EVERYONE HATES YOU?

Paranoia had gotten the better of you.

For the last couple of hours you have done nothing but sit at your desk and glue these sparkly plastic stones from hell on the rest of your lighters.

When you started, it was fun. A nice craft to pass some time, trying different patterns and techniques. Now your back hurts and you feel pins and needles in your legs.

Sticking the last few rhinestones in place, you grin. Setting the last lighter with the others.

This way, Tim’s lighter isn’t singled out, isn’t the only one with details. No one would guess that the black one is special.

You take a moment to straighten your back, popping your spine as you stretch your arms and shoulders.

Knock knock knock

It’s quick and sharp. You panic, yelling out a quick “Just a minute!” Quickly snapping the bedazzling set closed and tossing it to the back wall of your closet. It lands behind the pile of clothes that you’ve yet to put away. You toss the bedazzled lighters in your desk drawer before quickly shoving it closed.

You almost trip getting up before your hand touches the doorhandle, opening it with a little too much force.

Masky stands there, arms crossed and posture rigid.

“Need a light.”

“Oh," you almost panic. Keeping your face as neutral as possible, "yea, sure” you mumble, walking back into your room to grab the black stolen one from your jacket pocket. Snagging the article from your bed, you quickly turn-

Tim is standing behind you. You didn’t hear him, sure it’s only a few steps, but with the heavy boots he wears…

A cigarette rests between his lips, his Mask turned to the side of his head. His hands are stuffed in his pockets, how’d he get that cigarette out so quick? His eyes look bored as they pierce through you.

You’re suddenly aware of the space around you. He’s standing so close, closer than he needs to be to get a light. Your bed is right behind you, the blanket brushing up against the back of your knees.

“Ok, let’s go outside,” your voice is shaking, slightly breathless. You lean to step around-

“No, here.” Damn this man.

You slightly stiffen and blood rushes through your body. Fire spread across your cheeks, then your face.

You raise your hand up, holding the lighter between you. His stare sharpens as you flick it on, the brown so pretty in the warm glow.

Leaning forward, Tim takes a deep inhale, shoulders rising as he fills his lungs.

Your face burns, trying to hold the intense stare. The hand clutching your jacket is shaking slightly, the one holding the lighter is sweating.

You let the flame run for a moment too long. Quickly, you let the lighter off. Softly blowing on the hot metal before slipping it back in your jacket.

Tim takes the cig from his lips with two fingers, slowly breathing out a chest full of smoke through his nose. He’s still staring at you, it’s hard to tell what he’s thinking. His expression is a hard one, but is different from his normal ‘I’m over this’ look.

You can’t move. Your heartbeat is running laps around your chest. What do you do now? Your eyes still can’t seem to tear away from his. Hopefully he doesn’t notice that your hands are still trembling as they clutch the jacket.

You want to kiss him. Can you kiss him? No. Why is he standing so close? You can feel the heat from his body radiating off him.

“New mission, go get changed.”

You snap back into reality. Tim is standing a little further away now. When did he move? Have you’ve been awkwardly gawking at him this whole time? Did you just embarrass yourself? The air feels a bit cooler now than it did a moment ago.

Clearing your throat and letting out a small “right”, you take a few steps forward to the closet. The old tank top and pajama shorts you're wearing weren’t going to cut it.

As you pass Tim, his hand reaches for the jacket in your clutches. Pausing to look at him, he just gives that same stern expression. You gently let go when he moves it away from you, hanging it over his other arm.

He doesn’t say anything, just inhales another puff.

You turn, quickly stepping inside your closet, turning the light on as you shut the door behind you. Taking a moment for your skipping heart and light headedness, you pause.

Tim watches as you close the door with a small ‘click’. His eyes roam back to your bed as he blows smoke on the duvet.

Your closet is still a mess. Clothes, shoes, accessories, old boxes and the bedazzling set you frisbee-ed in here earlier scatter the floor. With a grim face, because you need to clean, you start searching for your normal outfit and getup.

“Is it just stalking through the forest again?”

He looks around your room, eyeing the messy desk. Taking another drag, he opens one of the drawers. Nothing interesting. The second one gives him pause; all your lighters are bedazzled.

“Yea. Slender thinks there’s a group headed this way…”

He was hoping you had a normal one that didn’t have rhinestones, but oh well. If anything, it helps cover his tracks.

Setting the jacket over your desk chair, Tim takes the lighter out of the pocket. Holding it in his right hand, analyzing as the stones glittered. He could tell they were glued on, not just sold like that.

Taking a jeweled lighter from his back pocket with his lefthand, he compares the two. They look close enough; the stones are the same size and color.

He got the lighter off a victim from a few hours before. Normally, he’s just glad to have another lighter, but when he saw how similar it is to yours… why waste opportunity?

He’d need to find a way to get the glue and stones off, but he’s always been resourceful. It’s not like he really plans on using it, he can get other lighters. But this one is yours, and if he's going to get away with this, then it can't look like it.

Tim quickly pockets your prized lighter, dropping the replacement in the jacket pocket just as you open the closet door.

“Okay,” you say, walking back out into your room. “Let’s go.”

Tim wordlessly tosses your jacket at you, quickly walking out into the hallway.

Rolling your eyes as you yank your jacket on, you pat your pockets. Feeling the shape of your special lighter, you follow him. You can change it out later anyway.

Red | Orange | Yellow

Green | Blue | Purple

Brian had always been the more religious of the two. 

Tim believed in God in the distant, uncomplicated way he believed in things he’d never had much to question. Brian was different. His faith had roots. It had survived everything that should’ve killed it—violence, bloodshed, the things they had done, the things they had seen. Somehow, even after all of that, Brian still found his way to prayer. 

You thought it was beautiful. 

Sometimes, late at night, you’d wake to the faintest murmur beside you. Brian would be sitting at the edge of the bed, head bowed, hands clasped so tightly his knuckles had gone pale. Moonlight would spill through the window and catch on the little silver cross at his throat. 

You never interrupted him. 

You assumed he was thanking God. 

For you. For Tim. For the fact that, despite everything, the three of you had somehow found something that resembled happiness. 

Brian seemed happy. Genuinely happy. 

There was a softness to him now that you hadn’t seen before. He laughed more easily. He slept better when you were beside him. He reached for you without thinking, fingers curling around your wrist or settling at your waist simply because he wanted to know you were there. 

And when Tim was around, Brian looked at him with the kind of affection that made your chest ache. 

You never considered that Brian might be praying for forgiveness. 

You never imagined that, in the quietest corners of his heart, Brian had already decided there were things God could forgive him for and things He couldn’t. 

Murder. 

Violence. 

Greed. 

The curses that tore themselves from his mouth in moments of anger. 

Every terrible thing Brian had done could be confessed. Repented for. Washed clean with enough remorse. 

But loving Tim? 

That was different. 

That was the sin Brian could not convince himself he deserved absolution for. 

And you—sweetly, painfully unaware—never knew. 

──────── ⋆⋅♱⋅⋆ ──────── 

Tim did. 

Not everything. But enough. 

He noticed the cross. He noticed how Brian’s thumb sometimes wandered over the pendant when he was anxious, tracing the worn edges as though searching for an answer hidden within the metal. He noticed the way Brian prayed when he thought no one was awake. 

Most of all, Tim noticed what happened afterward. 

Whenever the three of you slept together, Brian would eventually reach beneath his shirt and remove the necklace. 

He always did it quietly. Carefully. 

As though the tiny piece of silver were something sacred that could be offended by what happened beneath the sheets. 

Tim never said anything. 

What could he say? 

You were happy. That was what mattered. 

He could see it in you—the warmth, the security, the way you fit between them as though you had always belonged there. And Brian was happy, too. Tim knew that much. He knew because he’d spent enough years beside Brian to recognize the difference between his smiles and the real thing. 

So Tim swallowed the question. 

He swallowed it every time Brian slipped the cross from around his neck before lying down beside him. 

Every time Brian kissed him afterward. 

Every time Brian whispered that he loved him. 

It became something Tim carried alone. 

Until one night, in the hush of your shared cabin, it became impossible to ignore. 

The mission had dragged into the early hours. Rain pressed steadily against the roof, a soft, relentless tapping that filled the wooden walls like a second heartbeat. Inside, the fire in the living room crackled low and steady, casting amber light that trembled across the floorboards and warmed nothing but the edges of the dark. 

You’d fallen asleep first. 

Curled into the couch, half-buried in a blanket, your breathing even and untroubled as firelight flickered over your face, 

Brian had watched over you for a while, then finally settled beside Tim on the opposite end of the couch. 

The cabin felt too still despite the storm outside. The kind of stillness that made every sound feel sacred. 

Only the rain remained, tapping against the roof in patient, unbroken rhythm. 

Tim was lying back when he heard the faint metallic click. 

He opened his eyes. 

Brian was removing the cross. 

For a moment, neither of them spoke. 

Firelight caught on the pendant as Brian held it between two fingers, staring down at it. The glow made it look almost alive—like something that still remembered what it was meant to mean. There was something unbearably solemn about the sight, framed by the hush of rain and the breathing wood of the cabin. 

Tim’s chest tightened. 

“Brian.” 

Brian froze. His fingers closed around the cross. 

“What?” 

Tim hesitated. He hated how suddenly small he felt. Not afraid of Brian. Never that. Afraid of what the answer might do to the quiet between them. 

“Why do you always take it off?” 

Brian’s expression shifted only slightly, but Tim knew him too well. His jaw tightened. His eyes dropped. 

“The necklace?” 

“You know what I mean.” 

Silence. 

Rain whispered against the roof like a distant prayer. 

Eventually, Brian exhaled. 

“I don’t want it on me.” 

“Why?” 

Another silence. 

Brian looked toward you. You were sleeping peacefully on the couch a few feet away, face softened by firelight, completely unaware of the conversation unfolding in the dim glow of the room. Something in Brian’s expression softened. 

Then it broke. 

"Because,” he whispered, “I don’t think God would want it here.” 

Tim stared at him. 

The words landed with an almost physical weight, heavier than the rain, heavier than the firelight. 

“Here?” He repeated. 

Brian’s eyes stayed on the cross. 

“With me.” 

Tim pushed himself upright slightly, the couch creaking beneath him. 

“Brian.” 

"I know what I’ve done.” His voice was barely audible, swallowed by the crackle of the fire. “I know what kind of man I am.” 

“Don’t.” 

“I’ve killed people, Tim.” 

“I know.” 

“I’ve hurt people.” 

“I know.” 

"I’ve lied. I’ve stolen. I’ve been cruel. I’ve said things I shouldn’t have said.” His thumb rubbed anxiously over the pendant, firelight trembling across his knuckles. “I’ve done things I can’t take back.” 

Tim’s expression twisted. 

“And you think that’s worse?” 

Brian finally looked at him. 

Tim swallowed. 

"You think God can forgive all of that,” he whispered, “but not this?” 

Brian didn’t answer. 

He didn’t have to. 

The silence was answer enough, thick as smoke in the warm air. 

Tim stared at him, heart aching with an anger that had nowhere to go. Because suddenly, all those nights he’d watched Brian pray made sense. 

All those whispered words. 

All those bowed heads lit only by moonlight or fire. 

Every careful of that cross. 

Brian hadn’t been thanking God for giving him a life with them. 

He had been begging God to forgive him for wanting it. 

Tim reached forward. 

Brian flinched when Tim caught his wrist. 

Not away. 

Just enough to show he hadn’t expected tenderness. 

“You know what I hate?” 

Brian’s brow furrowed. 

"I hate that you think lovin’ me belongs on the same list as everything you done wrong.” 

Brian’s lips parted. 

Nothing came out. 

Tim’s grip loosened until his hand slipped down, fingers threading through Brian’s. 

“You don’t have to take it off just ‘cause you’re beside me.” 

Brian stared at their joined hands, firelight flickering over their skin. 

"And if you think God hates you for lovin’ me,” Tim continued, quieter now, “then I don’t know what kind of God you’re prayin’ to.” 

Brian’s eyes shone. 

He looked away quickly, as if the fire had suddenly become too bright. 

Tim didn’t press him. 

That was the cruelest part of loving someone, sometimes. Understanding that you couldn’t drag their guilt out of them by force. You could only sit beside them while they carried it. 

So Tim stayed. 

He stayed on the worn couch, shoulder pressed against Brian’s, their hands still intertwined as rain tapped rhythmically against the roof and the fire breathed between them. 

After a long while, Brian lifted the cross. 

For a brief second, Tim thought he was going to slip it back around his neck. 

Instead, Brian pressed the pendant into his palm. 

“Keep it.” 

Tim looked down. 

“Brian—” 

“Just for tonight.” 

Tim closed his fingers around it. 

And when Brian finally leaned against him, exhausted and trembling almost imperceptibly, Tim lowered his head against Brian’s. 

Neither of them spoke. 

Across the room, you slept on, peaceful and trusting, unaware that the two men you loved were sitting in the firelit dark with something far more frightening than any monster they had ever faced. 

Not sin. 

Not God. 

Just the terrible possibility that Brian might never learn that he was worthy of being loved without asking forgiveness for it.