed to convince his mom to let us borrow her van. So, naturally, we were crammed inside like sweaty dice in a velvet bag, costumes itching, elbows jabbing ribs, and body spray doing jack shit.

Pete had full control of the stereo, which spelled doom for Bill’s blood pressure.

“Oh shut up, Bill.” Pete squinted at him in the rearview like a tired camp counselor. “We’re listening to Jerry’s music because it’s Jerry’s birthday. Also, I can only take so much Radiohead before I start picturing my own funeral.”

“You’re just not emotionally evolved enough to get OK Computer,” Bill muttered, knee bouncing like he was trying to Morse-code a threat through the floor.

“So Weezer is emotional evolution now?” Josh snorted, picking at a loose thread on his cloak. “Didn’t you cry when Pinkerton flopped?”

“I had feelings, asshole,” Bill snapped.

I was wedged between them, thighs sticking to cracked vinyl, keeping neutral like Switzerland if Switzerland wore black lipstick and carried a flip phone covered in anime stickers.

Bill looked like he was five seconds from short-circuiting. His fingers tapped his thigh in time with some invisible ticking bomb. I reached over and rested my hand on his leg. Subtle. Quiet.

But it worked. He looked at me. Softened just enough.

Still, the tension didn’t vanish.

By the time we got there, the faire was already in full swing. The parking lot smelled like kettle corn and BO. Kids in plastic chainmail swung foam swords at their dads. A dude in a full-on chainmail bikini walked by drinking a Bud Light from a goblet.

Jerry practically levitated out of the van.

“God, this is amazing,” he whispered. He looked like someone dropped him into a live-action Magic card.

Pete groaned. “This better be worth the sunburn I’m about to get.”

Josh was already scouting turkey legs like a barbarian in heat. “Food first. LARP second.”

We all followed. We looked like awkward extras in a low-budget fantasy movie. I kept yanking at the laces of my bodice so I didn’t accidentally flash some D&D dad with a foam broadsword. Bill hovered close. Like... close close.

At first, it was sweet.

Fingers brushing my arm. Palm on the small of my back like he was ready to catch me if I tripped.

But then it got weird.

Like I couldn’t breathe without him monitoring my lung capacity.

“Marz,” he said low, leaning in like a paranoid assassin. “Where were you earlier? You kinda wandered.”

“I was getting lemonade.”

“You didn’t tell me.”

“I didn’t think I needed a fucking hall pass.”

His mouth twitched. Not a smile. Something else. Tight. Cautionary.

He kissed my cheek.

That shut it down.

So I let it go. For now.

By mid-afternoon, the sun was stabbing us directly in the eyes and the crowd had doubled.

A bard was singing a filthy song about a milkmaid and her “overburdened jugs.” Pete kept narrating like he was doing live MST3K and Josh was crying laughing.

Jerry disappeared in search of falcons or wizards or God knows what.

I was trying not to collapse.

Bill hadn’t let go of my hand in two hours. My palm was a swamp. Every time I laughed at one of Josh’s dumb jokes, I felt Bill’s eyes on me like a heat-seeking missile.

I needed air. Space. My own goddamn shadow.

“I’m gonna check out the jewelry booth,” I said casually, starting to peel my hand free.

Bill’s grip didn’t budge. “I’ll come.”

“No.” I smiled, brittle. “I wanna look alone.”

He blinked. “Why?”

“Because I want to?” My voice spiked an octave I didn’t mean.

He stared like I just confessed to witchcraft. “You’re being weird.”

I turned before I said something I’d regret. The jewelry booth was mostly knockoff quartz and overpriced chainmail chokers. But it was quiet.

Sort of.

“Marzia.”

I jumped.

Bill slipped behind the tent flap like he was tailing me in a noir film.

“You’re mad,” he said, too sharp.

“I’m trying not to be.”

“You just walked off—”

“I told you where I was going!”

He flinched. “You’ve been off all day.”

I took a slow breath. “You’ve been glued to me like I’m a flight risk.”

“I like being around you,” he said, but it sounded more like an excuse than a confession.

“This isn’t affection. This is surveillance.”

His mouth opened. Closed.

Then I said it.

“Is this about Josh?”

Silence.

His eyes didn’t meet mine. Just... scanned the dirt.

“You’re serious,” I said, stunned.

“You keep laughing at all his jokes.”

My brain short-circuited. “So you think I’m into him now?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to.”

I crossed my arms, heart pounding in my throat.

“You don’t trust me,” I said.

“And you always say you want space,” he muttered, “but you come running back.”

That shut me up.

We stared. The Faire noises moved around us — music, laughter, shouting about mead — but it felt like a vacuum. Like we’d stepped out of time.

Eventually, Jerry found us.

He didn’t ask what was going on. He didn’t have to.

“You guys good?” he said gently.

“Yeah,” I answered too fast.

“Totally,” Bill echoed.

Jerry nodded, slow. “They’re starting the joust.”

We followed him back.

The ride home was a different kind of quiet.

Josh was drooling against the window. Pete still hadn’t shut up about the falconer. Jerry kept talking just to fill the silence.

Bill and I?

We held hands.

But it didn’t feel comforting anymore.

It felt like a leash.

And somewhere inside me, something whispered:

This is going to get worse before it gets better.

Chapter 41: 1999 - "Closer"

Chapter Text

“Batman could beat Spider-Man’s ass with prep time, and you all know it.”

Bill slammed his fist on the table like he was delivering a presidential address, not rehashing the same argument we’d heard seventeen times since January. Basement light flickering. Pizza boxes congealing on top of a tangle of dice, trading cards, and masculine despair.

“I’m not saying he couldn’t,” Pete said, shoveling cheese puffs into his face like coal into a furnace, “but Spider-Man’s got actual development. Batman’s just sad, rich, and emotionally constipated.”

“Eat my entire ass, Pete!” Bill snapped. “Animated Series Batman is the most psychologically complex—”

“Oh boy,” Josh groaned. “Here we go. Get the chalkboard, Jerry.”

Jerry, ever the club’s token conscience, started listing off Batman writers on his fingers like he was trying to keep a fragile dam from breaking.

Me? I was sitting cross-legged on the basement carpet, flipping through a Wonder Woman issue I wasn’t actually reading. Bill loomed above me on the couch, vibrating with nerd-rage, arms folded like he was perched on a throne of his own superiority.

Normally, he’d be touching me. Knee against my shoulder. Hand in my hair. Something subtle. Territorial.

Today? Not so much.

And yeah, I noticed.

So did he.

“You’re being quiet,” he said without looking down.

“I’m listening.”

Flat. Bored. Not biting.

He tapped his fingers. “You usually back me up.”

“Didn’t realize you needed backup for your opinions.”

That earned me a full-body stare — the kind that said really? without saying it. He turned back to the boys, clearly registering the shift.

“Oh no,” Josh said, with theatrical glee. “DC Dan and Starfleet Girlfriend are fighting. Alert the fanboy tabloids.”

“Shut up, Josh,” we both said in perfect unison.

The room laughed — awkward, clipped — like we’d all heard the joke but no one liked where it ended. The air tightened. Comic debates stumbled on, messier than usual.

I didn’t look at Bill. Not even when his knee brushed mine. Not when he threw me a line and I let it drop. Just...noise.

Eventually, the boys trickled out — Pete bitching about Sun Chips, Josh calling dibs on the last Code Red, Jerry trying to keep the peace like he always did.

And then it was just us.

The silence wasn’t comfortable.

I stood, grabbed my bag. “Well, I should—”

“You’re mad at me,” Bill said. Flat. Accusatory.

I sighed. “Jesus. I’m not mad.”

He stood, arms crossed. “You’ve been weird since the Faire. You’re pulling back. You didn’t even laugh when I called Green Arrow ‘Diet Hawkeye.’”

I turned. “Maybe I just needed space that day. Maybe not everything’s about you.”

He scoffed. “Yeah, well, maybe it is when you treat me like a creep for noticing.”

I blinked. “You followed me. You cornered me behind a vendor tent like I was cheating just because I laughed at a dick joke.”

“Right. So now I’m controlling. Cool. Great. Awesome.”

We stood there, not yelling. Worse than yelling. This was quiet war. The kind where every word hit like a paper cut you didn’t notice until the bleeding started.

Then something... cracked.

I exhaled.

Dropped my bag.

“I don’t want to fight,” I muttered. “I’m sorry. Okay?”

He looked at me like I’d grown a second head. Like he’d expected me to storm out, not surrender.

I walked over. Sat beside him on the couch. This time, close.

And just like that, the tension shifted. Not gone — never gone — but loosened. Like a knot coming undone.

His arm slid around me. Tentative. Familiar.

I tilted my head against his shoulder.

He exhaled. Soft. Like that was all it took.

“Sorry,” I murmured, quieter this time. Like an offering.

His fingers played in my hair. Absentminded. Rhythmic.

“You’re thinking.”

“I’m always thinking.”

“You want me to make it up to you?”

Pause.

Then a slow nod.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I almost couldn’t believe I was doing this. This is so fucking cringy but…I guess I’ve done worse in the name of fandom.

Yeah, let’s call it that…

When I walked out of the bathroom, wearing it, I could have sworn he was going to explode.

I was wearing a red Ensign dress — tight-fitting, short, complete with the little communicator badge. It was something I’d found at a thrift store months ago. I was just kidding him when I said I’d wear it for him.

Little did I know I’d just brought one of his dreams to life.

“Damn…” He murmured under his breath.

I take a deep breath, ignoring the blush that’s crawling up my cheeks. “You wanted to see me, Captain Dickey?”

“Yes, Ensign Marzia. I did.” He replied, scooting back from his chair, his legs spread. “Your performance lately has been…subpar to say the absolute least.”

I swallowed hard, taking a deep breath and put on my best sultry, breathy voice. “Oh please, Captain. Please tell me how I can make it up to you.”

“I’ve got some ideas.” He said lowly. He patted his lap, motioning me to sit.

I did as he motioned, straddling his waist as I sat on his lap. My eyes widened a bit when I felt the hard press of his erection against my backside. I can’t help but squirm a bit on his lap. I feel like I’m crushing him.

His hands go to my thighs, his fingers softly kneading into the doughy flesh. “Relax, Ensign.” His voice was painted with a confidence that almost didn’t sound like it was from him. “It takes more to crush your Captain than this.”

I felt my cheeks flush even darker as his hands slid up my body, his hands caressing the rolls and curves of my body. I feel my heart starting to jump and flutter in my chest. I’ve never felt like this before. Never been handled so…delicately.

“Now…” His mouth is right by my ear, his breath hot and heavy, making me shiver. “On your knees, Ensign.”

I nod, my bottom lip still between my teeth and slink myself down from his lap onto the ground, the cold floor of the basement on my knees.

His hands go to the waistband of his jeans. He loosens them just enough to free himself. His legs are spread slightly, his cock standing straight up.

“I…uh…” I swallow hard.

He raises an eyebrow at me. “Huh? Oh yeah…probably don’t know what the hell you’re doing.”

I nod slowly and his hand goes under my chin to lift it to his gaze. “Don’t worry, Ensign. That’s why I’m here. To help you.”

“You are a really good Captain…” I murmured softly, my cheeks flushed a bit.

His hand moves up from my chin, caresses my cheek and then up to my hair. “Be a good girl and open that pretty mouth of yours.”

I nod, open my mouth, and let him guide his cock into my mouth. I can feel every inch of him slowly sliding into my mouth, across my tongue. I let out a gag when he hits the back of my throat.

He’s groaning above me, his hand balling tighter into my hair, practically holding me in place. “Shit…fuck…your mouth feels…fuck…”

I don’t fully understand why, but the sound of his voice thick with pleasure from my doing makes my head spin in a way that makes me crave more. More of those sounds, the ones only I can wretch from him.

Taking some cues from the limited amount of porn I’ve seen, I wrap my lips around his shaft and start to suck in long, slow strokes. My head bobs up and down, my eyes peering up to watch his expressions almost shyly.

His eyes are wide and his face is red. He looks just as shocked, just as awestruck that this is actually happening as I feel.

His hands grip into my hair hard. “Marzia…I’m…fuck…” He gasps out. His hips lift into my mouth and stall as he groans out loudly.

My eyes widen as he starts to fill my mouth up. Hot, sticky ropes fill up my mouth. It’s bitter, bleachy…and a bit sour.

He pulls out of my mouth and looks down at me still between his legs, my cheeks bulged out slightly. “You gonna swallow it?”

Without thinking, I do as he says, swallowing down the cum in my mouth. I cringe back a little. “Is it always…this bitter?”

That got a chuckle out of him. He pats my head, a placating gesture. “Yeah, but you’ll get used to it.”

I nod and push myself onto my feet. “Does that mean you’ll repay the favor?” My tone is half-joking, half-serious.

He barks out another laugh. “Hell no, you pee from there. That's disgusting.” He stands up from the chair. “Strip from the waist down and bend over the bed.”

I roll my eyes, but ultimately, I do as he says. I reach under the short dress and pull off my fishnets and then my panties. I bend over the bed and look back at him. I couldn’t resist firing back at him.

“It’s disgusting yet you put your dick in it.”
His response came in the form of a hand on my ass, a hard smack that made me jerk forward and squeak.

“Did you forget who's apologizing to who?”

There’s another smack and I yelp again. “Yeah, I didn’t forget, dammit!”

His hand comes up to pat the small of my back. “Good girl.”

I hear him rummage around in the drawer by his nightstand. “Dammit…where the hell are they?”

“What are you looking for, babe?” I asked, looking over my shoulder.

“A fucking condom.” He grumbled. “No way in hell we went through ‘em all.”

“Well…” I turned a little more, my body twisted so I can see him fully now. “I am on birth control.”

He pauses, hands still rummaging through the contents of the drawer. The drawer shuts and he stands up, pinch the bridge of his nose like I’m the difficult one. “And you only thought to tell me this now!?”

“You never asked!” I shot back, my face red. “It’s for my period, but…I’m sure it’ll work for…other reasons…”

He positions himself behind me, the head of his cock pressed against my slit. I can practically hear the smirk in his voice. “You like being spanked, Marz?”

I bit my bottom lip as he moved his cock up and down my slit, getting himself wet with my slick. “S-Shut up…”

He doesn’t give me long to dwell on that before he’s hilted himself inside me, making me gasp slightly at the feeling.

“Fuck…” His voice is tinged with awe and wonder.

I’m right there with him, my eyes wide. My teeth between my bottom lip, pushing my lip piercing into it. Without the condom in the way, I can feel him better. Every ridge, every vein…I need to calm down.

He starts moving, slow at first, building up until he’s at the speed he likes to be at. His hips snapping into mine hard, fast, and deep. Fingers digging into my hips hard.

Every time after our first, he got a little rougher, a little more adventurous. Must be watching more porn to get “ideas”.

But am I complaining?

Not exactly. It’s not like he’s bad at it or anything…

I gasp and grip the sheets hard. “Oh fuck…”

He leans over me, chest pressed against my back, breathing heavily. “W…What?”

“Don’t stop.” I gasp again, my voice shaking. “P-Please!”

He keeps thrusting, hitting that spot inside me with shocking accuracy. “There, huh? That feel good, babe?” His voice was laced with a mix of pride and mockiness that I didn’t miss.

I didn’t even care that he was mocking me. I just wanted him to keep going. “Y-Yes, I-I’m so…” I cry out as my body crumples in on itself.

He’s not far behind me. His grip tightens on my hips as he finishes, buried deep inside me. “Shit, Marzia--”

We’re both panting by the end of it, his chest pressed against my back, still holding me close. I turn to look back at him and I can’t hide the post orgasmic smile that stretched across my face.

“How’s that for an apology?”

He chuckles against my chest and presses a kiss on my neck. “Good enough, for now.”

Chapter 42: 1999 - "Let Down"

Chapter Text

I didn’t plan to go over. Not really. But something about the silence on the phone earlier felt…off. Usually, Bill won’t shut up. Or he’ll hang up mid-sentence because “Jane picked up the other line and is being a nosy hobbit” or whatever. But tonight? He just…said he’d call back.

He didn’t. So I showed up.

His mom answered the door with the kind of dazed, shell-shocked look you see on sitcom moms right after the house burns down. She barely said hi. Just jerked her thumb toward the basement and went back into the kitchen.

The stairs creaked under me like always. I half-expected to hear screaming or swearing or the Star Trek theme blasting on loop, but it was just…quiet. Not even the good kind of quiet. The dead air kind, like someone left the channel running after a marathon and forgot to turn it off.

He was down there. Sitting cross-legged on that disgusting couch that smells like Cheetos and old farts. Just staring at the TV, which wasn’t even on. His face looked weirdly blank. Not angry. Not smirking. Just…off.

I didn’t say anything. Just walked over and curled up next to him like I always do. It was automatic at this point. My head found that spot on his shoulder. His arm stayed rigid, but he didn’t shove me off, so that was something.

And then, after like five minutes of us just sitting in that weird basement purgatory, he said it.

"They're finally splitting."

No snark. No theatrics. Just those three words, dropped like a dead weight.

My fingers found his arm and started tracing little circles. His skin was cold. Not like icy, but like he'd been sitting there for hours not moving. I didn’t say “I’m sorry” because that’s what adults say when they don’t mean it. I just held on a little tighter.

He took this breath—one of those sharp, shaky ones you hear right before someone yells or punches a wall—but it didn’t go anywhere. Just hung there.

"You know the only reason I got into comics was because of him, right?"

His voice cracked a little at the end. Just barely.

"He used to have this whole longbox. First prints. Silver Age shit. I wasn’t even supposed to touch them. But I did. I read every single one. Figured—maybe if I knew all the stuff he liked, he’d…y’know. Like me."

I stayed quiet. My thumb kept moving. That was all I could give him.

"But it was never enough. It’s like...I liked it too much or the wrong way or whatever. He’d look at me like I was some kind of freak. Like, how the hell are you this obsessed with this crap?"

He let out a short, bitter laugh. No humor in it.

"And now he’s gone. Took the longbox with him."

I felt something sting behind my eyes, but I blinked it back. He didn’t need tears right now. He needed someone who’d sit in the dark with him and let the static buzz around both of us like it meant something.

"You think maybe if I’d been into baseball or something he’d have stayed?"

It wasn’t a real question. He didn’t want an answer. I didn’t give one.

He finally leaned into me a little. Just enough for our shoulders to press together harder. His head tipped toward mine, and I could feel the weight of him sagging, like someone let the air out.

His weight stayed pressed against me. Not full-on cuddling, not quite, but his shoulder didn’t pull away, and that was a big enough deal. He wasn’t breathing heavy anymore, but his hands were still fists in his lap. I reached for one—slowly—and unfolded it without asking.

He let me.

His palm was warm now, like the heat finally kicked in. I rested our hands on the ugly brown couch cushion between us. His fingers didn’t squeeze mine, but he didn’t let go either.

"You don’t have to be like him, y’know," I said, my voice low. "You’re not."

He snorted, but it was weak, half-hearted. More air than sound.

"Yeah, well, guess that’s the problem, right? Wasn’t enough like him to keep him around."

I wanted to argue. To say something poetic or deep or wise—but what came out was just this quiet, simple thing:

"I like you the way you are."

His eyes flicked toward me. Just for a second. Then away again. Like it physically hurt to hold the gaze.

"That’s a weird thing to say to a guy who once tried to kill Josh over a Boba Fett figure."

"I still like you."

That got him to crack a half-smirk. It lasted two seconds, tops. But it was something.

"You really know how to pick ‘em, Marz."

"Guess I’ve got a thing for emotionally constipated nerds."

"Takes one to know one."

He finally turned to look at me. Actually look at me. His eyes were red—not crying, just tired and rubbed raw. He looked like he hadn’t slept in days. Probably hadn’t.

His voice dipped then. Barely above a whisper.

"You think I’m gonna turn into him?"

It was the kind of question that didn’t sound like him. Not sarcastic. Not rhetorical. Real.

I shook my head. “No. I think you’re already trying not to.”

He nodded. Just once. And then—

He kissed me.

Not the usual kind. Not the weird, horny, fumbling kind we usually fell into when we were alone too long. This one was...softer. Hesitant. Like he was afraid it’d make him feel worse instead of better.

But it didn’t.

When he pulled back, he didn’t say anything right away. Just rested his forehead against mine and let out a breath that felt like it came from somewhere deep in his chest.

I reached up and brushed his hair back a little. It was greasy, but I didn’t care. He leaned into the touch like he didn’t know he needed it until it was there.

"You’re allowed to be upset, Bill."

"Yeah, well. Upset’s a luxury in this house."

"You have it now. With me."

He looked like he didn’t know what to do with that. So he didn’t say anything. Just let the silence take over again.

But this time, it didn’t feel dead.

It felt like the part right before a new scene starts. One of those filler episodes that turns out to be your favorite when you rewatch it.

Because it’s the one where everything quietly changes.

He didn’t pull away. Just sat there, forehead still resting against mine, like he’d fused there. His breath evened out. Mine matched it without meaning to.

After a while, I said softly, “You feel disgusting, by the way.”

He huffed out a real laugh. Dry, hoarse, but real.

“Wow. Thanks.”

“No, like—your hair. It’s crispy.”

“Okay, rude.”

I tugged on the front of his shirt. “Come on. Shower. I’m not making out with a man who smells like the couch.”

“Who said we were making out?”

“I’m setting boundaries for the future.”

He rolled his eyes but didn’t argue. Just stood up with a groan like he was 60 and not 18, and let me follow him upstairs.

The house was quiet. Too quiet. You could feel the missing person like a weight in the air. One less pair of shoes by the door. One coat hook was empty. I didn’t ask if Jane was home—figured she wasn’t, or if she was, she was hiding in her room like a ghost.

Bill led me to the bathroom and flipped on the light. Harsh, yellow. He scratched his head awkwardly.

“You, uh... You don’t have to—like, I wasn’t being serious.”

“I was.”

I reached for the hem of his shirt and started pulling it up. He stiffened but didn’t stop me. Didn’t make a joke. Just lifted his arms.

The shirt hit the floor. His skin was pale and soft and marked with that familiar constellation of little imperfections—freckles, a scar by his shoulder blade from god-knows-what, the weird line from where his backpack always dug in.

I leaned forward and kissed the spot right between his shoulder blades. He shivered.

“Not making it weird,” I mumbled.

“A little weird,” he muttered, voice rasping.

“Suck it up.”

I undressed too, and the whole thing had this odd, almost clinical calmness to it. We’d seen each other naked before—awkward fumbling, groping, quickies that felt like punk songs. But this wasn’t that.

This was quieter.

He stepped into the shower first, letting the water blast down, steam fogging the mirror behind us. I joined him, careful. The bathroom was cold, but the water was scalding. He leaned his head back under the stream, eyes closed, like he was trying to wash something out that wasn’t on the surface.

I grabbed the cheap store-brand shampoo from the corner and started working it into his hair. He flinched, just a little. Then let me.

“You’re treating me like a sick dog.”

“That’s because you’re acting like one.”

“I might bite.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time.”

He chuckled again. Then he sighed. The kind of sigh that deflates your whole chest.

“Thanks for coming over.”

I rinsed the shampoo out, fingers gentle. "Didn’t want you to be alone."

“I’m used to being alone.”

“Too bad. You’ve got me now.”

He didn’t reply, but his hand found my hip under the water. Just held there. Not pulling. Just holding. Like he needed the contact.

We didn’t do much else. Didn’t need to.

After the water ran lukewarm, we got out, dried off, and pulled on soft, mismatched clothes—some of mine, some of his. He threw on an old hoodie that was two sizes too big. I crawled into his bed first, and he followed without a word, arms circling me under the blanket like he’d done it a thousand times before.

His breathing was slow, steady. Not asleep, not yet. But not far off either.

Right before I dozed off, I heard him whisper, barely audible against the back of my neck.

“I don’t want to be like him.”

I reached back and took his hand in mine, threading our fingers together under the covers.

“You won’t.”

Chapter 43: 2009 - "Possibility"

Chapter Text

The shriek of my phone alarm punches through the silence like a drill to the skull.

I groan, already regretting every choice that led me here — starting with the decision to sleep on the couch. Again.

Bill’s arm is still slung across my waist. His face is buried somewhere between my shoulder blade and my bra strap, and the heat of his breath against my skin is doing dangerous things to the part of my brain that still thinks boundaries are optional.

I should move.

Like, really move.

But instead, I just lie there. One more minute won’t kill me. One more minute where it’s just us, tangled in our warm cocoon of almost-relationship inertia.

The alarm blares again.

I sigh and start to untangle, careful — surgical. Like I’m defusing a bomb that might explode if I twitch wrong. Bill stirs but doesn’t wake. He mutters something into the couch cushion that sounds like “dickweed.” Probably dreaming about Josh.

I drag myself to the bathroom and catch my reflection in the mirror.

Mascara smudged. Hair like a haunted doll. Hoodie on inside out. I look like someone who’s two seconds from scream-crying in a Target parking lot.

I brush my teeth like maybe it’ll scrape off the exhaustion.

It doesn’t.

By the time I’m ready to leave, Bill’s upright on the couch, blinking blearily like a raccoon caught in fluorescent lighting. He’s holding something out.

A thermos.

“Don’t say I never do anything nice,” he mumbles.

I blink at it. “You made me coffee?”

He shrugs. “You’re unbearable without it.”

I take it. Our fingers brush.

We don’t kiss.

We both think about it.

But that’s a little too much this early in the morning, and if I kiss him now, I won’t go to work. And if I don’t go to work, someone’s calling HR. Again.

“Thanks,” I mutter, and head out.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

By 11:00 a.m., I’m convinced pre-K classrooms were invented as karmic punishment for some past-life sin.

One kid cried because his banana was “too peeled.” Another tried to finger paint on my skirt. Someone sneezed directly into my coffee.

It’s chaos. Organized, feral chaos. And it’s wearing me down.

I love my students. I really do. I’ve seen them go from barely forming words to writing shaky “M”s and saying “thank you” without prompting. But even that doesn’t fix it.

The bone-deep kind of tired. The dead-eyed zoning out during staff meetings. The little doodles of skulls in the margins of my lesson plans. The headaches. The fuse that's always one spark away from lighting.

Burnout. I know the signs. It's a cycle that happens every year. An inevitable, annoying cycle that I can't for the life of me break. I just didn’t think I’d get here this fast.

When the final bell rings, it’s like the end of a battle I barely survived.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The house smells like burnt popcorn and possibly Axe body spray.

Bill is splayed on the couch in sweatpants and an X-Men tee, watching some bootleg ‘90s action movie where the explosions look like they were made with firecrackers and prayer. His hair’s a mess. His socks don’t match.

He glances up as I walk in.

“Jesus. You look like you got hit by a school bus and then had to teach in it.”

I drop my tote and collapse next to him like a dead body being wheeled into a morgue. “Flatter me harder, Romeo.”

He smirks. “You okay?”

That actually stops me.

“You’re asking?”

“Don’t make it weird,” he mutters. “You just… look like shit.”

I let it sit for a beat.

“The kids are doing okay,” I say. “One of them wrote their name today. Another helped clean up snack without even being asked.”

“That’s good,” he says. He means it. He just doesn’t know how to say it like a real person.

“But it’s still…” I rub my eyes. “It’s a battle. Every day. Like I’m throwing my whole self into a fire and getting back a spark.”

He doesn’t say anything. Just shifts a little so our legs are touching.

“At least it’s Friday,” he finally offers.

I stare at him. “Thanks for the wisdom, Confucius.”

“Hey. You made it. That counts.”

I look at the guy who once screamed at Pete for misquoting "Conan the Barbarian" and got banned from Joe’s for threatening to fistfight Ironjaw. And he’s the one trying to keep me afloat?

Weirdest fucking timeline.

Then the phone rings.

I groan. “If that’s the school calling about professional development, I’m moving to Canada.”

I answer without checking.

And freeze.

“Marz?! Oh my god, is that really you? The Pre-K gremlins haven’t eaten you alive yet!?”

My heart does this weird skip-stutter. “...Rachel?”

My college roommate. My old best friend. The first person that actually made me smile after the breakup. We didn't talk after we graduated. We were Facebook friends, yeah, but we're not as close as we were back then.

Bill shifts on the couch.

We talk for ten minutes. Catch up. Laugh too loud. She says she’s visiting Eltingville next week and wants to meet up.

I say yes without thinking.

When I hang up, Bill’s watching me.

“Who was that?”

I slide the phone into my hoodie like it’s radioactive. “College roommate.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Just a roommate?”

I shoot him a look. “Yeah and my emotional support during the shitstorm that was freshman year.”

He doesn’t answer. Just goes still.

Then shrugs.

“Cool. Whatever. Just curious.”

The air shifts.

He doesn’t say anything else. Doesn’t accuse. Doesn’t snap. But later that night, when we’re in bed — not together, not apart — he pulls me a little closer.

Subtle. Quiet. Like he thinks if he doesn’t hold on tight enough, I’ll vanish again.

And I let him.

Because I don’t want to talk either. Because it’s easier to pretend we’re fine. Because I know how it feels to lose something before you even figure out what it meant.

And for the first time in a while, I wonder if I’m the only one who tried to forget.

Or if somewhere out there…

Bill has his own Rachel.

Chapter 44: 1999 - "Possession"

Chapter Text

There’s this twitchy little thing I do when I get annoyed. I bite the inside of my cheek until it hurts, until it’s raw and metallic-tasting and my tongue starts poking at it like I want to bleed just to feel something.

Guess what I’m doing right now.

“You mean the Morrison run?” she asks, all sugary and casual, like she doesn’t know she’s a landmine in jeans and an oversized Harley Quinn tee.

Bill nods, of course. Of course he does. “Yeah, the New X-Men stuff? That whole run's insane. Quitely’s art is disgusting in the best way.”

I stare at them from behind a stack of Hellboy back issues, chewing my cheek to ribbons. She laughs at something he says. It's a soft, snorty laugh. Probably fake. Or maybe not. Maybe it’s real, which is worse.

She’s pretty. But not in the glossy magazine way—she’s nerd-hot. The kind of hot that’s coded in pins and eyeliner and obscure trivia. She probably owns a Zatanna cosplay and a shelf full of Tank Girl. And Bill—my Bill—is smiling. Like, real smiling. Not that sarcastic smirk he usually pulls when he talks to someone with a pulse.

“You good?”

I nearly jump out of my skin. Josh is standing next to me, holding some stupid Iron Man omnibus like it’s not obvious I’m plotting a murder.

“Peachy,” I snap. My voice comes out all sharp and high-pitched, like glass about to crack.

“Okay…” He backs off like I’m radioactive. Smart boy.

I glance back over and they’re still talking. Laughing. She touches his arm. Not in a sexy way—more like a “haha you’re so funny” kind of way—but it might as well be a hand job.

I march up to them. Zero hesitation. Passive-aggression? Never heard of her.

“Hey babe,” I say, voice dripping with something not quite human, and I loop my arm through his like a damn tourniquet. “Ready to go?”

Bill blinks. “Uh, we just got here.”

“I’m bored.”

“You said you wanted to look for that one issue of—”

“Yeah, I lied.”

He stiffens next to me. Girl-with-the-shirt raises an eyebrow, amused. I hate her. She probably has perfect cuticles and smells like Warm Vanilla Sugar.

“Anyway,” she says, still looking at him, “I’ll be here next week if you wanna finish the convo.”

“He won’t,” I bite, all saccharine. “He’ll be too busy doing me.”

She doesn’t even flinch. Just shrugs and turns away like she didn’t just pull a knife out of my spine and walk off with it.

We don’t speak on the walk home.

Every step feels like a dare, like we’re both waiting for the other one to say something first so we can rip them to shreds. I keep replaying that girl's laugh in my head like a skip in a record. That touch on his arm. The way his shoulders relaxed around her, like talking to her was easy.

Like I’m the hard part.

When we get to his driveway, I finally say something.

“You liked her.”

Bill groans. “Oh my God, Marzia. Are we really doing this?”

“You smiled at her.”

He turns to me, jaw clenched, forehead wrinkling like he’s physically restraining himself from yelling.

“So what? I can’t smile at anyone now?”

“Not girls like that!”

“What the fuck does that even mean?!”

I hate that his voice is louder than mine. I hate that he looks genuinely pissed instead of guilty. Because that means he thinks he’s right.

“You know exactly what it means,” I hiss, stepping up to him as I jab a finger at him. “Girls like that don’t look at you unless they want something. And you—you’re too dumb to notice it.”

“Jesus Christ, you’re insane.” He storms up the steps. “I’m not doing this with you.”

“Because you don’t care,” I snap, following him inside. “Not about me. Not about us.”

“Oh, fuck off.”

He slams the door behind us, throws his house keys onto the counter with a sharp clatter. I watch him move through the room like he’s trying to outrun me. But I’m faster.

“You don’t even look at me like you used to,” I say. And my voice cracks. That’s the worst part. It breaks right in the middle like a weak branch.

He freezes.

“Yeah?” he says, voice low now, dangerous. “Maybe because every time I do, you're already looking at me like I’m cheating. Or lying. Or fucking—failing you somehow.”

I flinch.

“I didn’t mean—”

“No, you did,” he spits, turning to face me. “You always mean it. You just get off on making me feel like the bad guy.”

“Maybe because I feel like you’re slipping away.”

Silence.

I hate silence. It always means he’s won. And I can't let him win.

So I walk up to him and grab his shirt. His stupid oversized Batman tee that smells like sweat and Red Bull and something faintly sour, like unwashed guilt.

“Let me make it better,” I whisper, even though I know that’s not what this is. “Just let me—please—”

He doesn’t kiss me. He just lets me take it. His mouth is slack, arms limp at his sides, like he’s waiting for this to end before it even begins.

But I don’t stop.

My hands are in his hair—greasy, unwashed, thick at the roots. I tug hard enough to make him wince. He finally moves then, finally grabs my waist, hard, like punishment.

“You’re a fucking nightmare,” he growls into my neck.

“Then wake up,” I whisper.

We end up in the bathroom like we’ve been sleepwalking, neither of us saying a word. He kicks the door closed behind us with his heel, head hanging like gravity’s finally too much.

I’m the one who turns on the water.

The pipes shriek to life, sputtering before a blast of heat fogs up the mirror. It’s too hot, borderline scalding, but I don’t turn it down. I want it to burn. I want it to peel something off me.

He watches me like I’m some stray animal he’s trying to decide if he should feed or shoot.

“Get in,” I say, voice steady now. Scary calm.

He doesn’t argue. Doesn’t speak. Just pulls his shirt over his head, wet fabric clinging to his chest from sweat and heat. His skin is pale, too pale, and dotted with red from stress or acne or just... living wrong.

I reach for his waistband, not gently. He flinches—barely—but lifts his hips. Like this is a favor.

When he’s down to nothing, I follow. Shirt off. Skirt down. Bra unclasped. I don’t meet his eyes.

Not yet.

We step in fully naked, no ceremony. The water hits us like a slap. Steam curls around us like a suffocating hug.

Bill stands under the spray, eyes closed, mouth tight. His greasy hair flattens against his forehead in thick auburn ropes, clinging to his temples.

I reach up and start scrubbing.

Not gentle, not nurturing. I claw through his hair like I’m trying to rip the bad parts out. Lather builds fast under my nails. His shoulders twitch but he doesn’t stop me. Just grips the tile behind him, white-knuckled.

“You should’ve seen how you looked at her,” I mutter, low and mean. “Like she mattered.”

He opens his eyes then, sharp and red-rimmed. “You think I give a shit about her?”

“You looked happy.”

He laughs, bitter and humorless. “You think I’m happy? Now?”

My hands stop.

I look him in the eye finally.

“Prove it.”

He doesn’t ask what I mean. Just grabs me by the waist, spins me into the wall. Water hits my back, too hot, but I don’t care. His mouth crashes into mine like he’s trying to erase the last ten minutes. It’s not tender. It’s teeth and spit.

I claw at his back. He bites my lip.

He pushes me against the wall hard, his lips moving down my body. “You’re such a bitch sometimes.” He growls against my skin.

“And you’re a fucking cunt.”

“Yeah? Keep talking shit and I stop.” He stops at my pussy, his mouth ghosting it, teasing me with the idea of release.

I let out a huff and force down the venom I want to spit at him. I yelp when I feel his mouth on me, his tongue moving from my entrance to my clit.

“I’m the only one who'd ever do this sick shit for you.” He grumbles against my clit as his tongue and lips attack it.

I gasp out, grasping at the shower wall. He’s actually doing it?

He regularly bitches about how it gross and degrading it was and all that “Alpha male” nonsense he’d parrot about.

So yeah, I never thought he’d ever actually do it.

And I don’t last long, hitting an orgasm way quicker than I meant to.

I finally get the nerve to look down at him and he’s shooting me a smirk, almost like he’s proud of himself or I proved him right.

Or like that was all it took to make me forgive him.

Yeah, right.

He stands up, caging me with his arms, using every bit of those four inches he has on me to his advantage. He presses me up against the wall, lifting me just enough for him to reach my entrance. “Done being a fucking brat now?”

I wrap my legs around his waist and smirk. “What do you think?”

He growls deep, low in his throat, and slams into me.

Hard, angry, like he’s trying to bury something—guilt, rage, himself.

I cry out, but not from pain. It doesn’t hurt, not anymore. The noise that comes from my throat is more of a cry of desperation that says I hate you and please don’t leave me all at once.

His breath stutters in my ear as he starts moving, hard and faster, rougher than ever before. It’s enough to steal the breath from my lungs.

“You’re still mine, right?” I whisper in his ear, my arms wrapped around his neck, my voice boarding on desperate. “Right?”

He doesn’t say it.

But he shows me.

Again and again and again.

He’s being so rough, hitting as deep as he can get. Like he’s trying to crawl his way inside me. Remind me I’m his just as much as he is mine.

My hands squeeze his shoulders hard and I snake my finger into between us to finally push myself over the edge. I cry out as I come undone, my body shuddering and shaking above him as I fly into my climax.

He’s not far behind me. I hear his breath hitch as he buries himself inside me, groaning and swearing as he fills me up.

When it’s over, we slide to the floor of the shower. Water still on, pounding our backs. His head drops to my shoulder, and I feel the tremble in his chest. Not crying. Not yet…anyway…

Just empty.

But I hold him anyway.

Because no one else will…

My body’s still pinned against the floor with his. Our breaths are heavy, like we just ran a marathon through fire and didn't win.

I exhale.

I’m not angry anymore. Not anything anymore.

Just... tired.

The kind of tiredness that settles in your bones when you've screamed too much or cried too hard. Even if neither happened out loud.

“You gonna move?” I ask, voice hoarse but light.

Bill grunts. He doesn’t budge. Probably thinks if he shifts, he’ll break something between us. Or maybe he just doesn’t want to look me in the eye.

He eventually does though. Pulls back enough to sit, crouched, knees to chest like a pissed-off cat. Hair hanging wet over his face. Steam is still clinging to his shoulders.

“You’re done being mad?” he asks, eyes not on me.

“Yeah,”

I’m not pretending. Not stuffing it down. It just... burned itself out. The way jealousy always does with me—flashes hot, scorches everything, then goes out like a snuffed match, leaving only the stench.

I pull my knees up too. Wrap my arms around them.

Silence sits between us like the ghost of that girl and her Harley Quinn shirt.

“You didn’t even like her,” I say after a beat.

He snorts. “She called Batman a ‘government psy-op.’ I wanted to punt her into traffic.”

I crack a small smile. “Okay. That’s fair.”

A beat passes. A longer one.

Then he mutters, “You think I’d ever leave you?”

“I think you’re stupid sometimes.”

Another snort. But softer.

Then, a quieter admission. “Yeah. Same.”

He doesn’t say you drive me insane but it hangs there, unspoken, in the curve of his mouth.

I scoot closer. Lay my head on his shoulder. It’s bony and damp and probably still reeks of Head & Shoulders. But it’s him.

“We’re gonna kill each other one day,” I mumble.

“Nah,” he says, dry. “You’ll outlive me. You’re the spiteful one.”

I laugh, for real this time. It echoes weirdly in the bathroom.

He glances at me out of the corner of his eye, just for a second. There’s something in his expression—not softness, not quite—but something… unfinished. Like he wants to say something honest and doesn’t know how to package it without choking on it.

He doesn’t say anything.

I don’t push him.

Instead, I grab the towel off the rack, toss it over his head like a lazy declaration of peace.

“Your sheets reek. Wash them.”

“They’re vintage.”

“They’re crunchy.”

Another grunt. Another almost-smile.

We dry off, dress in silence. But it’s quieter now—not the suffocating kind, just the kind that hangs in the air after someone screams into a pillow.

When we finally make it back to his room and crawl into the bed, he pulls me right up against him, close, almost suffocatingly tight.

I return the gesture, fingers threading through his still-damp hair.

We lie there, not saying a word. Just two idiots trying to hold each other like it’ll fix anything.

It won’t. Not really.

But for now, it’s enough.

And that’s the lie I let myself believe.

Chapter 45: 2009 - "Between The Bars"

Chapter Text

The fluorescent lights at Key Food are an assault on all five senses. Maybe six.

We’re somewhere between the cereal and the dented discount cans when I remember why I usually shop alone. Bill’s been hovering behind the cart like a sulky mall cop for the last twenty minutes, contributing nothing except snide commentary and increasingly judgmental eye-rolls.

I grab a box of strawberry Pop-Tarts and drop them in the cart without looking back.

“They’re two-for-three,” I say.

“You don’t even like Pop-Tarts.”

“I like sugar, William.”

He huffs and mutters something about preservatives under his breath, but doesn’t take them out.

We’ve been like this all morning. Awkward silence, punctuated by petty bickering and too-long glances that say everything we’re not saying.

He’s been acting weird since the phone call. And I know exactly why.

He won’t say her name out loud, but I can feel it hanging between us — like stale cigarette smoke.

The last aisle’s baking goods. I reach for brown sugar and Bill moves to grab flour at the same time. His arm brushes mine. We both freeze.

And that’s when the voice cuts through the hum of the store.

“Bill?! Oh my God ! Bill Dickey?!”

I turn before he does.

She’s short. Rail-thin. Probably 5’1” on a good day with a strong gust of wind. Brown bob. Cat-eye glasses. Wearing one of those weird business-casual cardigans with shoulder pads that make her look like a small-town librarian trying to rebrand as a career woman.

She beelines for him.

“I can’t believe it’s you,” she gushes, practically bouncing. “It’s me , Annabeth! Remember? Michigan?”

I look at Bill.

He doesn’t say a word for a full three seconds. Just blinks. Then:

“...Yeah. Hey.”

His voice is flat. His mouth doesn’t twitch. I’ve seen him be more enthusiastic about a half-melted, knock-off Chewbacca figure.

Annabeth either doesn’t notice or chooses not to care.

“I just moved here,” she says. “I’m doing real estate now! Isn’t that wild?” Her laugh is brittle, like she’s auditioning for a laugh track. “It’s been, what? Three years?”

“Four,” Bill corrects, deadpan.

“Oh wow. Time flies.” She glances into the cart. “Shopping for two, I see!”

She’s trying to be cute…and I do not appreciate it.

“Yep,” I say, stepping forward slightly. “Gotta keep us fed one way or another.” My lips curl into a smile that doesn’t match the furrow of my brow.

Bill twitches next to me.

Then, Annabeth finally seems to really look at me. The sharp eye makeup. The scowl. The hand that’s resting a little too close to Bill’s on the cart handle.

“Oh,” she says, blinking. “I didn’t realize you—”

She doesn’t finish.

Bill clears his throat. “We should get going.”

Her eyes flicker between us, confusion and something sharper tightening her jaw.

“Right. Well…it was great seeing you.”

He gives her a polite nod. Not a smile.

“Yeah.”

She walks away, her heels clicking faster than necessary.

I don’t look at him.

Not right away.

We check out in silence. I pay. He grabs the bags. The cashier looks like she wants to ask if we’re married or about to kill each other. Maybe both.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The ride home is a dead channel hum.

We don’t talk.

Not during the drive. Not when we unload. Not when we put the groceries away in tense, robotic silence that makes the crinkling of the bags sound louder than necessary.

The second we get the last bag in the fridge, Bill leans against the counter and finally says it.

“So… Rachel.”

My stomach drops.

I turn slowly. “You wanna talk about Rachel now?”

“You brought her up.”

“You asked who it was.”

He crosses his arms. “And you got real vague about it.”

“It wasn’t relevant.” I grit my teeth. “Oh, and Annabeth is?”

He flinches. Just slightly.

“I didn’t invite her to show up.”

“You knew who she was.”

“Yeah,” he says, voice going flat again. “She was… a thing. For a little while.”

“Define ‘thing,’ Bill.”

His eyes cut to mine. “She was someone I hung out with in Michigan. We just…hung out. That’s it.”

I fold my arms. “Just hung out? Certainly didn’t act like that’s all it was.”

“Hey,” He shrugged. “She knew what it was when we started, not my fault she made it into something.”

“No, but you let her.”

He steps forward and points at me. “Don’t act like you didn’t do the same thing with Rachel.”

I freeze.

There it is.

He says it like a loaded gun.

I breathe in, slow. “Rachel and I were... different.”

He scoffs. “Yeah. ‘Different.’”

“It was ,” I snap. “She actually gave a shit about me. It wasn’t some hot-and-cold ‘let’s pretend we don’t know each other when it’s convenient’ bullshit.”

He looks away, jaw flexing. “So what? You get to have meaningful emotional fallout and I get labeled an asshole for something I barely remember?”

“That’s not what I said.”

“It’s what you meant .”

I step back. “Jesus, Bill. You’re the one acting like I cheated on you — and we weren’t even together .”

He goes still.

“I didn’t cheat on you,” I repeat, softer.

He doesn’t look up. “I know.”

Silence.

The kind that doesn’t feel empty. The kind that feels worse . Like something cracked and neither of us knows how to fix it.

“You’re mad because I had someone else,” I say.

“No,” he mutters. “I’m mad because I didn’t care when I had someone else. I still thought about you every time she touched me.”

It hits me like a slap I didn’t see coming.

I don’t know what to say.

So I don’t say anything.

He moves past me and grabs a beer from the fridge, even though we both know he shouldn’t. But he doesn’t open it. Just sits down at the kitchen table and stares at it like it’s supposed to solve something.

I stand there, arms crossed, heart in my throat.

And at that moment, we’re both eighteen again. Hurt. Stupid. Afraid of saying the thing we really mean.

That we’re still in this.

Still wrapped up in each other.

Still stuck .

Chapter 46: NOT A CHAPTER, JUST AN ANNOUNCEMENT.

Chapter Text

ℜ𝔢𝔞𝔯𝔳𝔦𝔢𝔴 ℜ𝔢𝔳𝔢𝔯𝔦𝔢

I made a tumblr for marzia.

if you wanna ask me or marzia anything, here's my blog!

sorry if I got your hopes up on an update, I promise I got a chapter coming soon.

I just gotta work up the nerves to post it

GULP

Chapter 47: 1999 - "Sleep"

Chapter Text

I didn’t hear Bill knock. Not that he usually does.

My room was a war zone of college applications, catalogs, financial aid packets, and half-drunk cans of soda. I had one foot in the world of career dreams and FAFSA dread, the other still planted squarely in the land of Dungeons & Dragons campaigns and heated debates about whether Cyclops was a chump (he was).

"You're seriously applying to all these?" Bill muttered, not quite looking at me as he stepped over a pile of "Gothic Romance" issues and sat on my bed like he owned the place. I was crouched at the foot of my desk, highlighting a paragraph about student teaching internships when he spoke.

I didn’t answer right away. I finished the sentence. Yellow highlighter, then pink star sticker in the corner. My system.

"I want options," I said.

"Right. Options. Like, in case Hogwarts doesn’t accept you."

He said it with that half-smirk, the one he thinks makes him clever. It’s the same face he makes when he trashes someone else’s opinion at the club and then acts like they’re the idiot for getting upset.

I leaned back against my chair. "What’s your problem?"

"Nothing. Just surprised you’re suddenly Miss Ambition. You always said Eltingville was a waste of time, and now you wanna major in babysitting?"

I laughed, sharp. "It’s called Early Childhood Education, dickhead. And it’s not sudden. You just never listen."

He opened his mouth, then shut it, then flopped backward onto my bed dramatically. "Whatever. It’s your life. Go get your degree. Move to Vermont or wherever they love kids and tofu and weird anime girls."

I should’ve left it. Let it hang. But I was tired. Not just physically, but in that bone-deep, maybe-I’m-outgrowing-this way. So I said, quieter, "It kind of feels like you don’t want me to go."

"I don’t care," he said, immediately. Too fast.

It stewed for a week.

He was colder. I was snappier. I skipped the club meeting that week and he made sent a passive-aggressive email to me. Then Friday hit.

We were at Joe’s, gathered for the club’s weekly debate: Star Trek vs. Babylon 5. I wasn’t in the mood. Bill wouldn’t stop needling me. Little digs. “Well, maybe Marzia would agree if Captain Janeway taught kindergarten.”

Pete laughed. Josh snorted. Jerry’s eyes flicked to mine, then away.

"You got something to say, Bill?" I asked.

He leaned back in his chair, arms crossed. "Nope. Just wondering if you’ll even be around next fall to finish the campaign."

"Maybe not. Maybe I’ll be doing something with my life while you’re still jerking off to old X-Men issues and bullying teenagers out of the shop."

That shut everyone up. Ironjaw stood slack jawed. The girl in the Harley Quinn tee—Stacy, I learned later when I apologized—nearly dropped her stack of comics. Even Joe, the unmoving mass I’d grown far too familiar with, raised an eyebrow behind the counter. Pete looked uncomfortable. Josh looked delighted.

Bill sat there like I’d punched him. Then he stood up so fast his chair toppled.

"You wanna act like you're better than me now? Because you filled out some damn applications? Go ahead. Run off to your college and your new life. Just don’t come crying back when it all sucks."

No one spoke. Even Josh didn’t have a zinger ready.

Bill left.

I stayed.

No one said anything to me. Not really. Pete awkwardly shuffled his horror trading cards. Jerry offered me a ride home I didn’t take. Josh kept glancing at the door like he missed the final act.

The club moved on. But I knew.

They all saw it. How messy we were. How ugly it could get.

And nobody was going to say a thing.

I spent an hour lying on my floor staring at the ceiling, legs kicked up on the wall like I was trying to make gravity pull the tension out of me. The argument circled in my head like a scratched record. Same lines. Same eye rolls. Same disappointments.

So when the phone rang, I almost didn’t pick it up. But the caller ID said “J. Stokes.”

I pressed the receiver to my ear.

“Hey,” Jerry said, quiet but not awkward. “You okay?”

I let out a breath. “Define okay.”

“Still got a roof over your head?”

“Yeah.”

“Not in jail?”

“Nope.”

“Didn’t go beat his ass?”

I paused. “Almost.”

He chuckled, soft and warm. “Then you’re doing better than I expected.”

There was a beat of silence, the kind that wasn’t uncomfortable but felt like an opening.

“I didn’t mean to blow up like that,” I said, picking at a scab on my elbow. “It’s just... he makes everything feel like I’m being ridiculous for wanting more.”

“You’re not,” Jerry said without hesitation. “You’ve always wanted more. You just didn’t say it out loud before.”

“Yeah, it’s…kind of not the first time I blew up at him like that.”

“Oh?” I can hear the surprise in Jerry’s voice, the morbid curiosity,

“It’s stupid," I muttered. "I got jealous. Over Stacy. And instead of acting like a normal human being, I... kind of marked my territory. Like a freakin' psycho."

"You mean like a dog?"

I snorted despite myself. "Sure. Let’s go with that."

There’s a pause from the other side of the phone and then a sigh. “You two are intense.”

"Understatement of the century." I pinch the bridge of my nose. “The rest of you probably think we’re idiots, huh?”

He sighed. “Not necessarily. Pete’s too high to care, Josh lives for drama, and me? I think you deserve to leave Eltingville before it eats you alive.”

I blinked hard. “That’s... unexpectedly poetic for you.”

“I’ve been reading Sandman again,” he deadpanned. “But seriously, Marz. You’ve got a shot at something. Don’t let any of us losers hold you back. Especially not Bill.”

There was a long pause. I could feel something heavy in my chest lift just a little.

“Thanks,” I said. “I mean it.”

“Just don’t quote me when your valedictorian or whatever. I’ve got a reputation to uphold.”

We hung up not long after that, but I sat there for a while, smiling a little.

It wasn’t fixed. Not even close.

But maybe, just maybe, I wasn’t crazy for wanting more.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I couldn’t sleep that night. My head was spinning like a top. I knew I hadn’t done anything wrong.

All I wanted to do was go to college, but it still seemed like it was wrong. Wrong to long for a life outside of the shitty suburb I knew, to want to better myself, but my guts twisted at the thought of leaving everything behind.

It’s April and I haven’t drafted a single admissions essay. I’m worrying about the thought of getting out of this place and what that would entail.

I took a deep breath and pushed myself out of bed. I pulled on my slippers and opened my bedroom door, walking down the hallway to the front door. Before I leave, I swipe a joint that Papa rolled.

The night air hit my arms like a bolt of electricity. It made me shiver slightly, covering my arms and cradling them close. I hug myself as I walk down the driveway to the sidewalk.

I wander down the lifeless suburb until I come across one of those park benches that are always crowded with old people during the morning. The closer I get, the better I can see what’s on the bench.

It’s a person, slouched on the bench, their head hung low.

I took another look at them and then almost ran away.

Goddammit, it’s Bill.

Crumpled up in a ball on a crummy park bench, looking like he just lost an Ebay bid on a limited-edition Boba Fett figure.

He looks so pathetic.

Like a kicked puppy and I love puppies.

Against my better judgement, I sit on the other side of the park bench, hands folded in front of me, trying to act like we hadn’t just had one of our biggest fights to date.

He didn’t look up when he spoke. “Don’t tell anyone you saw me like this.”

I don’t answer, not because I’m being petty, but because he should know by now I wouldn’t do that to him.

He reached into his flannel pocket and pulled something out.

A flask. Chrome. Cheap.

He took a swig. Grimaced.

Then held it out to me.

“No thanks,” I said.

Bill scoffed. “Right. Little Miss Goth Morality Clause.”

“I just don’t drink things stolen from your mom’s kitchen drawer,” I said, maybe too fast.

His laugh was bitter. “Yeah, well, she won’t miss it. She probably thinks she drank it.”

I didn’t know what to say to that.

He took another sip. Didn’t flinch this time.

“You know what’s funny?” he said, voice low. “I always thought we’d be doing something big by now. Making movies. Running our own game company. Something cool. Something—worth it.”

He takes a bigger swig. “Instead I’m here. In this shithole town. Getting drunk on knockoff gin while the last person who gave a crap about me packs her duffel bag for art school or anime college or whatever the hell it is you’re doing.”

“It’s a teaching degree,” I muttered.

“Right. Preschoolers. Because that’s how you change the world.”

I stood up, already ready to leave again. “You don’t get to make fun of me for trying.”

“You don’t get to leave without saying goodbye.”

My mouth opened then closed again.

Bill took a shaky breath. “You know what Pete said? That I’m just pissed you’re not gonna be around anymore. Like that’s all it is. Like I’m just mad you won’t be there to sit around ranking Star Wars and rewatching Akira for the thousandth time.”

He turned to look at me for the first time. His eyes were red. Not dramatic anime tears—just bloodshot and exhausted.

“But it’s not that,” he said. “I’m pissed because you’re getting out. And I’m not.”

The silence between us stretched so long I could hear a plane overhead.

Not a metaphor. Just a literal plane. Probably headed somewhere better.

“You know what your problem is?” I finally said. “You act like you’re the only person who’s scared.”

“I am not just scared,” he said, standing now too. “I’m fucking terrified. But I can’t say that to Jerry or Pete or Josh because then what the hell do I have? I’m not smart like Jerry or cool like Pete or—whatever the hell Josh is. I’m just the angry one. The loud one. The one people expect to crash and burn, so they don’t even bother lighting the fire.”

I stared at him. And maybe for the first time, I saw him not as the guy who shouted about comic book continuity errors, made me cry over Batman when we were little, or kissed me like he was starting a fight.

I saw what he really was.

A lonely, sad, broken person who was just trying to cling to the only thing that ever made him feel human.

“Why didn’t you just say all this sooner?” I asked quietly.

He looked away. Took one last sip from the flask, then stuffed it back in his pocket. “Because if I said it, then it’d be true.”

I didn’t hug him. I can’t just yet.

But I sat back down.

And after a second, so did he.

“I’m not leaving forever, you know…” I murmured quietly. “I won’t have to leave until August and I’ll come home every weekend.”

He just scoffed and rolled his eyes, but he did scoot closer.

I scooted closer to him and rested my head on his shoulder. “I’m not going to forget you, lover…” I murmured softly.

His shoulders slackened and his head hesitantly rested on top of mine. “Yeah, I’m pretty unforgettable.”

I could smell the faint bitterness on his breath mixing with the tinge of the Axe Body Spray he always doused himself in.

“I don’t wanna lose you…”

I close my eyes. “I don’t wanna lose you, either.”

We leaned against each other like we were the only solid thing grounding each other to this world. The world was an ocean with a raging sea roaring against it and we were two rocks against the shore, taking the brunt force of the sea while still standing strong.

Chapter 48: 2009 - "Nothing Compares 2 U"

Chapter Text

It’s been three days since the grocery store blow-up.

Three days since Annabeth showed up with her stupid real estate smile and chirpy little voice that made my skin crawl. Three days since Bill and I stood in our kitchen lobbing old ghosts like grenades, pretending we weren’t both bleeding from the same wound.

And now?

Now we’re in Cold War mode.

No yelling. No passive-aggressive sniping. Just a thick, suffocating silence punctuated by the clink of mugs and the soft whir of the microwave when one of us heats up leftovers the other one won’t eat.

He doesn’t ask about Rachel. I don’t ask about Annabeth. But the names sit between us like landmines with the pins half-pulled.

We sleep in the same bed — barely. We lie back to back, inches apart, like strangers trying not to breathe too loud.

I wake up every morning with a knot in my chest and go to work like I’m not unraveling.

The only part of my day that doesn’t make me want to walk into traffic is the 8 hours when my kids are finger-painting chaos, singing their "ABCs", and calling me Miss M like I’m some kind of soft, maternal hero instead of a barely-holding-it-together burnout with raccoon eyes and a bleeding cuticle from stress-picking.

And today?

Today, I found an old flyer on the kitchen table.

A Ren Faire poster from 1999. Sun-faded, water-warped at the edges. One of the ones we stole off a telephone pole and scrawled inside jokes all over — “JOUST NUTS” and “PETE GOT SUNPOISONING” and that crude little drawing of Josh passed out under a turkey leg stand.

It’s folded open, placed face-up, like a memory we’ve both been avoiding.

I stare at it for a long time.

Then I toss it in the trash and go to work.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

When I walk in, the lights are low, and the house smells like burnt popcorn and Bill’s body spray. He’s at the table with an old stack of comics and a beer he’s not drinking.

“Hey,” I say, shrugging off my bag. “You eat?”

He doesn’t look up. “Wasn’t hungry.”

I nod. Head to the fridge. I’m halfway through opening the door when he says it.

“You let her love you.”

I stop.

Hand on the handle, eyes locked on a half-empty bottle of creamer and a sad, browning head of lettuce.

“What?”

“I said,” he repeats, standing slowly, “you let her love you. Rachel.”

I close the fridge without grabbing anything.

So, this is how we’re doing this.

“No,” I say. “She and I were...close. That’s it.”

He scoffs. “You think I didn’t notice? How you laughed at every five fucking words she said? Or how you were so eager to go see her again?”

I flinch.

“Because we were friends, Bill. F-R-I-E-N-D-S.”

“Sure, Marzia, sure you were.”

“Like how you and Annabeth just ‘hung out’ for four years?”

He laughs. It’s cold. Ugly.

“We hung out, but we went our separate ways at the end of the night. We didn’t live with each other.”

That one hits. I see it. His mouth tightens. His shoulders go rigid.

But then he shrugs.

“Fine. I had Annabeth. But I told her what it was. I never sold her a lie.”

“And I didn’t?” I snap. “You think I told Rachel I loved her? That I was planning some kind of lesbian escape plan? No. She was just...she was just there.”

His jaw clenches.

“She held your hand, Marz.”

“When I was drunk so I didn’t fall!”

“She kissed you.”

I flinch once again.

He glares at me like I just kicked his dog.

“You let her hold your hand. You let her kiss you. You wrote blog posts about her. I fucking found them, Marz.”

“I was nineteen.”

“Bullshit. You’re still doing it.”

I blink. “What?”

“You’re still doing it,” he says again, voice rising. “You’re still holding onto her like she was just a thing that happened. Like she didn’t mean anything. You keep that picture from that goth club — the one where she’s got her arms around you like you belong to her!”

He’s shouting now. Red-faced. Breathing heavy. The beer bottle on the table wobbles from how hard he hit it.

I stood there. Silent.

Because I do keep that picture. Buried under a ticket stub and an old Sailor Moon sticker in a drawer I haven’t opened in months.

And that makes it worse.

“I didn’t love her,” I say, quietly. “But she loved me. And I... I didn’t stop her.”

Bill steps closer.

“You think I’m mad because you had her,” he mutters. “But I’m mad because I had Annabeth — and she didn’t mean shit to me. And you — you had someone who actually gave a damn.”

I shake my head. “It wasn’t real—”

“But it could’ve been.”

That’s the moment.

That’s the snap.

Not the yelling. Not the guilt. Not even the memory of Rachel’s lips on mine.

It’s that single sentence. The possibility. The one I refused to admit — to myself, to Rachel, to him.

I could’ve loved her.

But I didn’t.

Because I never stopped loving him.

And now he knows that.

And I think that hurts him more than anything.

He backs up a step. Not because he’s done, but because he’s bracing for the next swing.

And he throws it.

“You know what kills me?” he says, lower now. Bitter. “You act like I’m the only one who gets territorial. Like I’m the one with the possessive streak. But I remember Stacy, Marz.”

I blink.

He keeps going.

“Yeah. You remember her. Comic shop. March of ‘99. She asked me about X-Men and you damn near snapped her neck with a look. Told her we were ‘fucking’ just to chase her off. She wasn’t even flirting...then you marked me like some fucking animal!”

“That’s not the same—”

“It is,” he snarls. “It’s exactly the same. You piss on what’s yours just like I do. You just hide it behind sarcasm and eyeliner.”

I open my mouth. Nothing comes out.

Because he’s right.

Because I remember the heat in my face. The twitch in my hand. The way I wanted that girl to know he was mine, even if I didn’t say it.

He sits back down, cracking the beer open. Doesn’t drink it. Just stares at the bubbles, eyes glassy.

“I still think about you,” he mutters. “Even when I try not to.”

“I know.”

I sit down too. Across from him. The air’s thick, but not like before. This isn’t tension. This is... residue. Ashes.

We don’t say anything for a while.

Just sit there with the ghosts.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

We’re both in bed.

Facing the ceiling.

He’s breathing like he’s trying not to.

I reach for his hand.

He lets me take it.

In the dark, wrapped in someone I’ve been breaking since 1999, I close my eyes and think of Rachel’s laugh. Of Annabeth’s hands. Of the people we let hold us when we couldn’t hold each other.

And I wonder if that was worse.

Letting someone else almost have you.

When someone else still owns your fucking soul.