victoria

You and Bobby waded through knee deep water for days that drenched your shoes and socks and made you two smell like chlorine like after a day out at the public pool, limbs still wobbly from the waves. The area was almost never ending. You two have lost count of the days spent here, it could just be two or maybe three days, or it could be more than that. You slept on lounge chairs whilst he watched over the perimeter with sunken tired eyes. He always lets you sleep a couple more hours than intended like you do for him, a wordless decision that you both adhere to. The food isn’t as scarce, sometimes they appear out of nowhere, placed by the doorway where you’re about to go through, or bottles of almond water resting beside a sunken beach umbrella. You and Bobby don’t starve nor get thirsty. It’s a mystery that you both stopped questioning.

There were twirly colourful slides that led to somewhere and nowhere that are placed here and there, it’s the one place you and Bobby would never dare go into even if you two are being chased by an entity.

The places you walked through had weird architecture like the yellow offices, stairs leading to nowhere or going down into a void, random platforms, half walls in the middle of a pool, pools with wooden decks, and some had waters as green as algae right next to purple waters. It gave you a headache, but Bobby was enthralled by it, admiring the tiled arches and trippy pools that he muttered to himself about wanting to take pictures of it. You wish your phone still worked so he could take snapshots, you wanted to see how he views the place from his perspective.

Compared to the pool rooms, this place is more akin to reality that it’s incredibly odd. Every step has to be careful so that you don’t accidentally step on shattered glass. And the place is awfully cramped and dirty with scattered broken down furniture and trash. It’s a maze here, you’ve been wandering around with Bobby for an hour or two as the flame on his lighter illuminates the way. Your jeans are still damp from the pools, and he still smells like chlorine, your socks feel disgusting as it squishes with every step.

You’ve stumbled a few times, apparently more than enough times that Bobby has resorted to tugging you to his side and holds onto the hem of your jacket to keep you from face planting on the dirty ground. His warmth beside you is a welcome reprieve from the awful place you two are exploring. Bobby is a good alternative to the warm song of the walls, helping keep your mind quiet.

“Where is that fucking yellow wallpaper. I can’t believe I want to see it again.” He mutters to himself, quiet and yet echoing around the hallway. “This place is fucked, it’s like an old pre-school.”

“Every place here is fucked.” You answer, sniffing the still air that smells perpetually like drying paint. “D’you want to retrace our steps and go back to the pool room?”

Tugging you away from the edge of a random desk in the middle of the corridor, Bobby shakes his head. “No, we’ll get there eventually. I’d rather not go through the demonic doggy door. I swear I heard something move in there.”

“Demonic doggy door?” You stifle a chuckle, swallowing your laughter. The tension between you two still weighs heavy, lingering in the middle like a third person.

“Yeah, that’s what it looked like.” Bobby shines his light into a room, scanning the emptiness before moving forward. He does this unconsciously now, already so used to looking over his shoulder with his head on a swivel and eyes alert. This place has that effect on the ones that wander through its halls. “Have you been anywhere else than the yellow wallpaper rooms?”

“There was one time I fell into a really long hallway with flashing red lights.”

You answer him because you want to mend the heaviness between the two of you. Because you want to do better, just like he said, for the team. Kat’s supposed rescue team, what else is there to rescue when her remains could be scattered around? Maybe her other hand could be laying beside the rubble of this place. It’s horrid to think about her like that, but you can’t help but wonder where the rest of her are. Is it with Clark? Did the pirate eat her? Or worse, there must be a worse fate in this place, you saw it when the wall started absorbing you.

What happened to you in that bathroom doesn’t linger in the pit of your stomach, in fact it opens more questions for you rather than horror when it should be horrifying for you. The arms that held you weren’t human, it was from this world that shouldn’t even exist in the first place. Even though the real person based on him is real and unaware of his copy here. You wonder why the backrooms even made a version of him when he was merely a blip in your life, a brief encounter on a random night. Does everyone who has been in the laundromat have a copy down here? If so, do you have a version of you here? But why would there be a mirror of your grandfather here when he has only existed in your memory?

“A long hallway like this?” Bobby gestures around him using the flame. The fuel is bound to run out, you just hope that you get somewhere lit when it does.

“No, it’s much longer like a never ending hospital hallway, I ran for what seemed to be for hours and there were… things running after me.” Your voice echoes as glass crunches underfoot.

“That sounds fucking great.” Sarcasm rolls off his tongue. “Like paradise, how’d you get out?”

“I just ran.”

Bobby flutters his lips, he seems to be far calmer than usual. Maybe because this place feels much more like reality than the other places you’ve been to. Although a dilapidated reality, it feels real, like if you two could just find the exit sign you’ll get out into the chilly night air and hear cars honking outside. Like a couple of urban explorers, not two people trying to survive the pits of mono yellow hell.

Bobby stops abruptly, and you almost stumble into a fallen shelf. “Like that?” He lifts the light into a room, he probably doesn’t need to when the red light emanating from the singular window on the far wall was enough to illuminate.

Through the glass are trees and even buildings, but instead of sunshine or moonlight, there is only blood red. Crimson skies, red clouds and a reddened sun. Bobby’s face is harsher under the red light, taut, pulled at the edges. Terrified.

Goosebumps rise on your arms. “No, not like that, but it was as red as that.”

“Yeah, fuck that.” His hand curls and uncurls into an unsure fist, a subtle tremble in his finger. Tugging you away, he guides you towards a corner, and you two almost fall into a deep chasm if not for you both holding onto each other. “Holy fuck!” The tips of Bobby’s shoes are on the edge of the void.

“Fuck…” holding onto the side, you peek around, only to see thousands of rooms missing a wall that are all stacked on top of each other, like an apartment building was cleaved into two, leaving a giant hole in the middle. “What now?”

“This place is fucked.” Bobby shudders a breath, shaking his head at the chasm.

You really want to feel the hum rumble through your bones again.

Bobby looks to the left, the chasm is as dim as the rest of the place you walked through, and he had to squint just to see a random set of stairs on his left that is rising up to the ceiling and leading up to a door, looking as if it’s held up by nothing.

“There.” He squeezes your jacket sleeve, taking your attention away from the deep end. “There’s a door up on the ceiling.”

“How do we get up there?” If you could just tilt a little bit forward you’ll fall. But with Bobby holding onto you, you’ll take him down with you. You don’t want that, nor desire that.

“There’s some space to walk on,” he points the light on the wall to his left where a sliver of the floor is there to be walked on. “we just need to hug the wall to get to the stairs.” He gulps down, hands suddenly clammy.

“Please don’t tell me that you’re afraid of heights.”

“I never liked skyscrapers.” Craning his neck, he gives you an apologetic look. “One team, right?”

You nod, moving your hand so you could bracelet around his wrist. Holding his hand feels like a betrayal. “I’m right here. I won’t let you fall. Tit for tat, teammate.” The casualness in your tone eases the tightness around his shoulders, albeit not enough.

“Okay.” Taking a sharp breath, Bobby slowly shimmies on the ledge and with his back sliding against the wall. “I shouldn’t have taken Clark’s money.”

“Keep talking, Bobby. And don’t look down.” You follow closely, squeezing his wrist gently to remind him that you’re still with him. “What did Clark say that was so convincing?” The height gives you vertigo, stomach doing flips.

Bobby breathes hard, heaving and keeping his head held high and his lighter lit. “He said it was for research, that he’ll pay us double.” His foot slips, and you drag him back, an arm over his chest, feeling his heart beat rapidly. “Fuck me!” Bobby instinctively took hold of you, fisting the collar of your jacket. “Shit, I almost—”

“Keep going, you’re doing great.” Patting his heart, Bobby trembles and blindly takes hold of your hand, weaving his fingers around your own out of his own fear.

“I’m sorry, is this okay?” His blue eyes are blown out, panicked, panting and grasping for air.

“Yeah, just keep going.” You reassure him with a small smile and a squeeze. “Tell me something else, nothing that’s related to Clark or this place.”

“Okay, uh…” Bobby slowly starts to move after your gentle coaxing. “Back in high school, I got in trouble for smoking behind the bleachers.”

“You were a real rebel, huh?”

“Not really, I just fucking hate algebra.” He chuckles bitterly, swallowing down the bile rising in his throat when he gets to the foot of the stairs. “I want to go home—fuck!” Yelling, he lets out his frustration out into the void, a hand rubbing at his contorted face. Head turning to you, his sad eyes bring a heart wrenching ache to your chest. “I can’t do this.”

“Yes, you can, Bobby.” Your hand squeezes his once more despite the burn on your palm painfully aching under the bandages. “Come on, you made it this far. Just take one step at a time.”

“When we get out of here…” his eyes scan your face, maybe trying to find an ounce of fear in your expression, but he finds none. You’re acting braver than you are in front of him, but he doesn’t need to know that or need to see it. “I owe you dinner, or maybe a fucking blunt or two from my own stash.”

You can’t help but chortle, the sound dragged down by the void below. “I’ll take both actually.”

“You’re not scared of heights?” His trembling legs betray him as he stands frozen on the spot.

“No, I’m scared of falling. May I?” With a gentle hand, you grasp at his cheek, palm feeling at his sharp edges as you caress his skin gingerly like how one would calm a puppy. Your fingers run over the shell of his ear, jaw loosening, fingers grasping your own, Bobby’s breath staggers in his throat, maybe from your touch or the height, you may never know. “I won’t let you fall, Bobby.”

“That’s j–just another way of saying you’re scared of heights.” And yet the gentle coaxing works as he finds it in himself to lift his foot up on the first step. “Don’t fucking let me fall, hero.”

“I won’t.” If he does, if he missteps or staggers and free falls below, then you’d jump after him, isn’t that what heroes do? You take the lighter from him and light his way so his other hand is free to grasp onto a step. “Go, I’m right behind you.”

“Okay.” Slowly, he turns back to the hanging steps, taking it one second at a time. “Can you t–talk about something?” His legs shake underneath him but he continues, hand still holding onto yours.

“Like what?” You wait behind him patiently, shining the light as close as you could beside him without burning him.

“Anything, you in high school? Were–fuck my life—” he takes a pause to breathe, looking over his shoulder as you nod at him. “Were you in a club?” Bobby continues bravely, almost on all fours as he climbs up.

You’re forced to crouch behind him when he refuses to let go of your hand. “I was in a sewing club.”

“You fucking nerd.” He chuckles breathlessly, a bead of sweat dribbling on his temple that you could see clearly under the flame.

“Well it was the only club that was available when I took too long to choose.” Smiling despite the situation you’ve found yourself into, his nervous laugh got to you. “And my grandfather always said that it’s good to learn how to sew, to make and mend your own clothes.”

“He sounds like a practical man.” Bobby’s hand is clammy around your own, but you don’t mind when you still hold onto him. He doesn’t mention how willing you are to hold him now when you were averting his touch as much as you could before.

“He is.” Was, is, it doesn’t matter now when you’re stuck in this place. “He was one of those guys who thinks the world will end during their time.”

“Shit, like making a bunker type of doomsday prepper?” You two make it halfway there. And if you could just peek over, the vertigo alone will make you fall down.

“Kind of.” Your smile wavers at the conversation. “He liked to get away and not be cooped up underground.” His sailboat was his bunker, the words get stuck in your throat. “Anyway, we’re almost there, Bobby, keep going.”

Taking a breather, his forehead rests atop his arm and over a step. “Fuck me.” His unsteady palm meets the steady stair and bravely continues on. “W—were you in a clique back then? I could see you with the band nerds.”

You chortle under your breath, arm aching from the prolonged position. “No, I was mostly bouncing around different friend groups. Do I seem like the type to be in a band?”

“Yeah, l–like a xylophone player or a trumpet.” Voice croaking, Bobby inhales and exhales through his mouth.

“Just a few more steps.” Your thumb over the back of his hand kneads tenderly. “I’m flattered but I don’t even know how to play an instrument, any kind for that matter. I always wanted to learn though.”

“I can play the guitar!” He didn’t mean to exclaim but he was so surprised by finally making it to the top step, he had to let it out. His hand presses against the wood of the door, smiling up at it like a madman. “Holy fuck, we made it.”

You grin, for the first time in a long time, you smile widely, a genuine one, a wholehearted smile that when Bobby turns around to face you, he catches it too and a mirrored grin spreads across his handsome face. It’s a lopsided smile, deeply endearing that makes you smile even more, eyes crinkling in the corners, proud of him.

“You did it, Bobby.”

“Yeah, when we get out of here I’m teaching you how to play the guitar.”

“You have to push open the door first, Jimi Hendrix.”

“Now that’s a great fucking compliment.” With a wobbly smile, he pushes the door open, it falls from its hinges and clatters to the ground next to it as the yellow tinted lights shine down upon the two of you. “Fucking lucky.” Bobby’s face is illuminated, giving you a full view of his relieved expression.

He never thought smelling damp carpet and hearing the annoying droning of the lights would bring a smile to his face.

The song in the walls greets you in that familiar dissonance. It slithers up your spine and around your chest, holding you in its warmth like a man dying of thirst who finally found an oasis. It welcomes you back.

He lets go of your hand briefly to climb up, not missing a beat to immediately help you up the ledge with the same hand. His arms take hold of you, a half embrace, patting your back with bone crushing relief.

“You good, Bobby?” You’re in slight shock from the sudden embrace.

Nodding, his body still trembles from the aftershocks of his fear. “We’re never doing that again.”

“No arguments here.” You’re helped up by your feet, and he’s so close to you that you could smell the chlorine on his skin, that you could see your own reflection in his blue eyes like you’re drifting aimlessly on the surface of the water. You give him a faltering smile before moving away from his warmth.

As Bobby shuts the door so you don’t fall in, you freeze in place. It’s not the familiar yellow wallpaper or the hum that makes your limbs still, it’s what’s in front of you.

“Bobby?” His name twists around your tongue.

“Yeah?” You could still hear the smile on his face from his tone. “You hungry? I’m kind of hungry after that—” his shuddered breath rattles your ribcage. “— what the fuck.”

There, right in the middle of the room are telephone poles lined in a sequence, each sinking into the carpet. But it’s not the poles that strike right at your companion’s heart, it’s the posters nailed right on the wood. It’s all placed on each telephone pole, printed in black and white, a xerox copy of the original— his own missing poster.

Bobby takes a tentative step forward, eyes never leaving the poster. The pads of his fingers glide along the paper, tracing the words on it, tracing his own face then Kat’s printed face.

Grief cripples, it’s apparent on his face. But hope keeps you upright, helps you see and feel so much when that hope pops like a balloon and decays like a rotten fruit in your mouth when the bitter end comes, it kills. That’s what you’re giving him, false hope. It’s a noose that is slowly tightening around your neck. Hope could kill, it just delays the inevitable. You’re delaying the inevitable in hopes of Bobby getting out of here before the truth comes out. You don’t even need to get out with him, you could stay trapped here or die trying. You just want him to survive, for you to actually make all that fighting worth something. An equivalent exchange.

You stare at the posters, lips quivering when your eyes glances at her picture, then over to his photo, they’re both smiling, despite where their picture is printed on. You almost crumble, for Bobby and his loss, and for Kat, a young life lost.

Someone reported them missing, someone remembered them and cared enough to put those posters up. Maybe on the surface, in real life, there are telephone poles with the exact missing posters containing the same faces and same information right on the blanched paper. Or maybe this is the backrooms playing you for a fool when you have no one out there that would do this for you. No one to report you missing, no one to notice your absence or to look at their side and think that something is missing.

“At least they got my information right.” Bobby’s voice cuts through the silence. He breathes her name, quiet, guilty, grieving. He said it quietly, and yet loud in your ears. Sighing, he clears his throat, clammy hands shoved in his pockets. “I look good for a missing person…”

“Now who’s emotionally constipated?” You attempt at a joke, smile wavering, unsure how to talk to him about what lies ahead. This must feel like seeing your own gravestone right in front of you. “Are you okay, Bobby?”

“Yeah, I uh,” he sucks in his teeth, shaking his head and shuffling his feet with unease. “I think my mom did this. She would–she would remember.” She would notice him gone. Someone is waiting for him on the other side, a loved one that would be devastated if Bobby never gets back home.

“I’ll get you back home to her.” You utter determinedly, even though you could hardly believe it yourself.

“Fuck, what do I tell her?” There’s a sullen edge to his tone that you’re awfully familiar with. You’ve heard this in group therapies where you never spoke a word even after gentle coaxing, even after all the eyes land on you. “What do I tell Kat’s parents?” There were people waiting for her as well, and they’ll never see her again, they’ll never hear her voice again. It cuts you more than the razor ever did. “They never liked me but—that’s fucking understandable.”

“Bobby, I—”

He turns on his heel and looks at you with an undistinguishable expression, his hand twitches like he’s about to reach for you, but decides not to.

“D’you want to smoke with me?”

—

You and Bobby walk around the yellow wallpaper corridors, it still reeks of the same damp carpets that lingers in the back of your throat but it’s a more familiar scent that shouldn’t make you feel like it should be comforting but it does. And so does the hum, that soft timbre rolling around in the walls, calling for you to press your ear against it like before. But after you felt the walls curl around your skin, trying to absorb you into the sea of yellow, you resist the call.

The lights above hum in that same dissonance, that flat fluorescent drone, a prickly sound akin to crickets singing in the summer heat at night. It turns into mere background noise the longer you hear it. Bobby seems to feel the same way when he walks around the weird hallways with you side by side. He keeps his hands inside his pockets, back slightly hunched, an invisible heaviness lingering between his shoulder blades. His midriff is showing between the fabric of his white crop top and the jean shorts, hip bones catching the light, lighting him in that sickly yellow.

Bobby doesn’t look the same when you first met him, he’s missing his camera that you know he misses the heaviness of it in his hand. The gaze through the lenses, a shield between him and reality is no longer there, and he is forced to face what’s in front of him, to truly see reality with his own eyes.

His blue eyes are duller, you’ve noticed it ever since you both fell into the pool, it still has that spark but it doesn’t shine the same when you saw him in that corridor. His sharp edges are sharper, more intense, even though he eats enough, maybe it’s the stress wearing him thin.

“When you asked to smoke with me, what do you mean exactly?” You ask tentatively, too afraid to breach through the silence. “What are we even looking for?”

“Here.” He stops in front of a pair of double doors with a low slope leading to it. It descends downwards, and the similar sight doesn’t escape him. “This could be it. Somewhere we can relax.”

“Bobby, we’re supposed to be looking for the outpost.” You tell him calmly, brows knitted in worry.

“We are.” He’s already sliding down, keeping himself steady with his hands on each side of the wall. The previous slope he encountered was deep and descends into darkness, this one doesn’t look like that as he could see light filter through the crack under the doors. “I just— just need a fucking break.”

“Hold on, Bobby, we should be careful—”

He throws caution into the wind as he shoulders the door open. Nothing attacks him or yanks him into the room, instead, he opens the door wider, and what greets you inside makes you raise your brows.

Rows upon rows of velvet lined seats are inside, all perfectly lined up as the warm yellow light shines up front. Bobby opens the door even wider, and you both see a lit theater stage complete with an orchestra pit and those familiar red velvet curtains.

Bobby whistles lowly, the sound carries into the expansive room. “C’mon.” He simply coaxes you in, a hand reaching for you whilst the other holds the door open. “It looks like it’s safe.” Fingers flexing, head tilting, he huffs out a breath. “Please, hero, I know you need the rest too.”

“Fine,” your hand slides over to his palm, warm, smooth, with the pads of his fingertips calloused from years of playing the guitar. Now you know the reason. “But only because you asked nicely.”

“See how far being nice gets you?” His gentle hold helps you slide down the slope whilst he keeps an eye on your back, watching out for any malignant entities. That has become a recent habit of his.

“I could be nice.” Letting out a strained breath, you make it inside and Bobby follows behind, shutting the door closed with a click.

“Only sometimes,” he walks ahead, eyes roaming around the large room, from the wooden rafters above to the fine filigree decorated around the stage. His voice echoes around the empty space, it’s like you two snuck into the theater at the dead of night just to make out. “Come on, let’s find our seat.”

“Remember when you said you’re going insane?” You watch at the edge of the seats as he shimmies into a row like how one would at a packed movie theater. “I’m starting to think that you are.”

“Don’t be a party pooper.” Scoffing a laugh, he pulls the seat down and plops himself onto the plush cushion before doing the same to the one beside him and patting the seat for you. “Saved you a seat.”

“How did you even know about this place?”

“I didn’t.” Shrugging, he huffs, head turning around the silent theater. “I just had a feeling. This place…fucks you up. Nothing makes sense, up isn’t up and down isn’t down, it’s instinct and trusting your gut that makes more sense to follow. So, I don’t know, hero, I just felt that this place is safe.”

Maybe that’s how you thought the sailboat room was safe, a gut instinct, something inherently natural to humans to feel if a place is a safe haven or not. Or maybe this place just heard his wants and gave him a room to rest in, like how you wanted water and you fell into one. You’re probably truly insane if you think that the backrooms are granting your wishes.

Sighing, you relent and follow him. After dredging knee deep pool waters to walking through hazards and osha violations, the theater room is a nice reprieve. It’s beautiful in a way, like staring at an empty backyard at night where the moonlight shines on the bushes and you could only hear the scampering of little critters hidden behind it. It’s creepy, yet it gives off the same feeling as walking around a school at night where you’re used to seeing a lot of people and instead you just see empty classrooms and dark corridors. You expect some noise, like someone practicing on stage where their footfalls clatter on the hardwood floors, or a violinist tuning their instrument’s strings. But it’s as quiet as the rest of the places you’ve been through.

Yet the hum is much stronger here. More persistent. You would press your head against the velvet walls but you use the sight of Bobby as your guide, keeping your eyes on him and giving him your full attention, it helps in ignoring the song of the walls.

He pats the seat again when you reach his side, feeling your apprehensiveness. “It’s not going to eat you.”

“What if there’s something lurking in here too?” You look down at him worriedly, seeing the warm golden light illuminate the side of his face, exacerbating the dark circles underneath his eyes. “Like last time?” Your voice drops a timbre, the pads of your fingers grasping at your neck that is slowly scabbing over after your nails broke skin.

“Then we run or I beat the shit out of it like the one before it.” Bobby swallows thickly, patting the seat again. His eyes pleads, he needs this.

“Okay, just a few minutes.” Nodding, you sit down beside him, the chair creaks under you, and it gives off that unmistakable squeak at the hinges as you sit back and the seat tilts back from the movement. “What now— what the fuck?”

“What?” He chortles, looking at you through his lashes when he has procured a rolled up joint from his pockets, there’s a ziplock on his lap containing a couple more inside. “Are you a goody two shoes like I thought?”

You roll your eyes, lift a leg up over the other as you shake your head. “I’m just confused, you had that the whole time?”

“Yeah,” shrugging, he places it in between his lips. The lighter clicks as sparks fly against his face, lighting him up in warmer light. “It got wet when we took a swim, but…” he manages to light it when the flames finally billow out from the lighter. “Thankfully it’s in a ziplock bag.” Taking a long drag, wispy smoke dancing in the air, and filling it with the unmistakable earthy smell, his shoulders relax and he reclines back, keeping it in for a moment before exhaling. Bobby moves his hand over to you casually with the joint tucked in between his index and thumb. “Do you want one? No peer pressure trust me, I’d like it more if I have it all to myself.”

“How generous.” A laugh escapes from your huff, rolling your eyes as you flutter your lips. Weighing your options, you suck in a breath. “You know what, fuck it.” Biting your lip, you look around you, watching for the tell tale signs of an entity keeping watch, you find none. So you take it, your fingers brushing along his warm hand.

“Atta girl.” His legs perches up on the seats in front of him, one foot over the other comfortably, completely relaxed.

You place it between your lips, tasting him accidentally, the taste of the sweetened almond water hits your tongue first before the smoke does. You let both linger, the earthy smoke that is slightly sweet hitting the back of your throat. Taking a long drag, you feel his eyes on the side of your face.

Bobby whistles lowly, chuckling and smiling at you. “Not a goody two shoes like I thought. Don’t fucking hog it all.”

Your eyes flick at him, glimmering under the light as you exhale. You feel the fuzzy feeling wrap around your skull, tugging at the back of your head, but it doesn’t hit as well as the ones back home.

“I didn’t know you smoke.” Bobby licks his lips, mouth already turning dry.

You hand the joint back to him and he hums in thanks before taking a puff, exhaling out spheres of smoke into the air. “It helps.” You don’t need to elaborate when he knows perfectly well what it means. “You?”

“High school, junior year was hard for me.” He gives it back to you lazily as he rolls his shoulders and completely sinks in his seat.

“Yeah, high school is either a shit time for someone or the best time of their life.” You take a quick puff as the burn settles on the roof of your mouth, nose filling with the earthy scent. “There’s no in between.”

He scoffs out a laugh as you pass the joint over to him. “I think I fit in the ‘in between’ category. It was good until it wasn’t. D’you think we would be friends back then?”

“Probably not.” Shaking your head, you see him stare at you in your peripheral. When you turn to look back, he’s already looking away.

His tongue flicks over his lips, eyes staring at the empty stage. “Have you ever seen a play? Like a real one, with a big production, not the ones made by theater kids at school.”

“Like Broadway type?” He hums in reply, taking a long drag before passing it to you. And you could see it in his eyes how much it’s melting all his worries away, for now at least. He lets the smoke settle on his tongue, letting it singe his insides before exhaling out. “No, I wish I had.”

His neck cranes to you, eyes half lidded, giving you a strange look. “I’ve got a confession to make.”

“Okay…” you chortle atop the joint, inhaling and exhaling. You feel the slight tug at the back of your head, that warm lazy feeling encompassing you enough to dull your instincts and send tingles through your body. “I’m not a priest but okay.”

“Obviously you’re not.” Bobby snorts, chuckling deeply, a rumble in his throat as he rubs his clammy palms on his jean shorts. Your brow rises to your forehead. “I mean it as a compliment. You’re too pretty to be one.”

“Fuck,” you scoff out a laugh. “so you’re flirty when you get high.”

Bobby snatches it from your hands, his touch searing hot, hotter than before. “Shut up, I’ve got a fucking confession and who knows if we’ll get out of here.” His head tilts back against the plush seat like it’s heavier than usual. He smiles lopsidedly, the same smile you briefly saw before he saw the missing poster. He takes a long drag, smoke coming out in puffs between his lips.

“We’ll get out of here but go on.” He’ll get out of here. Your eyes drag along his jaw as it flexes with an inhale and exhale.

“Your optimism fucking scares me, hero, but, confession.” Looking at you through his lashes, he uses the joint between his fingers to point at you for emphasis whilst he leans on the armrest to get closer to you. “I’ve always wanted to be a director, like for films and shit. And I thought the theater plays were just a cheap shit copy of cinema until my mom got me and…” he blinks, licking his lips before continuing on. “...she got me tickets for my birthday to see fucking Phantom of the Opera and it was…” he takes another drag, head lolling back to exhale the smoke away from your face, neck flexing, the light catching it. “...it was fucking great. I missed out on good shit because I thought theater was for nerds.” The buzz has completely melted him. Turning back to you, he has a lazy, comfortable smile. “So, when we get out of here we’ll watch a show, whatever you want, Cats or fucking Rocky Horror Show, your pick, hero. My thanks for saving my ass.”

“You’ve got a lot of promises for me, Bobby.” You say warmly, leaning close, head tilted with a gentle smile. And mouth filled with cotton. “First it was the guitar lessons, now a show.”

He shrugs, finally giving you the rest of the joint, his touch lingering a second more. “I just want to show you what you would’ve missed if you…” he pauses, a weighted gaze on you as he smiles tenderly. “...it’s my way of being nice, okay? Don’t read too much into it, dude.” Leaning back into his seat, his cheeks are flushed warm, inflated before letting out the air. “It would be great if a show suddenly played here right now!”

His sudden scream makes you jump in your seat, heart thudding, a hand instinctively holding onto his arm. “Fucking hell, Bobby.” You look around you, scanning the area for threats, you find the place as empty as before.

“What?” He laughs, a true guffaw that echoes as he grins. “It was worth a shot.”

You shake your head at him with a subtle smile. “I’ve got a question.” Leaning back, you finish the rest of it as the aftertaste lingers in the back of your throat, the buzz giving you a hazy feeling, like you’re in between dreaming and wakefulness. Bobby makes a finger gun gesture at you, eyes still looking forward at the stage as if actors in costumes would suddenly appear. “Bobby, were you getting high this whole time? Is that why you’re so relaxed?”

He slowly faces you, nose scrunched, puffing out a laugh. “Fuck you, no.” Turning his head away, he sniffs, a hand squeezing his nose before his palm hits his lap with a soft thud. “Twice, when you woke up in the boat and we talked about the fake stars. Then at the pool before…when I was swimming and you got all…” his fingers wiggle around in front of him, “y’know. Sobered up real quick when you screamed my name though.”

You just stare at the side of his face, features softer under the warm yellow light, softer when his guilt marrs his expression. “Fuck, Bobby…”

“I know, I shouldn’t, but…” his fingers play at the plastic on his lap, dragging his thumb and index right at the seam. “it’s fucked. I know it is.”

“Yeah, I don’t blame you.” The ash falls from the paper and right onto your jeans, leaking warmth onto the skin underneath. You flick the rest of the ash away and stamp out the flames right on the arm rest and toss it into the cup holder. “Just don’t do it again until you know that we’re in a place that’s completely safe. And yes I’m being hypocritical right now for saying it but— fucking whatever.” Fingers kneading at the space between your brows, you feel the buzz right there.

A moment passes and he stays silent, his blue eyes that seem to glow even bluer against the red velvet seats glances at you every so often, gauging out your emotions without the comfort of a camera lens in his hand.

When you hear the familiar slosh of water against a plastic bottle, you turn to him as he passes you the rest of the almond water. “You hungry?”

“A little.” Taking the bottle, you watch him rummage through the backpack, cans and plastic bags clinking against each other. “Your weed is weak as shit, Bobby.”

“Oh fuck off.” A laugh escapes him. “If this is weak to you then what do you smoke, fucking meth?”

You laugh, a sound lingering in the room that has good acoustics for something that shouldn’t exist in the first place. Bobby gives you a look that you’re not privy to before taking out a small bag of potato chips you two found atop a solid beach ball. “No, fucking hell, no, that’s horrible. What do you take me for?”

He opens the bag and the scent of sour cream and onions fill the room amidst the lingering earth scent. “A survivalist whom I thought was a goody two shoes. Turns out you’re as bad as me, hero.” Shaking the bag, he offers it to you first as you dig your hand in, getting a couple of chips.

“Okay, Robert Franklin.”

“Fuck, you saw that?” His reddened eyes widen, taken aback.

“Yeah, Robert Franklin,” you say his name with a giggle, chin atop your palm as you pop the chips in your mouth. It tastes exactly the same, except for the old aftertaste. “sounds like a politician’s name.”

“Yeah, that’s why I go by Bobby.”

“It’s better honestly.” The chips crunches in your mouth, chewing and letting the taste settle beside the lingering burning taste. “Like a jolly baby boy’s name.”

Bobby almost chokes on a chip, chuckling and patting his chest. “Fuck you.”

“What do you want to be when you grow up, little Bobby?” Teasing, you nudge his elbow and he makes a face, nose scrunched, shoveling more chips in his mouth when the retort he has in mind short circuits. “Were you a newspaper boy, Bobby? Just doing rounds on your little bike with a bell all over the neighborhood?”

Snatching the almond water from you, Bobby chews loudly to annoy you. But it only makes your grin wider, a laugh in your throat. “Shut up, no I wasn’t.” He chugs the water before facing you with what he probably thinks is an intimidating look. You only smile at him wholeheartedly, endeared. “What do you want to be when you grow up, huh? ‘Ms. Sewing club president.’”

“I wasn’t the club president, I was actually shit at sewing.” Your eyes turn at your lap, downcast as the smile faints, and yet the softness stays. “I don’t know actually. I never thought I’d live this long to be honest.”

Bobby’s breath hitches in his throat, wiping the trickling water from his chin with his shirt, he looks at you solemnly. You expect him to say sorry, for him to pity you or say the same words you’ve heard from people who don’t know how but tries to anyway just to say something or to try to make it all better. Instead, he takes your hand on your lap, a hand so gentle you didn’t register the touch right away as he envelopes his fingers around your palm.

“When we get out of here,” His voice lowers, a mere whisper just for your ears as he ducks down to meet with your eyes. Your vision is filled with blue, his blue eyes, Bobby blue. “we’ll figure out what you want to do. I promise you.”

“What if I never figure it out?”

He shrugs, a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “Then we’re stuck together until you do, sorry.” It’s a halfhearted apology, and yet it’s better than a whole one. “Together, we’ll figure it out together, hero.”

Your brows fold together, lips wobbling. “Why?” Why help, why me, why do this for me?

“Because you deserve to live too.”

Your eyes search those brilliant blue eyes for a lie, a tease, an untruthful thing tucked in his irises that intends to hurt. Something that says, ‘I’m only saying this to you because I don’t want you to leave and fend for myself.’ or, ‘because I can, not because I want to.’ And yet you only find truthfulness in his eyes, he truly believes that you deserve it, to live for yourself not just for others, not just for him.

It’s one thing to die for someone, it’s heroic. But living, staying alive for someone is for yourself too. And it’s just as heroic. Staying alive despite everything is heroic.

“So three things now,” his hand squeezes you once, clearing his throat as his breath trembles. “three things I promise to do with you.” Bobby laughs nervously.

“Les Misérables.”

“What?”

You squeeze him back, it sends shockwaves through his arm. “That’s the show I want to watch with you when we get out of here.”

The grin spreading across his face lights up your vision like how the sun would.

—

“You good?” He asks, a hand clasped around your own unabashedly. You don’t know why he’s holding onto you, maybe he’s still wobbly from the joint you two shared, or he fears that you’ll get taken right from his side. Either way, you let him.

“Yep.” You pop the letter ‘p’ in your mouth as the sound bounces off the yellow wallpaper. You’re nervous as you feel his warmth right on your palm, like clasping onto a lit light bulb, warm and light at the same time. “Bobby?”

“Yeah?” His eyes wander around the corridor before taking a turn to the right, randomly choosing the path for the two of you for a while now.

“Why are you holding my hand right now?”

“Sorry.” Flinching, Bobby’s fingers release you. “Sorry, it’s just when we stopped by that weird room with the square pitfalls, I— nothing, I forgot to unhand you.”

“It’s okay.” You smile at him, the lights above flicker in and out before steadying. “I understand.” Holding out your hand to his side, pinky brushing along his palm, you invite him. “May I? If it helps you calm down.”

Bobby lets out a sigh he didn’t know he was holding before taking your hand again on his own. His hold has more thought put into it, tender yet filled with trepidation. “Yeah, sorry I’m being such a little bitch right now.”

“Maybe we should hold off from smoking before exploring.”

“I took a nap and I thought that was enough.” He shakes his head rapidly, trying to shake off the haze over his eyes. “Why aren’t you all antsy?”

“I told you, your weed is weak as shit, Bobby—” something catches your attention. A scent, something so familiar, that old laundry smell that sticks in the back of your nose. You know it too well when you spent days in that room just listening to the hum in the walls.

Bobby stops abruptly when you freeze on the spot and the intertwined hands hang in between the two of you. “What? You’re doing that thousand yard stare again.”

“Can you smell that?” Your eyes flick to his blue ones.

Bobby takes a whiff of the air around him, head tilted up, nose up. “Like cat piss?”

“I think that’s just the carpet…” mumbling, you use your nose to find the room. You turn a corner, leading Bobby this time around, hand in hand.

“Hero, what are you doing?” He chuckles nervously, letting you guide him through different corridors.

“I think I know this place.” Your hand brushes along the wall, and right beside it is a washing machine dial embedded into the wallpaper. The hum entices you, but Bobby’s hand on yours ground you to reality.

“What?”

“Follow me.” With quicker strides, you walk past rooms that are quite familiar to you, like you saw it in a dream once, too foggy and blurry at the edges, but you know you saw it even when the adrenaline inside your veins were helping you run.

Bobby follows behind, head on a swivel, keeping watch for the both of you. His thumb brushes along the back of your hand, making your mind stutter as you pause in the middle of a junction.

Taking a deep breath, a hand running along the wall, you see it, a ship’s wheel stuck into a wall.

“We’re close.” Muttering, you concentrate on finding your way.

Peter was right, it’s a directionless place. There are doors leading to another wall, windows with no glass, just a wooden frame sinking into the wall. You got lost once and had to turn back, somehow, the hum quiets down for you, refusing to help you unlike before when it warned you or helped you find a way to get away.

It refuses to help you leave this place.

“Holy fuck.” Your breath hitches in your throat when the smell grows stronger when you find a crevice in between two walls where the lights are brighter on the other side. If you squint you could just see it— the radio.

Bobby tilts his head, narrowing his eyes. “What is it?”

“I think you need glasses, Bobby.” You laugh victoriously, tugging him into the sliver of space tucked in between. “Come on.”

“Don’t be a cryptic motherfucker.” He chuckles back, albeit wobbly. “Seriously, are you gonna kill me here? Are you trying to find a torture chamber?”

“Bobby,” you turn to him, body already shimmying into the niche. Your smile makes him more confused. “Lay off the weed for a bit, yeah? It makes you anxious.”

“No, this place makes me anxious. Weed makes me flirty and horn— fuck, is that what I think it is?” The hand around your own trembles as he laughs. “You did it. I can’t— you really are a hero, hero.”

“Don’t thank me yet, Bobby.”

The two of you move in tandem, carefully shimmying, clothes rustling, backs dragging along the wall from the tight squeeze.

You bolt from the walls immediately after getting out, already reaching for the radio. Bobby stands beside you, marveling at the technology and equipment left by the researchers.

“Async.” Bobby reads out loud, he finds a clipboard filled with documents on it whilst you calibrate the radio frequency. “Almost everything on here has been redacted. Not the government my ass.”

“Hello?” There’s an electric buzz on the other side, the radio in your hand is heavy, all metal as you wet your dry lips. “We need help.” Bobby has his full attention on you now, breathing heavily, unease mar his features whilst his head is on a swivel. “Please, if someone’s listening we need help.” Your voice catches at the edges, eyes glancing at Bobby. “There’s two of us, I— Peter Tench sent us. He’s alive, he told us to find a radio, an outpost. Please respond, tell us how to leave, or fucking get us out of here.” There’s only static. “Hello?”

You let go of the button, more electric buzz, more hum, nothing.

Bobby snatches the radio from you, pressing the button as he curses them out. “We’ve been stuck here for fucking days, I know you’re listening, you fucking cu—”

You tug at Bobby’s sleeve, looking directly at the wooden wall that you broke once upon a time. The wood is all patched up, replaced with another slab of plywood. The radio is worthless when just beyond that door is the ceiling you came from. You’ve been too hyperfixated on the radio that you forgot that the exit is nearby.

This place is directionless, this place makes your memory foggy, blurred, like a dream you have forgotten once you wake up. But your sense of smell is a powerful reminder of a memory. Like your mother’s perfume, the smell of freshly baked cookies from your childhood, the scent of salty air, and Bobby’s cologne.

“What, hero?” He clicks his tongue, pausing from hurling all the curses he knows at the radio.

You’re taking the hammer from your belt, weighing it in your hand when you lift it above your head and smash the plywood.

“Fuck!” Bobby shrieks in shock.

Just like last time, you let everything out with every hit of your hammer. Shards of splintered wood rain down upon you, some landing on your hair, a few caught in the fabric of your jacket. Yet you continue on despite a shard coming too close to your eye.

Heaving, you make a big enough hole to go through. You slowly turn to Bobby, panting with a wide grin. “Leave the radio, I found the exit.”

Bobby blinks at you like you grew two heads.

“That’s the same radio I found, Bobby.” You step through the hole and gesture around you. “And this is the same place I walked through to get here.”

Realization flickers on his face. “You mean—?”

“You wanna get out of here and watch Les Misérables with me?” Holding out your hand through the broken down wall, you smile at him, a genuine warm smile that you haven’t seen on yourself in years.

“Yeah.” Is all he could say when his mind rushes a thousand miles per hour. Bobby takes your hand, fingers slightly trembling as you pull him through. “We’re going home?” There’s a childlike disbelief in his tone and expression.

“Yeah, Bobby, we’re getting out of here.” With his hand in yours, you guide him through the room.

The black sludge is still on the floor, this time it has numerous shoe footprints on the muck, as if a group of people passed by here. Judging from the repaired wall, it seems that’s the case. The camera is still on the wall, pointed right at a lifesized caveman cardboard cutout, or what’s left of it on the floor when it has been ripped to shreds with its speakers broken and shattered by your feet.

Bobby carefully jumps over the sludge when you just walk through it, leaving your own footprints on the carpet.

“What’s that?” He points at a space in the wall with a piece of it propped up beside the entrance. “Are those hangers?”

“Yeah, that’s the long way, let’s not go there.” You continue to lead him and the relief that washes over you is palpable when you see the dangling climbing rope you dropped through the ceiling. “I can’t believe it.”

“Is that where you came from?” Bobby’s voice trumps over the incessant drone of the fluorescent lights. Head tilted up, he grimaces at the scent of the laundry pile.

“Yeah, come on.” You’re practically bouncing on your feet, tugging him towards the rope. You could already feel the cold chilly air through the ceiling. You’re one climb away from home. The dangling rope doesn’t make you scratch at your neck until it bleeds, nor turn your limbs numb. The sight of it, especially with Bobby beside you brings you hope. You made it, you saved a life. “You go first.”

“No, you first.” Bobby squeezes your hand, taking your attention away from the ceiling. “I’ll help you climb up.”

“I thought you’d be eager to go first.”

“What can I say, I’m a changed man.” Sending you a wink, you both climb up the hill of clothes, helping each other as you two go up. You could feel him tremble with tamped down excitement as you put your hands on the rope, foot in the footholds and start to climb up. “Careful.” His palm is on the small of your back, warmth felt through your jacket, then hovering under you when you’re nearly up the rope. “You got it?” Bobby readies to climb up.

“Yeah.” Smiling widely, your hand is mere inches away from the ceiling when you hear it— the rustling, that fabric shifting against the other. The familiar shuffling that turns your head from calm to flight. You pause, watching the hallway you two came from.

There’s a shadow, a lumbering form. And it shuffles closer to you.

Bobby is saying your name, tugging at the rope for you to wake up from your stupor. “Hero— fuck!” He’s climbing up with you and you jolt awake, fingers tingling, chest heaving. “Go! Fucking go!” He’s halfway up, head turning back and forth from the shadow and over to you.

“Fuck!” You reach up to leave, and you hit a solid ceiling.

Dread washes over you like the tides on the beach.

“What are you doing? Go!” Bobby holds onto your ankle, he turns frantic, panicked when the sound grows closer. The shuffling, the rustle sends your whole body into an unsteady shudder.

Your palm meets the smooth ceiling tile. Over and over again, you feel how solid it is against your hand.

Panic sets behind your ribcage. Slithering up your heart as it pinches and squeezes, trying to burst open your hammering heart.

Patting it wildly, your hand doesn’t go through, no phasing through.

You scream in despair, accidentally punching a hole right through the ceiling where the ventilation is supposed to be when there is only darkness behind it. A sliver of space for the lights that goes on for miles, the plenum where there are no wires connecting each light, no source of electricity. And most importantly, no laundry shop, no familiar smell of detergent, and no chilly air. No threshold. No reality.

It’s closed.

Your way out is closed. You’re locked out of reality.

“Fuck!” You cry, forehead pressed against the rough rope.

“Why—” Bobby croaks out, still clinging to the rope, still clinging to hope. He calls your name, body trembling as a stuttered breath leaves his lips.

You look at him and it’s enough to shatter his hope.

“We need to go.” He completely lets go of the hope of reaching home. Scrambling down the rope, Bobby panics, movements too frantic as his foot gets stuck on the footholds just like you had.

“Bobby!” The rustling grows nearer, you’re afraid to look.

Bobby falls backwards, flailing and trying to stay upright as he dangles above the pile of clothes. His shirt is hitched to his chest from gravity pulling at it, muscles straining and taut. He turns to the sound, he didn’t mean to, he’s just as afraid to look, or maybe his morbid curiosity made him look.

The rope dangles from side to side, it turns towards the rustling, and upside down he sees— you.

Not the you he knows, with those guarded smiles and uneasy hands. Eyes looking at his forehead whilst you pretended to look into his own, he always noticed it, but he never said anything because saying it opens something that he’s afraid he can never close. Bobby pries, but he doesn’t force it out when he knows it would be harder to close, breaking what is already built between you. You’re alive and that’s what matters to him because you fought against yourself, you fought to stay in this world and he’s glad that you did because he met you. You’ve become an invaluable friend, a companion in this hell, he found himself caring for you, a fondness. But as he stares at this version of you, he’s terrified beyond belief, not the calm and ease he feels when he is around you.

This you is mangled, damp, dead.

And you just entered its home.

“Wh–what the fuck!” Bobby shrieks, trying to fold himself to pull his foot out of the footholds. “Hero!”

He calls for you, asking for an ounce of hope that once slithered in his chest. But the look on your face dashes whatever is left, you freeze, completely still on the spot, like a vine curled around a rope, dangling there, moving as the rope moves, getting carried by the wind. You look at the entity like you’re looking at your own tomb.

Emptiness, dread, grief, you stare at yourself, a ghost of what could’ve been, of what you might’ve ended up as. It’s not like pirate Clark with its large form and gangly arms, this you is much more akin to real life. Whereas the pirate came from your nightmares, this came from the past.

The entity’s head is hanging from its broken neck, looking at you upside down as the head hits its chest with every movement. The neck is twisted and marred, skin folded atop the other. And it wears your face, not a memory of your face that’s all wrong, or a photograph of you whilst you moved mid shutter. No, this is undoubtedly you, a face that is contorted into sheer agony, a hurt that you are familiar with.

Lines of red rope are tied around its arms, sporting the same flowery bomber jacket that rustles and shuffles, and underneath is a pair of swim shorts and a rash guard, the same one you wore that day, a blue one, the same shade as his eyes. Its hair is damp, perpetually wet as it clings to its dangling face and chest with its slouched shoulders.

It doesn’t speak, it doesn’t make a sound other than the rustling, even the footsteps are silent, almost afraid of being perceived.

One thing breaks through your mind, a thought— you bore this being, you made it exist, and you believe that you did, that you made it so, and it has been hunting you ever since you fell in this place. It waited for the right time, watched you with its reddened eyes, always around a corner that you didn’t take, behind a wall that you didn’t press your ear to, always there, like a ghost that haunts every room you are in.

It’s a distorted mirror of you.

Your name echoes around you as the lights flicker in and out. Bobby grasps at your ankle, his warm clammy hand clawing at your skin. The hum is stronger, a tug at your sternum as it sings at a higher dissonance akin to an alarm. It wakes you, it screams, it tells you to run.

The entity’s hand reaches for Bobby’s face, its body half climbing up the mountain of fabric like a spider on wet tiles, trying to find steady ground as its fingers curl in and out around itself, trying to grasp at your companion, your friend.

If this is the end, Bobby will forgive you.

So you jump from the rope, arms wide, landing right on its back, and taking it down with you.

Your body sinks down onto the pile of clothes, dragging you down along with it like quicksand. The more you struggle the further you sink.

Bobby screams for you on the surface, and you feel its arms wrap around you.

It embraces you like the one before it, trying to take your warmth as the smell of mold encompasses you, scampering into your nose as the acrid smell suffocates you. Its palm grasps at your face, long nails digging in, its fingers are unnaturally long, oddly long as it holds your entire face, and you see in between its fingers as Bobby falls from the rope harshly, landing on his shoulder. He groans, the sound barely heard from the fabric in your ears.

He screams your name with a desperation that curdles the words on his tongue. clawing his way to you, digging desperately.

His frantic blue eyes are what’s left of the surface as you see it in between cottons and polyester.

You don’t thrash around when any movement makes you sink even deeper, eyes wide, begging for Bobby to leave you behind and run. You granted him time, and he’s wasting it all to save you.

Light breaks through, and his hand reaches for you to take.

Bobby looks at you like you’re worth saving.

So you reach up, the pads of your fingers grazing his own, a mere brush against his calloused fingertips. Still, you sink further and further, the mountain of clothes burying you alive, the stench of sweat and grime suffocating you like the hand atop your face. The entity drags you down, enveloping your whole form as you feel its arms and legs wrap around you, if it wasn’t sinister, it would’ve been comforting, a shield against the world, a hug from yourself.

You scream Bobby’s name, trying to extend your hand as far as you could but he’s getting farther away from you, like looking up from inside a deep dark well that has the lingering stench of rot.

Bobby, your hero Bobby, jumps after you. Why would he? He could just leave you there to die in your own rotting arms, and yet he digs himself down, straining, heaving and desperate to get to you.

Until finally, he gets a hold of your hand, locking his fingers around your own as the entity’s back hits solid ground with a hard wooden thump. There’s a knock, barely heard from your muffled screams. But Bobby heard it, and something flashes in those ocean blue eyes of his— hope.

Bobby groans, his other hand reaching for something behind you, and his mouth opens, saying something, too quiet for you to hear above your own fear.

“Hold on!” He screams and the door opens behind you with a resounding click.

Suddenly, the ground falls behind you, the clothes go first, then the legs around you, then the arms as you go down along with it.

You’re dangling from the ceiling once again, fifty, a hundred feet off the ground as red encompasses around you. Your mirrored self hangs on around your waist, nails digging into your flesh, whilst clothes flutter out of the doorway.

Gasping, you hold onto Bobby’s hand, looking down you see a city, concrete skyscrapers with glass windows all around, and streets spanning around it complete with street lights and idle cars like any other city. All except for the red light illuminating around it, the crimson sun, the scarlet sky, like a dark room you’ve seen in old movies.

“Bobby!” With a shriek, vertigo takes over you, vision swirling, stomach churning from the height. You could feel Bobby’s hand turn clammy around your own. Looking up, you see him struggle to lift you up with one arm, whilst the other keeps him in place so you both don’t fall off.

“Just—!” His skin is aflame, red as he strains himself. “Fuck! Hold on!”

There’s a groan under you, a simple huff of breath, like a dying man trying to say his last words on his deathbed. When you look down, look at yourself clinging to you, it lets out a breath again, trying to say something, trying to communicate. It shocks your core, the others never let out a breath nor a single word, but this entity, this horrifying copy of yours tries to when it doesn’t even need to breathe.

“Wha—?”

“Fucking kick it!” Bobby yells gutterally, sweat dribbling off his brows.

Mouth clamping shut, you raise your leg and kick. And kick, and kick at its mangled neck with a resounding squelch of flesh that is too soft, too pliant to be one. And yet blood trickles out of its nose and mouth, its flesh and blood. Just like you.

Bobby has managed to lift you by your elbow, and with one last kick against its nose, it lets go. You watch as it falls, your own self falling down, down, down into the pavement with a sickening thud. For a moment it flew, just like you have.

You’re lifted up, and you suddenly find yourself tucked into Bobby’s arms. His whole body trembles, the aftershock that rattles his bones.

“You’re okay, fuck, you’re okay.” Bobby utters like an answered prayer against your skin, as if he’s trying to comfort himself rather than for you. His face hides against the crook of your neck, breathing you in, his sweat sticking to your skin, but you don’t mind as you tentatively wrap your arms around him. Just like how the entity wrapped itself around you. His fingers bunches up your jacket with a rustle of fabric.

It has always been you that was watching you. The one that made you run further into the mono yellow and into the arms of the warm hum. It was you who was watching you from the corner, the shuffling and the rustling has always been you.

You drove yourself into this place, you ran from yourself, you hid from yourself, you almost died because of you.

“I’m o–okay, Bobby.” You exhale a breath you didn’t know you were holding.

Bobby wants to be somewhere safe with you, anywhere, even if it’s a room in this place like the theater or the sailboat room where you tended to him and let him drink the last of your water even when your lips were dry and you were starving. Anywhere but here, as long as it doesn’t smell like old laundry that leads to a doorway that plunges you from the sky.

And all you want is for him to hold you.

Bobby leans away, moving the stray hair that sticks on your skin as he swallows the lingering adrenaline away. His blue eyes wander around your features, and he lingers, his gaze lingers before he brings himself against you again, holding you in place, a hand cupped on the back of your head whilst you can feel his chest rise and fall.

Your knuckles drag along his back, eyes closing for a moment before opening it.

There’s a door on the wall that wasn’t there before. An anomaly. You know it wasn’t there when it’s the same wall that you rested against it to feel the hum, to hear this place sing, where there’s a patch of dry carpet that is warm, where the tone lingers right in your sternum. The door is green with patches of blue, the same color as his eyes.

“Bobby.” You say after a minute of holding each other and staring at the door that has appeared out of nowhere.

“Yeah?” His chin moves atop your shoulder as he sniffs. Leaning away, his lashes clump together from the unshed tears.

“There’s a door.” Is all you could say, mind still frazzled from everything that transpired, from how he held you— still holds you on the damp carpet that has less clothes now.

There’s nowhere else to go.

Bobby follows your gaze, looking over your shoulder as he exhales a breath. “What do y–you think?” His tone is still wobbly, still shaking with unease.

“Together?” You look into his eyes.

“Yeah,” his hand cradles your cheek, warm, clammy, gentle. “Together.”

The two of you walk in together through the door, hand in hand, stride matching the other. The sun greets you, the green grass crunches underneath your feet, and birdsong filters in your ears.

You’re back home.

But the warmth is wrong, artificial. There is birdsong but there are no birds in the sky nor on the trees.

The smell is odd, the grass doesn’t smell like grass, nor the air feels like air. A mere copy of it, a distorted mirror of the woods.

There’s a pink house in the middle of the clearing, and it beckons you and Bobby over.

Bobby’s hold tightens around you, fingers laced together, hands trembling together. One look at him and you both know— You’re not out yet.

And you may never get out of here.

Beside you, Bobby struggles to breathe through the hot air, just like you are as you’re still in your bomber jacket, refusing to take it off. The two of you wait for the pirate to move on, for the sound of thumping to fade from your ears as you hear its body scrape against the steel pipes. It’s too large for this place as it shambles around awkwardly.

The chase has you and Bobby winded, even more now that the heat isn’t helping you take in air. You’re drenched in sweat, the beads of sweat drips down from your chin down to your pants as it leaves little dark droplets on the fabric. Bobby is faring better than you, still sweaty and breathing heavily but not as bad as you when you feel like you’re being cooked from the inside out.

“Just take off your fucking jacket.” He whispers, too close to you when the curling pipes hinders him from moving away from you as you both hide inside a small crevice in the wall. “I won’t judge you if you have shitty tattoos.”

“Shut up before it hears you.” You shush him, swallowing nothing when the inside of your mouth is drier than a desert.

“You’re going to die of heatstroke.” You turn to him, glaring at Bobby as he glares right back. “I’m not a fucking idiot, I know shit too.” He takes a deep inhale of the hot air, regretting it when he almost chokes from the heat. “Just take off the jacket, you’ll feel better.”

“I’m fine.” Wiping away the sweat dribbling on your forehead, you strain your ears to try to hear the entity walking around. You don’t hear anything other than the leaking pipes and Bobby’s breathing. “I think it’s gone.”

“Thank fuck.” He shimmies out, passing by you as he stretches his legs from the prolonged crouched position. “Come on, let’s get out of the devil’s armpit.” Holding out his hand to you, you reluctantly take it as you feel your shirt cling to your skin from how drenched in sweat it is. “Before you faint again.”

“It happened one time and you’ll never let me live it down.” You start to walk through the hallways lined with pipes, you suddenly miss the yellow wallpaper instead of this creepy boiler room that makes you claustrophobic.

When the previous corridors felt like an abandoned office space, this one is more industrial, more metal and steel than wallpaper and carpet. There is an occasional hiss from the pipes, letting out warm air, and there are manholes on the floor, randomly dotted around, some look like it’s two in one, melted together like it’s in the middle of mitosis. You’d take the sailboat room more than this place.

“This place looks like it’s out of a Nightmare on Elm Street.” Bobby helps you search for the hasty marks you left when you two were being chased by the pirate. “I’m gonna ask now because it’s fucking eating at me but, did that fucking thing look like Clark to you?”

“Yep.” You pop the letter ‘p’ in your mouth as you struggle to look through the waves of heat ahead. “And don’t ask me why because I don’t know either.”

“Do you think it steals faces?” Bobby’s crop top sticks to his torso and you avoid your gaze from staying too long on him.

“I don’t know, Bobby.” You lumber towards a corner, your hand touching the hot wall trying to look for the mark you left with your marker. “Why are you so talkative?”

Bobby shrugs, keeps walking behind you as he uses his shirt to fan himself. “It helps to distract myself.”

You make the mistake of looking behind you as you see him completely drenched in sweat, his white crop top clinging to his torso like second skin, leaving almost nothing to the imagination. His lean stomach is in full show, heat singes your cheek and it’s not from the heat. Averting your eyes, you continue to walk forward, searching for the same door you two came out of. “It’s annoying me and the thing might hear you—”

Fumbling, stumbling on your own two feet when the heat makes your vision foggy, you hold onto a pipe for balance. Your palm is immediately seared as you scream in pain, taking your hand away. “Fuck!” You hold onto your wrist, keeling over, and crouched down onto the hard ground.

“Shit, let me see.” Bobby crouches down in front of you, gently taking your wrist in his hand. When you don’t budge, he clicks his teeth and calls you by your name. You didn’t even know if he remembered your name. “C’mon, hero, let me see.”

“Hero?” You ask through clenched teeth and tears in your eyes as he examines your reddened hand. “Really?”

“Yeah, you saved my ass, so you’re a hero. And you did that hero jump.” His eyes narrows at your palm, wincing for your sake. “Fuck, I don’t know much about burns but this looks gnarly. You’re gonna need ice for this.”

“Ice isn’t actually good for burns.” You let out a shuddered breath as the pain radiates from your palm down to your wrist, a slithering burn inching downwards to your elbows. “Running tepid water is.”

Bobby starts to unzip your bag, taking out one of the bottles of water for you, to which you instantly stop him with a shake of your head.

“I didn’t know that, but we don’t have either of them, so. Can we just use this instead?”

“N–no,” gritting your teeth, you make the mistake of glancing at your hand, seeing your flesh burn, bubbling up in angry reddened skin. “We need to conserve it for drinking. I—” you take a deep yet wobbly breath. “—I can handle this.” You’ve felt a lot of pain in your life but the burning sensation makes your stomach turn and the back of your eyes burn.

“You’re fucking stubborn.” Bobby stands up, knees creaking as he tries to help you up with his hands cupped around your elbows. “I have an idea.”

“You’re getting ideas now?” Brow raised, you try to focus on his face when your vision is starting to wobble like your legs. The combined heat and the throbbing pain in your hand has turned your body into jello.

“Yeah, you’re not the only one who’s allowed to have them.” He rolls his eyes, a hand reaching into his pocket for something before his palm comes up empty. “You said there’s a pool here? We can use the water for your hand.”

“That’s actually not a bad idea. But I don’t know how to get there from here.” You don’t mean to lean against him but you do as the pain takes hold of you. He lets you use him to steady yourself. He smells the same, just more sweat than cologne, and the scent of weed has almost faded away from his crop top. You try to keep your mind off the pain and heat, to try to recreate the comforting hum of the walls that doesn’t reach this searing place.

“You sound condescending.”

“I’m not,” swallowing down the bile in your throat, you take a deep inhale. “That’s just how I sound when I’m in blinding pain.”

“How about taking some of the pain meds—” you’re shaking your head at his idea as your eyes glance narrowedly at him. “It’ll help. You need it.”

“We need to ration—”

“Well, you fucking need it now, hero.” Bobby stops walking abruptly, feeling you tremble against him has him moving to open your backpack, taking out the little orange pills and handing it to you with a bottle of water. “Don’t be a hardass.” He gestures with his eyes, encouraging you to take it. “I took one before so you take one, equality.”

“Didn’t peg you for an activist.” He’s insisting, and you won’t get a move on if he refuses to walk. So you take a pill, pop it in your mouth and gulp down a mouthful of water.

“I get that a lot.” Bobby simply shrugs, putting the supplies back inside the backpack with a resounding zip before gently yanking down the straps from your arms. “Let me take the load off of you.”

You relent, letting him take the backpack as you watch him sling it over his shoulders. “Thanks…” mumbling, you hear something move, something’s hitting the pipes as the sound reverberates through the tight corridors.

You both simultaneously look back with fear in your eyes. “What was that?”

It’s an incessant tip tapping, almost like morse code, you don’t know much about it to know what they’re saying if it is.

Your feet move backwards, away from the sound as you instinctively grab hold of Bobby’s arm. “Were you a boy scout?”

“No,” he keeps his eyes on the empty corridor as the sound grows nearer. “Why?”

“Does that sound like morse code to you?”

“I don’t fucking know.” He hisses, walking backwards with you as a shadow, one with four legs, and a very large head slithers on the walls. “We should run.”

You’re already bolting away, tugging him away as he runs alongside you. The stench of rusted metal hits your nose, as numerous pipes whizz past the two of you.

You’re going deeper and deeper inside the boiler room. You shouldn’t be, you should be going back to the yellow walls, the familiar ones instead of running deeper through the copper scented hallways.

Your rushed footsteps alert the being as the tapping hastens, following right after you through the winding corridors.

The heat makes it hard to find your breath as you struggle to run this time. Your bomber jacket clings to you, drenched from your own sweat as your hand slips from Bobby’s arm from his clammy skin.

“Here!” Bobby grabs you by the scruff of your neck, yanking you away from a dead end and towards a room with rusted pipes lined around the brown walls. There’s a familiar sight right in the middle of the room, half embedded in the walls as the door swings creakily in the stale air. “C’mon!”

Bobby shoves you inside the industrial sized washing machine, before climbing in with you and shutting the door closed with a resounding clack of metal.

Heaving, you feel the stitch blooming on your side as your wide eyes stare at the yellowed glass panel of the washing machine door.

“What the fuck is that?” Bobby whispers, voice laced with fear as you both watch the creature stalk towards you.

This isn’t like the pirate with its eerie face borrowed from Clark, nor a docile one like your old man at the helm. No, this one is different, like it was meant to be a dog, a copy of it if the dog went through the shredder and blasted with radiation. This thing, is just as wrong as everything else in this place.

It snarls with an opened maw, rows of sharp canines combined with human teeth is in full show. It bites at the air, as if that’s the way it smells when you can’t see a nose where it’s supposed to be. The fur is mangled, dark and rusted just like the walls around it. It’s a moving shadow with four pointed ears, six legs with paws the size of your hand. The three tails, two longer, and one shorter, all seemingly from different dog breeds, stand on its end. It barks like a dog that doesn’t know how to. A mere echo of it, like it’s being played through a broken speaker that ends up spitting out a garbled mess of sounds.

As if things couldn’t get any worse, one more show up, this one is leaner, eyes more hungry and yellow than the first. It has three eyes, all wrong, all looking directly at you and Bobby.

You just now noticed that he’s still holding onto the back of your jacket, fingers bunching up the fabric in his tight hold in an attempt to calm himself.

One word glares brightly in your mind, ‘run.’ Run like you always have in your life. Instead of hiding and cowering in place while you wait for the hounds to get you and tear you to pieces. But there’s nowhere to run when you feel for the end of the washing machine, half expecting a door when you only find warm steel.

“Bobby, what—!” You both yell when the angrier one leaps up to smash its head against the glass.

The window doesn’t budge nor crack at the sheer force. The creature shakes its head, staggered by what it did.

“They can’t get in.” Your companion chuckles, a rising laugh that fades away the moment one of the hounds bashes its head against the glass again.

This time it leaves a crack in the glass and a smattering of black ooze.

You feel for your hammer, readying it in your hold. Bobby turns to you, locking eyes with you as his fear is palpable within the small confines of the washing machine.

You two reach an understanding. You and Bobby might die right here.

Another strike at the glass, another crack. Then another and another. Each hitting you right at your chest.

The glass looks like a mess of cracks and blackened blood as you both could barely see the hounds waiting on the other side.

You fix your hold onto the hammer and wait for another strike that doesn’t come.

A minute passes, a long agonizing minute of staring at a dirty window.

Then another minute, two, three, nothing happens.

You both look at each other, and you slowly inch your way closer to the window, crawling over Bobby’s legs as you peek through the side of the glass where it’s clearer. There, sitting right on the floor, hind legs spread out, are the two hounds sitting on both sides, as if guarding you both whilst their yellow eyes never stray too far from the washing machine. They don’t move a muscle or feel the need to breathe, they’re as steady and uncanny like your grandfather as he stared into space at the helm atop the half sunk boat.

“What do you see?” Bobby whispers beside your ear, raising gooseflesh on your skin despite the heat as his breath flutters your lashes.

“They’re not moving, just…just standing guard.”

Bobby tilts his head up, trying to find a spot on the glass that he could see through. His brows knit together, lips pursed tightly. “What the fuck are they doing?”

“Waiting for us to come out.” Your back hits the metal with a groan, and you stretch your aching legs, too long for the machine as the heels of your feet rise up to the other side of the wall. “I guess they got tired.”

It’s getting hard to breathe in this heat, especially when you’re starting to feel claustrophobic inside. You ball your uninjured fist, opening and closing it to attempt to calm your nerves. If only you had the song of the walls to press your ear onto.

“So we’re just fucking stuck here?” Groaning, he kicks at the wall with a resounding metallic thump. “Dying in a washing machine, how fucking funny.” His blue eyes flick over to you as you look like you’re dying from the heat, panting and sweating. “Shit, you need water.” Bobby takes the backpack off, unzipping it and taking a water bottle for you. “Drink, and don’t give me the rationing bullshit.”

“Has anyone told you—” you shut your eyes for a moment as sweat trickles down your face. “That you have a very unique way of showing how you care?” Uncapping the cap, or trying to at least with your injured palm, Bobby clicks his tongue and opens the bottle for you.

“No, shut up we need to conserve our air.” Watching you take gulps of water eases the tension in between his shoulders for a bit.

Your rising laughter bounces off the metal walls as Bobby looks at you with a raised brow. “Sorry,” wiping your sweat with your sleeve, you continue to chuckle to yourself. “This is actually a bit funny because I’ve had a recurring dream of getting locked in a washing machine.” You take a generous swig, letting the sweet after taste of the almond water coat your tongue. It helps a little bit.

“Okay, Nostradamus.” Swallowing his spit, you notice and hand him the water back. “And yes, I know who the dude is.”

“The dude.” You chortle. “You know a lot of things, Bobby.” Patting his knee, your head reclines back, thumping against the wall whilst he drinks. He takes it as sarcasm. “Never judge a book by its cover I guess.”

“Your hand needs to be bandaged.”

“I’ll do it later.” What’s the point when you’re gonna suffocate in here?

“No, it’ll get infected.” He rummages through the supplies and brings out a gauze and medical tape. Bobby still holds out hope. “Can you tell me how to treat it?”

“I don’t have burn cream…” Your chest lines with warmth and around your heart from the gesture. “Just put the gauze on my palm then wrap it as loose as possible with the tape. Keeping it clean is the only thing we can do.”

Bobby nods, moving closer, legs cageing you in as you sit between them. You give him your hand, the reddened flesh peeling whilst he’s slow and clumsy with his movements. Your skin pulsates with warmth and pain, like a bleeding heart.

Your eyes flick over to him, through the haze of heat, you really look at Bobby. At his chiseled jaw, broad shoulders, sandy blonde hair and pretty blue eyes that always seem to really look into your own. If you squint, he really does look like the guy you talked to for two hours straight whilst he waited for his laundry to finish. Maybe that’s why you’re helping Bobby, a redo of your fumbling.

He’s handsome. You just now realize that he’s good looking, the type of face that would have people giving him a second look on the street, or a face you see up on a billboard. He wears the crop top well, like he just shrugged it on in the morning without an afterthought, without sparing an effort on how he presents himself when his whole face and how he carries himself is enough to draw eyes on him. But he’s not like the frat boys you remember back in college, he doesn’t talk like he owns the ground you’re walking on, unlike them in their snooty letterman jackets and tuition paid for by mommy and daddy, Bobby actually talks to you and even listens. He makes conversations, notices things when you think he’s not paying attention. He’s kind enough to remember your name when no one even bothered to try. Even Janet just calls you kid when she forgot it months ago even though she has your resume on file.

He’s far kinder than you thought he would be. All that crisp angles and handsome features made you think he wasn’t when in truth his kindness was wrapped in his sharp angles and intense stares that is always keenly aware of the details around him.

You wonder why he even went with you in the first place when his ankle got better when he seems to be capable enough on his own. Never judge a book by its cover, but the verdict is still out when you’re both stuck here slowly running out of air.

“Why are you still with me, Bobby?” Your words tumble out of your tongue as your lungs struggle to take in air. “You could’ve gone on your own way to find Kat without me. Seriously, why are you helping a stranger?”

“Because you helped a stranger, idiot.” He says matter-of-factly, jaw tightening at the mention of Kat. Finishing dressing your wound, his adam’s apple bops up and down, admiring his handiwork before tossing the supplies back inside the bag. “I’m not a complete fucking asshole to leave you all alone here when you didn’t leave me. I should be the one asking you that question. You already saved me once and you don’t need to again. I’m no one to you and so is Kat.”

You wet your lips, smiling faintly at him, testing your hand as you open and shut it slowly. It still hurts but at least it’s contained. “You look like someone I knew.” Your words hang in between you as he blinks at your words. “And I’m not a total asshole to leave you wandering around here by yourself. There’s strength in numbers you know.”

You two are quite similar in that matter. You both don’t want to be alone in this place.

“I know that’s not all.” Somehow, Bobby could see right through your eyes and into your very soul.

You wince, looking at how his knee knocks against your own. “Because…because it looked like you needed someone and Kat…Kat was nice to me.”

Bobby glances away, looking at the hounds outside briefly before nodding at your words with a tensed jaw. “It’ll be better when we find Kat.” Everything will be better when they reunite.

It’s an arrow to your chest, your own lie striking you where it hurts. You’ve never been really good at lying or hiding it, but for his sake, you have to bite your tongue until you taste copper. “Yeah.”

“Y’know, I wanted to fucking throw shit at you when you left Kat and Clark in the laundry room.” Bobby turns to you and gazes into your eyes as you glance at the space between his brows instead of locking eyes with him. “I thought you could’ve just taken them with us. That you could’ve, I don’t fucking know…save them.” Shaking his head, Bobby wets his lips. “Then you left me and my thoughts all alone, and shit, I think–I think I would’ve done the same. Probably bolted out of there myself if no one was in my reach.”

“Still,” you sniff, struggling to breathe as you wipe the sweat hastily from your eyes when it stings. “I wish I could have saved them both.”

“Yeah,” he holds his breath for a moment before letting it go and handing you the half empty water bottle. “I don’t know what kind of adrenaline you have but I want some of that too, you could lift a fucking fridge when you’re panicking. Hell, you lifted me off my fucking feet like I weighed nothing.”

You smile after taking big gulps of water. “It’s a subconscious thing, people who are…more cautious tend to be better in situations like that.” Or that’s how your doctor put it when you survived drifting in the water for days.

“Like when a walking horror show tries to rip you apart?”

You manage a scoff akin to a weak laugh. “Yeah, I guess.”

Silence hangs in the air between you, his knees knocks against your own, the space too small for two people as he sits, or more like folded himself adjacent to you. In the cramped space and the dappled fluorescent lights filtering through the cracks of the window, his sharp features look softer.

“We’re gonna die here aren’t we?” Bobby says under his breath, too afraid to say it out loud.

“I hope not.” Hope, hope could be blinding that leads you to disappointment. But sometimes, it’s a driving force to keep you moving forward, even when it’s too dark to see, hope will be the guiding light. You hope for his sake when he has people waiting for him on the other side. You don’t care if you die inside this place, but it’ll crush you if he dies, because you failed to bring him home, you failed to save a life again.

You already failed with Kat and Clark, you don’t want Bobby to end up like them. Or like your grandfather still waiting for you at the bottom of the sea.

“Fuck me.” Bobby rubs his face harshly, leaving his cheeks flush with red. When he opens his eyes, concern mar his face. “You don’t look too good, hero.” He scooches closer, taking the bottle from your weak grip to pour some of it out on his palm and splashes it on your face. “Hey, stay with me.” He says your name gently, coaxing you to keep your eyes open with a pat to your cheek. His palm is warm, silken, with the pads of his fingertips calloused, blazing against your clammy skin.

You want to live for him.

Something moves. A warp in the walls, a metallic groaning of metal sliding against steel. Like nails on a chalkboard that grinds your teeth together.

Bobby hears it too, “what was that?” You know it was real this time, not like the humming in the walls.

“I don’t know…” Head craning towards the far wall, at the other end of the machine, you don’t see rusted metal anymore, just darkness, pitch black, a void that stares back.

“Do you have a flashlight?”

“No, it ran out of battery on day six.”

Bobby fishes out a lighter from his pocket. He flicks his thumb, letting sparks fly as a flame blows out from the lighter. “Stay here.”

He crawls over you then towards the darkness.

“Bobby, wait—”

When he’s supposed to hit the wall, he continues to move inside. “It’s a way out.”

“What the fuck.” You follow him, crawling on all fours as your knees hit the metal.

It’s so dark inside that you could only see the small flame in front of you. Your arms wobble from your weight, and when the flame flickers away, Bobby curses under his breath.

“Hold on.” With a hand rummaging in your jean pocket, you take out your phone whilst Bobby tries to light the flame again. You press the on button, waiting for your phone to come alive, wishing that the screen turns on.

“What are you doing?” You could only hear his voice and feel his warmth on your side.

“Turning the light on—” the screen flashes and you immediately swipe to open the flashlight. You two blink at the sudden light.

“What the fuck is that thing?” Wincing, Bobby has one eye open, adjusting to the light, trying to get a look at what’s in your hand.

“My phone, duh, c’mon.” Patting his shoulder, you crawl by him when you’re now the one leading.

“That’s a weird looking phone, man.”

More crawling, more metal squeaking underneath you, and with your palm fully bleeding as it leaves bloody handprints on the floor, you finally get out of the washing machine.

You almost fall down if not for Bobby’s hand on your ankle stopping you from falling from the hole. Hopping off, shutting your phone off again and shoving it in your pocket before helping Bobby out, you feel heavier, woozy from the heat and pain. You slouch, folding against yourself when you feel like crumpling on the floor.

It looks like you two crawled out of a metal pipe. It doesn’t make sense one bit.

“Jesus, your hand.” Bobby puts the backpack on, and gingerly takes your wrist with a wince and a grimace. “Fucking gnarly.”

“I’m fine.”

“It doesn’t look fine.” His eyes rake around the bloodied gauze. “You need fucking…something. A doctor, you need a fucking doctor.”

“Bobby, I’m fine—”

You heard him before you saw him. A shuffling of feet on the metal floors, tentative, wary.

There, standing in the corridor, looking worse for wear, sweaty all over with a relieved look in his eyes is Clark.

“Bobby?”

Your companion turns to the voice, following your shaky gaze, landing right at the man, who dragged you on the damp carpet.

“Jesus, Clark.” Bobby puts his arm instinctively in front of you, taking a step forward, apprehensive, unsure of his decision. “Where did you come from?”

“The pipes, f—fuck, you have no idea how relieved I am to see someone—”

“Stay the fuck back.” Despite your injured hand, you grasp the hammer in your bloody grip, shaking, pointing it right at him. “Bobby, don’t trust him.”

“Where’s Kat?” Bobby stays beside you, yet his attention is on Clark. “Is she with you?” Hope is laced within his wavering tone.

“I–I don’t know, we got separated.” His hands wring in front of him. He looks normal, better than the last you saw him. Clark doesn’t look as starved, he does look exasperated like you and Bobby, but his eyes are just as frantic and panicked as yours, not steady and calm like before. He looked like the Clark you met, the one that tied Bobby’s rope too tightly around his waist. Not the Clark that hauled you around and tried to give you to the being. “I’m sorry, I tried.”

There it is, tried. The same word he uttered to you in the room with Kat’s severed hand, sounding too calm, looking too calm for someone that’s starving.

Something’s amiss.

You’re missing something. He shouldn’t look like this, he shouldn’t sound like this, if the Clark that tried to take you was real, then who the fuck is the one standing before you?

If it’s the heat that’s messing with your mind, then it’s affecting Bobby too when he also sees this Clark, nervous Clark, terrified Clark.

“What the fuck do you mean you tried?” Bobby hisses, fists balled at his side. “What happened to Kat? What did you do to her?”

“What? I–” Clark’s eyes find yours, and you falter, heat clinging to your skin, drying you out even more as you feel woozy. “I wouldn’t hurt her! Why would I do that?”

“I don’t fucking know, man.” Bobby scoffs, shaking his head as his tone rolls out sarcastically. “The same reason you did this to her.” He gestures at your neck, scratches reddened at the edges, pulsing with a dull ache. Clark looks confused. “Did you feed Kat to that–that thing like you tried with her?” Voice cracking, his words breaking in the middle. “Where the fuck is she, Clark?”

“I didn’t fucking do anything!” His hands land on his chest, eyes wild, swallowing thickly. “I didn’t do that to her!” Clark now points to you, hands shaking. “Please, I just need some water, we’ll get out together.”

Bobby snatches the hammer from your hand, staining his own palm with your own ichor. “Where the fuck is Kat?” He repeats, heavier this time, more threatening.

“I don’t know, okay!” Sweat dribbles off his clammy face, hands trembling around him. “I heard her through the walls, I really did try to help her but I couldn’t see her but—but she could see me. I don’t know what happened to her, Bobby, and I didn’t do anything to her.” He sounds desperate, heaving, almost keeling over himself. “Please, let’s just get out together.”

“Bobby, we need to go.” You take him by the arm, walking backwards as Clark starts to walk closer to you both. “Bobby, we can’t stay here. We can’t trust him.”

“Just tell me where she is, man.” Bobby breaks, lips wobbling, hand trembling around the hammer. He suddenly brings it to the wall, smacking a pipe as it leaves a dent on the metal. You and Clark wince at his action.

“I don’t know, Bobby. I’m sorry.” Clark holds out his hands in front of him in surrender. He seems genuine, but he also sounded genuine the last time you saw him.

From behind Clark, you hear the shuffling of fabric. A quiet rustle, too silent to be heard by the two men. Your heart rate immediately picks up.

“Bobby,” you whisper, clutching onto his arm, tugging him away, getting more exhausted by the second as you inhale and exhale out hot air. You feel your brain getting cooked inside your skull. “Bobby, it’s here.”

“Is she even alive?”

His trembling words strike right at you when you have the answer to his heartbreaking question.

“I don’t know…” Clark shakes his head, eyes averting from Bobby’s tensed form. “Why are you so scared of me? I didn’t do anything! I’m just me!”

You catch a glimpse of a pair of reddened eyes just around the corner of a wall, it stares at you, watching, observing. Waiting for you to break. “Bobby, on the wall, left side.” Voice trembling, head falling to his bicep, too hot to hold yourself up, you watch Bobby reluctantly take his eyes off of Clark, expression contorting into pure horror when he sees it.

He takes you by the hand, twisting around and running away with you in tow.

Clark screams, followed by his rushed footsteps, trying to keep pace with you and Bobby.

You don’t have the energy to sprint, more so to even lift your feet up. You’re so tired, too hot, your muscles strain under your clammy skin as you heave.

Bobby leads the escape, shoes scraping against the metal as he hides a wince. A pipe bursts near his face, and he shrieks at the sudden puff of warmth on his cheek. But he continues on, holding you up.

Because you would’ve done the same for him, you already had.

He turns a corner, blindly running in the heat soaked boiler room. Turning his head behind him, he doesn’t see Clark following anymore, but he does hear the rustling, the fabric scraping against itself, running, following.

Saliva covers your mouth, coating it as bile rises from your esophagus. Your legs turn wobbly under you. Bobby throws his arm around your shoulder, helping you run alongside with him when he could’ve just left you in the corridor to fend for yourself. He’s not giving up on you so you don’t give up for his sake. Your feet drags along the metal floors, trying to keep pace with his long strides. Your head dips down to your chin, unable to keep it up as you see the floor rush under you, the rusted floors, teal copper spread across it and the occasional manhole covers.

Vision blurring, you want water, you need water, to dive in it, to swim in its depths and stay underneath the currents.

You’re dying of thirst. Heatstroke, you’re gonna die of heatstroke after everything you went through. It’s comedic.

“Stay awake!” Bobby jostles you in his arms, you’re dead weight. “Fuck, c’mon!” He steps onto a manhole cover, and you both suddenly fall inside.

You gasp, flying mid air, twenty feet, fifteen, twelve, watching the hole you fell in get smaller and smaller, a mere dot in your vision.

Wind rushes around you, stale air that smells like chlorine.

You feel Bobby’s hand try to grasp at you mid air, but you feel so light weight, so light, free, like you’re flying, soaring, and you close your eyes, hearing him scream your name as you both plunge into the cold depths.

—

“Hey, princess.” You look up and see him, your grandfather, smiling down at you. Or you think he’s smiling when the sun behind him blinds you, covering his features. “You’re cooking here, you should get under the shade.”

His voice sounds far, muffled, like it’s playing on an old cassette tape that’s been played a hundred times before. Weathered, the movement of time marring the edges of the tape.

“I put sunscreen on.” You mutter, eyes squinting up at him as the popsicle in your hand melts, staining your hands raspberry red. “I miss you.”

He chuckles, that familiar laugh right from his belly that you’ve always told him was too loud and garners too much attention. You shouldn’t have told him that because he doesn’t let his laugh out like that anymore.

“I’m right here, sweetheart. What’s there to miss?”

There’s a seagull flying above him, the sky is blue, the clouds don’t move. And your eyes follow the bird, attention taken away, watching it fly until it hits a wall made to look like the horizon. It falls, leaving a smattering of blood amongst the blue.

It squawks loudly, an ear piercing cry of pain as it lands harshly on the ocean painted floor.

When you turn to look at him again, his face is mere inches away from your own.

Your breath shudders, gazing into those wrong eyes in the wrong face. He looks like someone who just moved as you press the camera’s button and the lens captures his blurred features that melt together.

“What’s there to miss?” He asks, garbled, the words stuck in his esophagus, choking on his own broken tone.

You wake up with a start, eyes opening to tiled ceilings and walls. It’s startlingly bright inside, a bright blue that encompasses around you, a deep contrast from the rusted boiler room. You take a deep breath, heaving, a palm to your chest as you smell the acrid chemical chlorine permeating the air around you as it tickles your nose.

The first thing you notice is how drenched you are, your clothes cling to your skin uncomfortably, soaked as droplets of water drip from your bare arms. You don’t have your jacket. Your arms are bare, the scars lined around your flesh. Old, but still there.

Gasping, you cross your arms around you, eyes panicked, frantic as you feel the familiar numbness climb from your legs to your chest, suffocating you.

“Hey, hey, it’s okay, you’re okay!” Bobby appears from behind, arms hovering around you as his eyes rake around your panicked face. “It’s okay, just breathe, we’re safe here.”

“Where’s—” you struggle to find your words when your lungs don’t work. “Where’s my jacket?”

Blinking, he looks at you like you’re a fish out of water. “I took it off you, I’m sorry, I had to, you were cooking in it.”

“P–please, just— just give it back to me.” Tears sting your eyes as you fold your legs against you, trying to press further into your chest as if you’re absorbing your legs into yourself.

“What? It’s wet—”

“Bobby, please!” Your nails dig into your forearms, leaving crescent shapes on your slick skin.

“Okay, okay!” He rushes away from the pool lounge chair where you have found yourself. There’s some rustling behind you, and your first instinct was to run. “Here, I’m sorry, I was hanging it over a chair to dry it out.”

“Give it to me.” You don’t extend your arms as your hand opens and closes. He passes it to you, turning away when your shirt clings to your front, it’s white and shows him too much of everything. Once you’ve put on your jacket, you hug yourself, collapsing onto the pool lounge chair that squeaks under you. “Thank you.” You wheeze out, a hand around your throat as you take deep inhales and exhales.

“Yeah, you’re welcome.” Bobby walks away, clearing his throat, scratching the back of his flushed neck as his wet hair clings to his nape and temples. His torso is bare, showing off a lean body, probably drying his shirt just like what he was doing to your jacket before you woke up. “You thirsty?” He asks after a beat of awkward silence.

Smacking your dry lips together, you feel your strength return as you sit up. You’re still wobbly, trembling slightly, and your head still has that dull throbbing ache as you rest your forehead against your folded knees. “Please.”

A second later there’s a bottle of almond water nudging your thigh. “This one’s yours. I found a couple more here.”

Where is here exactly?

You lift your head, eyes roaming around the new environment you both fell in. The walls are covered in white symmetrical square tiles, all lined perfectly, the grout in between is black, and it reminds you of a comic with the tiles lined in thick black lines. From the pillars down to the floor, it’s covered in the same tiles. Right in the middle of the expansive room is an Olympic sized pool, rectangular in shape, with various pool toys floating on the blue water. It would look normal if not for the random colourful slides sticking out of the walls and some on the ceiling that has a drop that would have your stomach churning.

As you gaze at the ceiling, you see the manhole cover above, now closed, the other side showing you the underside of the rusted metal.

“It’s not going to drink itself, y’know.” He shakes the bottle, looking down at you with a faint smile as the fluorescent lights shine behind his head, a halo of light lined around him. You blink owlishly at him, and his face contorts into deep worry as he squats beside you. “Shit, did you hit your head?” A hand cups the side of your face gingerly, like he’s afraid you’ll break in front of him from his touch alone. “Was it dilated pupils or pin point that says someone has a concussion?” He says more to himself, mumbling, looking into your eyes.

“Neither, the pupils should be equal in size, not one bigger than the other.” You answer, voice hoarse as you look into the blue depths of his eyes. You could drown in them. “I’m okay, Bobby, just shocked, where are we?”

“Oh, thank fuck.” His hand falls atop the lounge chair, head lolling down to his clavicle with a relieved sigh. “I thought the impact broke your head.”

“Did we fall?”

“Yeah,” he sniffs, a hand raking through his drenched tresses. “From that manhole.” Pointing up, you both look up, twenty feet from below, you squint from the harsh white lights. The manhole cover remains on the ceiling, a brown dot amidst the stark white tiles. “I don’t know how though, I stopped trying to figure out how things work here ever since we got out of the washing machine. But thankfully we fell into the water and we didn’t turn into a pancake.”

You crane your neck down, looking at him as he still gazes at the ceiling. His lean neck is stretched out, a sharp jawline that moves at the hinges when he purses his mouth. “You swam us out of there? On your own?”

Your gaze stretches from both ends of the deep pool, wondering how he managed to get you out and himself without drowning. You’re impressed by his feat. And he knows it from your tone alone.

The water is so clear that you could see the bottom, but it’s deceptive, you know it’s far deeper than it seems. This place is bigger than any of the rooms so far, it’s as big as a football field, probably twice as big when the pool stretches so far. There are three doors in this place, one adjacent to you, painted in deep emerald green with three odd doorknobs on it. Then the other two are on the far right end of the wall, both having signs on it. Then there’s the wrong door right in the middle of the far wall. It’s small, like a doggy door, painted in blood red. Something tells you that you shouldn’t go there. You guess the two doors beside each other are the bathrooms or shower rooms from the looks of it like in public pools, but you can’t tell what the signs says from where you sit.

His eyes crinkles in the corners, smiling gently, a nice reprieve from the fearful look on his face that you’ve gotten used to. “Not to brag but, I was on the varsity swim team during sophomore year.”

“Just sophomore year?” You can’t help it when the corner of your lip tugs up.

“I flunked chemistry.” Bobby winces, chuckling at himself. “And they had to kick me out because my grades weren’t as good.”

“I should be the one calling you hero now. And chemistry sucks anyway.”

His eyes softens from your words. “Please drink, I’m tired from wetting your lips with your own jacket. It was like I was feeding a baby bird.”

“That’s not embarrassing at all.” Shaking your head, you hide your smile as you gulp down the sweetened almond water. You let it coat your insides with that odd saccharine taste.

“Trust me, it was more embarrassing for me than for you.”

“At least you didn’t use your own shirt.” You wipe your mouth with your sleeve.

“Yeah, or you’d be drinking remnants of my sweat.” Bobby gives your shoulder a pat before rising, knees creaking as he stretches. “I’m preparing dinner.” Those are the words you thought you’ll never hear again.

“What?”

“I found a bunch of food in this place, just under the sink in the bathroom. It’s like someone left their stash here. I’m sorting through it, just rest, you were really out of it.”

“You think someone else was here?” You call out over your shoulder, watching the clear undisturbed water.

“Probably, I don’t know which one is scarier, us being alone here or someone else was here, wandering around just like us.” There’s a clang of metal behind you, and you twist around, ignoring the pang of pain radiating from your feet up to your knees. Your palm still aches, but more tolerable rather than the blinding pain. Bobby is trying to break open a can of peaches with your hammer. “Shitty fucking thing.”

“Use the other side of the hammer. Stab at the corners.” You simply say, body folding against yourself as you still feel the heaviness weigh you down. “Fuck…”

“You good?” He pauses from his hammering, looking at you as you wince, a hand grasping your forehead. “I told you to rest, lay back down, hero.”

“Did Clark…did he follow us?” You hug the back of your legs, half lidded eyes staring at him.

Bobby shakes his head, turning the hammer and stabs at the corner of the can just like you instructed. “You were right, something was up with him. He was hiding something, I could tell.”

You’re hiding something from him. “Yeah,” twisting around, you lay back down on the lounge chair when you feel the heaviness in your chest weigh you down. “You okay, Bobby?”

“Yeah, just starving.”

“Back in the sailboat room,” you hear him hum in reply, telling you that he’s listening. “Who do you think left the food and water?” The metal scraping against metal pauses. When he doesn’t reply, you call out to him. “Bobby?”

“I don’t know.” You could hear the confusion in his tone. “Why didn’t we ask that? It was left right there on our doorstep. It was clearly for us.”

“We have a mysterious benefactor.” Your eyes close, embracing yourself as your muscles relax to the sound of Bobby’s ministrations and the scent of chlorine. It should bother you more, but it doesn’t.

Your wet clothes should make you uncomfortable at how it sticks to your skin, but it does the opposite, it comforts you, reminding you of the days where you would swim for hours and let the air dry you as you doze off on the deck.

“I wonder who it is. It can’t be Clark or that thing.” Bobby is only met by silence. Worry slithers up his chest as he leans back until he could see you on the lounge chair, sleeping soundly, curled around yourself and more importantly, still breathing. He lets out a sigh, before trying to open the can quieter this time around.

—

Bobby floats aimlessly in the water as it laps around his face, eyes closed, breathing steady when he has stripped himself bare except for his boxer shorts. He’s unashamed, while you avert your eyes as you dig through the can of peaches.

There’s only silence around the pool room, save for the gentle scraping of your finger against the side of the crinkling metal can and the gentle lapping of water, it’s stifling. You miss the quiet comforting song of the walls, that slight tremble within the wallpaper that is warm to the touch. Bobby helps, his presence is a good alternative to the hum, but how long will that stay when you’re withdrawing important information from him? Something that might break him and ruin his peace.

He looks softer as he floats on the water, his arms are spread around him, legs floating as he lets out a breath. The lights illuminate him, the chain around his neck catching the light, making him look ethereal, almost akin to a renaissance oil painting. One that bears tragedy underneath all the brush strokes and pretty colours.

“I think I’m going insane. The tiles are starting to melt together in my eyes.” His voice cuts through the silence, echoing as his eyes open, head craning to look at you slouched on the lounge chair. “You look like a camel.”

“Thanks?” You slouch some more as he snorts out a chuckle. “Sounds something like an insane person would say.”

“Slouching is not good for your back.” Bobby stops his floating and swims over to the edge of the pool, arms over the tiles as he rests his chin above his arm. His blue eyes sparkles, head tilted as he gazes at you like he’s trying to read your mind. “Do you think someone created this place?”

“I don’t think so.” You lick your lips, grimacing slightly at the taste the peaches left. “No one’s smart enough or this crazy to invent something like this place.”

Bobby sucks in his teeth, legs floating behind him as he watches the water lap at the edge of the pool. “Back in the laundry room where we…fell.” You hum, eyes staring at the floating peaches inside the can. “I saw my own shirt on the pile of laundry. It was fucked up, it was dumped there like some kind of trophy.” He waits for your reply, and yet when he glances at you, you’re just staring at your dinner. “Earth to hero? Am I annoying you?”

You flash him a smile. “No, just thinking.”

“Penny for your thoughts?”

“You don’t have a single penny.”

“Not right now, but I have money in the real world, y’know.” He flutters his lips at you, blowing an annoyed raspberry as he pushes himself away from the edge of the pool and floating again on his back.

“This is the real world, Bobby.” You don’t mean to sound calloused or bitter, it’s just the truth.

“And they both suck.” His wrist flicks at the water, splashing some water upwards as if it’ll reach the manhole cover on the ceiling. “Do you know how to swim?”

“Yeah.” The slice of peach doesn’t go down your throat easily and you have to take a swig of water.

“Oh yeah, you lived near water.”

More silence, a tension brought back by your dry replies.

“There’s more food in the backpack if you’re still hungry.” He says, prodding at you with his gaze. You hum in reply, and he purses his lips.

Bobby sighs, swims over to the edge of the pool again and looks at you over his arms. “You know that I won’t judge you, right?” His words cut through you when his gaze flickers towards your covered arms. “We’ve all got shit we don’t want to talk about. And that’s okay, I understand you, I won’t ask you about it or judge you for what you did. I’m just glad you stuck around, hero.”

You instinctively hug yourself, the taste of the tart peaches makes you gag. You never liked peaches. “Where’s the bathroom?”

Bobby’s face falls, your name falling on his lips quietly, swallowing thickly as he looks away from you, perhaps guilty for bringing it up, or maybe pity. “Far wall, the signs are fucked so choose whatever.”

You vault from your seat, placing the half eaten can of peaches down on the lounge chair with a clang before walking carefully on the damp tiles. You could feel his eyes follow you, and you could finally breathe the moment you reach the bathroom door.

He’s right, the signs are weird. The usual female and male signs are wonky and turned upside down, it looks like it melted under some heat and you could barely tell what it originally was. You don’t pick which one to go into when you shove your way inside.

The bathroom is dimly lit compared to the bright pool room outside. It’s clean, filled with stalls and sinks, some have showers just like you surmised. And it looks normal, like a public bathroom at a dying mall or an airport bathroom during a red eye flight when there’s no line. For a moment there you thought that you got out, that you’re back in reality instead of being stuck here with a stranger that has saved your life twice now. But when the smell of mold hits you, and you catch sight of a painted sun with a face on the mirror, you know you’re still here, where the air is still, and the monsters in your mind have come alive and are out to get you.

You take deep breaths, grounding yourself, counting how many things you can touch in the place, how many things you can hear, what things you can taste, and all the things you can see. You come up with less and less as you grip onto the sink, opening the squeaky faucet as it splutters out cold water.

Yanking off the jacket, the fabric is still damp to the touch when you toss it haphazardly onto the counter as it clangs loudly, bouncing off the walls. You don’t look at yourself for a while, maybe the feeling will go away if you don’t look.

Taking out your phone from your pocket, you try to turn it on, to find comfort through the pictures, but just as you suspected, it doesn’t turn on. You should toss it against the glass and break it into pieces, but it’s the only thing you brought from home that reminds you that there is still something for you when you get back. Even if it’s just a gravestone, or an empty apartment, or a dead end job. So you shove the phone back in your pocket, maybe if you get out of here you can get it repaired and see the old pictures again.

Unwrapping the bandage Bobby wrapped around your palm, you place your injured hand underneath the water, letting it drench your hand with a wince. Biting your lip, you whimper, eyes glazing over with tears let out by the pain in your hand and in your chest. You unstick your gaze from your reddened flesh, reluctantly staring at yourself in the mirror, you look worse for wear, tired even though you’ve slept long enough and ate enough to keep you going. You still refuse to look at your arms.

You must keep going for his sake, you have to bite through the pain and live on, even when it hurts. Even when he has seen why it hurts.

Head tilted down, you listen to the rushing water hit the porcelain, watching the water collect on your palm as it overflows and hits the sink with a splash. You let your breathing even out when you’re starting to feel the bone aching numbness spread through your limbs. You’re antsy, and you feel your throat close up, static poking right at your fingertips.

Your mind rushes a thousand miles per hour, you just can’t help it. From thoughts about Clark to Kat, to Bobby and the exit, you didn’t hear the sound of the cubicle door opening right behind you.

You feel cold arms wrap around your middle, featherlight at first that you thought you were imagining it, that you’re so touch starved that you were day dreaming about a gentle embrace. But when the pair of arms wrap tighter around your torso and arms, you jostle awake.

Your heart stops when you look at the mirror, there, situated right behind you is a man.

He’s awfully familiar, but unfamiliar at the same time. His face peeks behind your head, and it’s wrong, like the ink on a picture that has faded out. Like Janet down here, just like the memory of your grandfather that stays still at the helm. It’s just like them, it’s not alive.

And it’s wearing the exact same shirt as you.

“Fuck!” You stagger away from the sink, trying to wiggle out of its hold. “No, let go!” Your elbow meets its stomach, but it continues to hold onto you for dear life, not even feeling your striking blow.

The sounds of your shoes squeak across the floor, and you feel it grasp onto you tighter, fingers interlocking on your front, digging you further against its chest like it’s trying to absorb you within itself.

You struggle, kicking around, managing to shuffle to the wall as you push it against it harshly, knocking it against the tiles, trying to make it let go. All it does is make it sink its head against the crook of your neck.

It doesn’t breathe, it doesn’t blink, it doesn’t speak, it just presses itself against you, embracing you like it knows you, trying to take your warmth.

“No!” You shriek, tears blurring your vision as its arms hold onto you so tightly that it’s getting harder to breathe. You have no choice as you claw at its arms and face. “Bobby!” Your nails hit something soft, digging into something akin to a foam than flesh.

Your guttural screams echo around the walls.

“Bobby!” You hear something crack, a bone, maybe yours as your breath leaves your lungs with a dry cough. It holds onto you like velcro, and your legs weaken from the lack of air. It turns you around, pressing you against the wall and further into the tiles. Something in the walls shift, you could hear it hum, you could feel it move. The coldness parts against your cheek as it absorbs you, one by one, cell by cell. “Bobby!” Your screams turn dull with every press against your chest. “Bobby—”

There’s a loud thwack from behind, and the arms let you go.

You keel over, taking deep breaths as you push yourself out of the walls. Crawling backwards and away from it, fingers grasping at your neck, desperately dragging air into your lungs. You see Bobby wield your hammer, standing tall, drenched, striking right at the entity.

“Motherfucker!” He brings it down with a force so harsh that it breaks its face, cleaving it open. “Fuck off!” He strikes again and again until it staggers backwards into a stall.

It’s hand tries to reach for you as if asking for your help, pleading for your help.

Bobby stalks over it, anger rolling off of him from his posture alone as the muscles on his back tense with every rise and fall of the hammer.

The cubicle door swings close behind the two similar looking men, and you could only hear the sound of the hammer meeting whatever it’s made of. Not flesh and bone, something else, something you can’t tell.

You flinch with every smash, metal hitting it in decreasing intervals when Bobby’s ragged breathing echoes around the bathroom.

Your eyes glance at the wall, and you see the tiles close in time before it returns to normal. Or what normal is around here.

The door swings open, and Bobby wipes the sweat off his face with his arm, standing over what remains of the thing that took the form of a man you met and talked to once.

Its face is smashed in, leg twitching, fingers opening and closing. There are stuff around it that bears a resemblance to its cut open face. It looks like foam, like what’s inside a mattress instead of blood and bone.

Bobby heaves, crouches down in front of you, the hammer clangs against the tiles as it falls from his grasp before his hands take hold of your face gingerly, making you look away from the carnage. “Are you okay?”

Your lips wobble, but you keep a brave façade. “Yeah, it— it came out of nowhere.” The lack of air made your voice hoarse, cut at the edges, almost broken.

“I swear that I checked this whole place and there was no one else here.” He sounds guilty, face contorted into a mix of guilt and ebbing fury, the edges of his eyes are reddened, crimson amidst blue. “Did it…did it hurt you?”

Shaking your head, you feel an ache between your ribs that you decide to ignore. “No, it just—it was pushing me into the wall.”

“Fuck, I’m so sorry.”

You don’t know why you did it, maybe it was his genuine bone aching worried expression or maybe it was because he saved you again, either way, you break, opening your arms and pulling him against you for an embrace, as if he was the one in need of comfort. Maybe you shouldn’t when you could still feel the entity’s arms around you, so unfamiliar, so cold. But Bobby is so warm, so familiar, and he lets you, you haven’t held onto someone in so long that your body has forgotten how real warmth feels like. Not from the walls, or whatever nonsensical thing you could fill your days with in the real world. This is humanly real that it sends your mind into a state of calm, a quiet that you’ve only felt through the song of the walls.

Bobby holds you gently, taking you in his arms in a softer and kinder way as his palms rest on your back gingerly. His hand shivers slightly from the adrenaline or from the unfamiliar affection from you.

“I’m not going to break.” You mutter near his ear, watching the thing twitch on the bathroom floor. Bobby squeezes you, letting out a relieved sigh. He holds onto you for a moment, his knuckle gliding along the length of your back, the other cupping the back of your head, waiting for you to pull away first. Once you finally gather your breath and your trembling seizes, you pull away. “Thank you.”

“I heard you call for me and I thought—” his lips purses together, a palm patting your cheek. There is an unsteady tremor from his touch that isn’t as well hidden as he hoped. “nothing, I’m glad you’re okay.” Eyes flicking down your torso, his brows knit together.

“What?” You look down at yourself, expecting blood, or for him to be staring at your arms.

“It was wearing the same shirt as you…” Bobby’s blue eyes meet yours, confusion swimming in them. His mouth forms a question, until.

“Hello?” A voice calls from somewhere. Echoed, like speaking through an old speaker.

“What the fuck?” Bobby instinctively shields you, a hand grasping at your bicep as you both frantically look around the source. “Who the fuck?”

“Holy shit, you guys are real.” Relief is palpable in the stranger’s tone.

“This place is fucked, let’s go.” Bobby helps you up, cautiously walking away.

“Wait, no, please! I’m human! I’m stuck here just like you guys!”

“Can you see us?” You ask tentatively, holding onto Bobby’s elbow to stop his frantic movement. Looking around, you see nothing out of the ordinary, except for the being on the floor. “Where are you?”

Bobby side eyes you, asking what you’re doing through his expression. You reassure him with a squeeze of his arm.

“In some fucked up looking house.” He sounds ragged, exhausted. “I could see you but you can’t see me, right?”

“Yeah.” You could see the cogs in his mind turn as you both recall what Clark told you two in the boiler room. “Who are you?”

“My name’s Peter.” He takes a deep breath that you could hear everywhere around you. “Peter Tench. I… I worked here, still work here.” He laughs bitterly. “I’m a researcher.”

“I fucking knew it!” Bobby seethes, still shielding you from the unseen Peter. “The fucking government made this shit.”

“No, no, we’re not the government, we’re far from it.” He sounds increasingly tired with each word he lets out. “Listen, I don’t have much time, it’s out there.”

“What is, Peter? Maybe we can help you.” Bobby turns to you with a befuddled expression.

“We don’t know this fucking guy, don’t be a hero, hero.”

“I didn’t know you either and yet I saved you. And you didn’t know me but you still saved me.” Your words has him clamping his mouth shut. His jaw clenches before he turns away, and yet he doesn’t leave your side.

“No, he’s right.” Peter shudders a breath, “you shouldn’t trust me but I do know a way out of this place.”

“Tell us.” Bobby demands, standing steadfastly, adrenaline still rushing through him. His eyes are narrowed to slits, fury still rising from his skin like steam.

“There are CB radios scattered around this place, there’s one in every outpost. it’s our…” he pauses, trying to gather his breath. “Our way of communicating with the outside world. If you could find it you can contact my people. I only ask for you to tell them that I’m alive and to come get me. It would be impossible for us to meet up so don’t waste your energy in trying to find me yourself. They know this place better than you ever will.”

“That’s not ominous at all.” Mumbling to himself, Bobby licks at his lips. “And who exactly are these people of yours.”

“You’ll find out.”

“Cryptic motherfucker.”

“Peter, I’ve come across one of those radios and I tried it but no one answered.” You add, taking a step forward and away from Bobby as he watches the side of your face.

“Fuck, it was probably the wrong frequency. Things here like technology don’t work as well for some reason.” He laughs, an ugly laugh that sounds half humourless and half pained. He almost sounds insane, hopeless. With a wobbly breath, he tells you the frequency, just three digits, saying it twice for you and Bobby to memorize it. “Did you get it?”

“Yeah,” your eyes rake around the walls, trying to figure out how he could see you but you can’t see him. Clark said the same thing. Nothing makes sense here, and Bobby’s right, you should stop trying to understand it. “Do you know where any of these radios are?”

“They’re mostly in level zero with the yellow wallpaper.” Your breath hitches at the mere mention. “Your best bet is to just wander around and hope for the best, me giving you direction to a directionless place is a waste of breath.”

“Or you could try giving us a landmark, fucking anything, man.” Frustration rolls off Bobby’s shoulders as you feel his adrenaline fading away.

“Chairs, a ton of wheels from a boat, and I remember a banner that says ‘everything must go,’ once you see those you’re near one.”

“Well, that’s fucking helpful.” Bobby scoffs, walking towards the fallen hammer and picking it up together with your discarded jacket on the counter. “Any other helpful tips, mister scientist?”

“Yeah, don’t get lost.” Peter chortles, a sound from the back of his throat that you feel your skin rising from his laugh. “I have to go, I could hear it shuffling outside.”

“Peter, wait!” There’s a sound of rushed footsteps on the other side, retreating away as you and Bobby are now left alone in the bathroom. “What the fuck just happened?” Turning towards Bobby, he looks at you with furrowed brows, frowning right at you. You feel self conscious as you cross your arms over your chest. “Bobby, I—”

“Are you really okay?” It’s not pity in those pretty blue eyes of his, it’s remorse, it’s guilt marring at his face, it’s empathy that cinches at his heart whilst he holds the jacket close to his chest, your scent clinging on the rustling fabric. “Hero…what happened—”

“I’m fine, thank you but I’m fine.” You would break in front of him, to cry in his arms or hold onto him again but you don’t give yourself that when you’ve been lying to him with an excuse of saving him from the hurt. Stepping towards him, his concern grows, he doesn’t seem to be so convinced. Why is he so worried about you? “I’m okay, worrying won’t get us anywhere.”

“Am I not allowed to worry about you?” Bobby’s eyes flicks towards the entity’s feet as it peeks through the stall, still twitching, still trying to get up. “That’s what people do, hero, they worry about other people. That thing could’ve killed you, and I—” shaking his head, he turns his head away and the fluorescent lights shine right on his glimmering eyes. He’s still soaking wet from his swim, he must’ve rushed here when you called him. “You said that we’re a team. I really don’t want to lose my only teammate, or lose you to insanity like that Peter guy.”

You swallow his words and tuck it in your heart, keeping it there, not knowing how to respond. “You don’t believe him?”

He scoffs at your reaction, biting his lower lip as he shakes his head. “Let’s just get out of here. You are the most frustrating woman I’ve ever met, and I’ve met a lot.”

“I’m sorry that I’m emotionally constipated.” You meant it as a joke, but he doesn’t find it as funny as you.

Bobby licks at his teeth, head falling down on his clavicle with a chortle akin to a scoff. “You said it, not me.” Taking a deep breath, he hands you your jacket back. “You didn’t finish your peaches.”

“I hate peaches.” You awkwardly shove the jacket on.

“See? That— you should’ve said so.” He shrugs, frustration right on his movements. “Don’t shut me out, man. You don’t have to tell me everything but at least tell me *some of the shit. Like how you don’t like peaches or that you’re dying from the heat or about the radio thing, you didn’t tell me that.”

“I didn’t even know it still works. Bobby, I’m sorry, but I’m really trying, I…” clutching at the hem of the jacket, you shut your eyes for a moment before looking at him, not between his brows or the wall beside him, but right into those blue eyes that remind you of the ocean you once sailed on. “I’ve just been alone for so long that I have no idea how to… I’m sorry.”

Bobby’s shoulders ease, a hand raking through his wet hair as he bites the inside of his cheek. “No, don’t be sorry.” The heel of his palm kneads at the space between his brows. “I keep prying you with questions when you know as much about this place as I do. Kat tells me that I could be an annoying ass sometimes.” Pausing, he lets out a sigh, looking at the wall behind you for a moment before meeting with your eyes. “I—I just want you to look after yourself for a change.”

Shaking your head, you reach for his hand, you shouldn’t, but something in you told you to, that you should show him that you understand, that you care. “You’ve been nothing but pleasant so far, Bobby.”

The corner of his lips ticks up into a sad smile. His fingers squeeze you weakly. “Kat would be happy to hear that. Just— just don’t forget that you have to survive too, you need to take care of yourself, not just me. I’m not a kid, don’t sacrifice your comfort for me.” He takes a pause, fingers flexing on his side. “I need you to fight for this. Like you already did before.”

“Okay.” You feign a smile that doesn’t quite reach your eyes. “Let’s go find that radio.”

You’re quite neutral about him, all things considered. Sometimes, the mention of him makes your skin crawl, sometimes it makes you flush a little angry, sometimes it makes your stomach feel empty, a scraping inside your abdomen that leaves your throat itchy and mouth dry. It’s always when you don’t want to hear about him. 

Oh, you’ve won your comp? Did you see Sennecke’s win yesterday? Isn’t Sennecke going to that invitational too? Could you introduce me to him?

But sometimes, when you know the mention of his name is coming, your heart quickens abnormally, and sometimes you get a flutter of nerves you can’t explain.

So, that means those feelings cross out like a mathematical equation. Obviously. 

You weren’t close. You speak to him in three-word jabs that he smiles all teeth at. It infuriates you when he doesn’t say anything back out on the sand, and he just looks at you like you’re funny—that’s all you are. 

It was already hard enough getting sponsorships, going pro, and two people from the same area doing it at the same time? Yeah, sometimes you screamed into your pillow. He was stealing your spotlight. Him and that cocky smile and permanent nose sunburn.

—

In the blur of puberty, when surfing got real, that was when you saw him first, brown hair too long and falling in his eyes at some camp with twenty other kids. Then, the good waves were still too big for your body. You wore wetsuits and gloves because the Canadian waters were too cold. He was shorter than you and a little loud, but really you didn’t pay the boys any attention. You loved surfing, and a few boys out in your periphery weren’t going to shake your resolve. 

When all your friends could talk about at sleepovers were the boys at school, all you could think about was when you were going to get down to the beach. Your favorite board lived against your bedroom wall, and at some point, fitting it between your arm and body was the most natural thing ever. 

It was just when you kept seeing him. All the time.

He was on a surf club across town, and you kept seeing him down by the water once you turned 14. He wasn’t ever in your local spot, but sometimes you crossed paths, and it was enough that the mutual stare felt odd. You knew each other through town talk and point totals on websites. You felt it awkward to go up to him, to try and act as if you were supposed to be friends because you were both really good.

He was a hell of a lot less dorky since that camp and a world more charming. Everyone said so. 

You’d see it from a distance, the girls piling around him, how easily he flowed into conversation that had them giggling so loud you heard it over the crashing waves. It made your jaw clench more than anything. It was cringey and gross, and at one point, you swear he saw you roll your eyes at him, but you couldn’t be sure. You were 40 feet away. You thought it was a figment of your imagination, something you made up because you had such a shitty heat. He had smiled, and you couldn’t explain that, so it was much easier to think the whole incident never happened.

Sometimes, you’d let the thought gnaw deep: how he never saw you with anyone other than your friends. It shouldn’t be embarrassing, but he made you feel behind in ways you shouldn’t. He was more charming. He was easy-going. Romantic endeavors were, more or less, a piece of cake for him. It always looked like he had it all figured out.

When the boys started coming through in social media messages and mutual followers once surfing became serious, when you started getting sponsorships, and you had a decent chunk of followers (mostly local but you didn’t complain), you hated it. At 15, half of them were legal adults; the other half were, for lack of a better word, weak surfers that wanted in on you, to claim you because your points kept getting up there and in just a few short years, you’d be in the challengers series.

Beckett, in a way, made everyone else feel boring. It wasn’t a direct thought—you never connected the dots, but the way he spoke, the way he zoned out and got hard on himself after he fucked up, just like you did. How he sat on his board when the sea was placid, the sun illuminating his shoulder blades, the small beauty marks along his spine, it was inevitable. There would be nobody else. 

By eighteen, you hadn’t dated anyone.

So maybe you were a little… romantically stunted. It’s easy to brush off. You’re a professional athlete, and, quite frankly, you have no time to fuck around with situationships like all your friends do. The whole thing sounds terrible, and it seemed like every week they’d come curled up on your couch, crying about a guy that couldn’t care less about them.

You figured Beckett was not so different from those men. Sometimes, you imagined how those poor girls took it when he broke it off with them, or worse, how he ghosted them. You don’t know why you liked to imagine these things. Maybe it brings you a small comfort, trying to convince yourself he’s not a good person. Your ‘crush’ on him was surface-level, and you were trying your very best to convince yourself of that. It didn’t work because you just thought about him more.

—

This comp doesn’t really mean much. It’s just a local mob of clubs, and you’re off to Brazil at the end of the week for a real qualifier that’ll cement your name if you play your cards right.

Beckett is always there before you, even when you try to get there earlier. The day was a go, but you swear he gets there before the judges say the waters are good. He’s like, really obsessed, even though he doesn’t show it much in the way he acts. 

He’s sitting on a rather large rock, his back to you. His board rests beside him. You notice the branding is different—he got a new sponsor or something. It’s gloomy out, the light gray enveloping the sky and making the ocean look a deeper blue than usual. 

He’s still wearing his hoodie. You never really see his hair much dry. He trims it often now; he likes to keep up appearances for his newfound fanbase. The nape of his neck is clean, and the short hairs straight.

Your teammate preemptively giggles as she lays her eyes on him.

“You should’ve come last Friday. He was there and got superrr drunk,” she whispers, even though Beckett wouldn’t be able to hear anyway.

She’s talking about some house party you shrugged your shoulders at. That day, you were sore in all the wrong places. 

“Really? Who’d he take home this time?” It’s just gossip, like, you didn’t care at all. You’re secretly hoping she says he didn’t, that he was too wasted and his friends had to carry him out of there.

“I don’t know. I had never seen her before. She sounded American.”

“Oh,” you let out. You’re still staring at the back of Beckett’s head. He’s fidgeting with his board on his lap, looking out at the break. “He latches onto anything with a pulse,” you add, because your oh sounded too dejected for your liking.

She hums in agreement, and you both shove your flip-flops off, letting the cool sand cushion your feet.

Unfortunately, you have to pass him on your way to your team’s setup farther along the beach. You try to look straight forward, but obviously your friend gives him a warm greeting, and you’re forced to turn your head and give him a pained smile.

“Hi, y/n,” he grins, his hand giving a half-assed wave as his elbows brace his board. “Good luck.” He says this specifically to you, his gaze lingering too long on the oversized shirt covering your two-piece. He runs his hand through his hair. It’s a bit windy, so he’s fixing the strands sticking out.

You know he’s teasing you. He’s smiling too wide. His smile was too big for his face. “Yeah, sure, whatever.”

“I don’t get a ‘good luck’ back?” He asks, and your friend is just standing between you two, a little confused by the odd tension. You grit your teeth.

“I’m not going to fraternize with the enemy.”

“Oh, okay,” he says, all sarcastic. He looks at you dead on, a glimmer in his eyes, “I get it.”

You don’t know why you can’t just be nice to him. 

It was his annoying face. It was how he thought everything was a game. It always felt like he was making fun of you.

Towards the end of the day, when you place fifth—irritatingly so—Beckett catches your eye across the sand, a small, knowing smile hanging there. He was about to start his heat against the other guys, and your stomach lurched knowing he was watching you. 

He was always watching you, but the simple confirmation alone made your skin crawl. 

—

Beckett was between a lot of sports growing up. Surfing was one of the last things he thought about, truthfully. Everyone expected him to play hockey. 

He doesn’t remember exactly how old he was when his dad made this gross joke about picking surfing because the young boy liked scantily clad women. He was probably 10. He heard it behind the corner during some family gathering. He knew it was a joke, but he didn’t like it anyway. It embarrassed him because it was half true. 

He wasn’t ogling adult women just yet. No, he saw you at that camp, all determined, with this really nice shortboard and a million friends. You looked like you knew everything, and he wanted to be like you. Then, you were taller than him, and he felt so small. 

You were the best surfer there. It started this spiral he couldn’t get himself out of. He wanted to be good in case you saw him again. He’d come back, hopefully taller and stronger, and you’d notice him, for real.

It really did not help when his grandma figured out about you. You’d show up in all his competition photos because you’d always place well, so there are dozens of them where your face shows up. It’s almost like he could imagine you both grew up together, friends or something.

There’s one where you’re standing next to each other with flimsy trophies in both your hands in front of the water. He guesses you both won the men’s and women’s sides. It looks like he was thirteen there. His grandmother loves you for some reason. She compiles all these photos and always asks about you when she sees Beckett.

Beckett kind of has to lie and pretend you’re friends. Oh, she’s doing good. She just won xxx competition. And it’s not because you told him but because he was constantly looking at your stats, constantly flicking through your social media. He doesn’t want to think about how much time he spends staring at your profile. It’s entirely too much.

He can tell. She has that look on her face like she approves of you. She’s never even met you.

—

“There’s no way.” You squeak, walking towards the sand one early Thursday morning.

“Surprise?” One of the workers says. She’s grinning, watching your reaction to the undeniable shape of Beckett with his back turned, talking to someone holding a camera. You’ve seen his back so much you’d recognize it anywhere. He’s already in swim trunks and nothing else.

“We’re…this is a group photoshoot?” Your eyes glaze over his bare expanse for too long, glossing over the knobs of his spine.

She nods, holding a stack of papers close to her chest. “It was super last minute but we thought it might be good. You’re both on the same trajectory right now.” You’re hoping she says there are other surfers coming or something, that it’s not a ‘couple’s thing’. “And you’re both hot, so it’s a win.”

You flush, sweat starting to pool at your temples. You want to whine, but you’re freshly eighteen and that’s unbecoming of an adult. You breathe out. It won’t be too bad. All the camera people will be directing you and there will barely be any talking—probably. 

Maybe you should have thought this might happen, having the same swimwear sponsor and all.

As you step out of the privacy tent, suddenly the mess of brown hair is in your personal space. The one piece you’re wearing is the same red color of his shorts.

“Who would’ve thought?” He says, looking down at you. You’re already irritated. 

“Thought what?” You cross your arms.

“We’d look good together.” He grins.

“Jesus Christ. Did you win last weekend or something?” 

He did and now his total points have teetered over yours. Not that it matters because you’re technically split up by sex, but it still hurts your ego.

“Yep.” He emphasizes the p, a popping sound falling from his mouth. You’ve never seen his smile dimples this close before. You scoff.

“How many of your girlfriends were there?” You step by him to start heading over to the photography team.

“Uh, like five. It was hard to keep them separated.” You huff out a short laugh at his answer. Then, there’s a short pause.

“You think of me like that?” He follows you like a puppy. 

“Well, I think the whole surfing community thinks of you like that.” You look over your shoulder and his brows are furrowed, looking at the sand between his feet.

“Ah, you can’t really believe everything, though.”

“Dude, I don’t care. You can do whatever you want.” 

“But I’m not—“

One of the camera people starts talking, and you both fall quiet as you listen. 

It’s, uh, not as easy as you planned.

Beckett finds touching you very easy. He pulls you in once the solo shots are done, after your hair’s all wet and you’re flushed from the shots in the ocean. 

He doesn’t need direction. His arm lazily dangles over your shoulders as you hold a board against your body. The water laps at your feet. You’re sinking ever further into the wet sand. You’re rooted there, trying not to make it obvious that every nerve ending in your body is on fire. 

He made a bad joke about your club teammate that you shouldn’t have laughed at, but you did. All the camera people are bewildered that they don’t have to tell you what to do. They take rapid pictures, capturing whatever weird chemistry sizzles between your bodies.

“Okay, we’re good guys!” One of them says. It’s only midday, but it’s getting too hot. You sigh. You definitely didn’t put enough sunscreen on and your shoulders feel warm to the touch.

“See, it wasn’t that bad,” Beckett says, pulling away from you.

“I guess not.” You roll your eyes. This is the most conversation you’ve ever had with him.

Except you’re not done. Some social media intern swarms both of you, asking to do a small interview for instagram. She pulls out a small hand-held mic. “Just five minutes. I have like one question.”

“Okay, sure!” You respond, though your body is heavy and all the stress of today has finally decided to set in.

It never gets easy having a phone camera pointed directly at your face. Beckett is standing right beside you, and she has to take a step back to get him in frame too.

She asks how it is, competing professionally alongside someone you’ve known forever. Of course. You hesitate. He’s standing right there, curious as to what you have to say.

“It’s, uh, nice seeing a familiar face in other parts of the world, you know? We both want to make our families and community proud, so—yeah, it’s cool.” You try to smile, but it’s awkward. 

Beckett takes the mic from your hands. He smiles wide, looking down to catch your parting lips. “She has a little trouble going against me. Always has.”

“No, I do not—”

“What I mean to say—” he barks out a laugh at your immediate defense, “—we surf better when we’re together. It helps so much to have that support, especially because we’re both in the same, pretty terrifying position right now.”

You can’t tell if that’s a real stat or something. You try to think about it logically. Whenever your local club goes against his, do you really fall under the ‘pressure’? It feels dumb to analyze it. Those local competitions don’t mean as much, and maybe that’s why you’ve never noticed it before—chalking it down to the water, a bad day. Do you really do that? You doubt it. He’s probably making that up for the narrative.

“You guys are close, huh?”

“We kind of have to be,” Beckett responds, before you can adamantly shake your head at the concept. 

“Yeah,” you add weakly. 

“I mean, everyone knows it. You’re both the future of Canadian surfing. How about the Olympics in a few years?”

“Oh, that’s—that’s so far away.”

“We’ll see,” Beckett grins. 

You take a freezing cold shower when you get back home.

—

The photos are posted a week later.

It has like some stupid caption saying made in Canada. Your phone vibrates maybe 100 times once it’s out there, public, for anyone to see. Half of it is your confused friends asking why they didn’t get a warning. The other half is random people gushing about how good you look together. You shut your eyes and throw your phone across the bed. If you didn’t look at it, it didn’t exist.

Your throat felt thick knowing that Beckett was right—you did look like a couple, and now other people thought that too.

—

Hawaii is not fun after breaking up with your boyfriend.

Your short-lived stint of pretending you could be normal was over. You liked him…he was okay and very nice to your family when he met them, but that was it. You barely saw him because of your schedule. You wanted to be the one who broke it off, but he got there first.

You sulked about that. You kind of wanted to be the first in everything.

“Sorry to hear about…whatever his name was. I can’t remember.”

You click your tongue at the mass of gangly limbs before you. You’re both in the hotel lobby, waiting, because apparently your rooms weren’t ready. 

He’s wearing a shirt with loose gray sweats. You rarely see him in normal clothes. His carry-on backpack is slung over his shoulder. 

You’d have been on the same plane if not for the fact that Beckett got here a few days earlier and stayed with friends. You don’t really want to imagine what that entailed.

“You don’t actually care.”

“You’re right. I don’t.” He shrugs. It’s stupid to ask how he knew, because word gets out quickly in the tight-knit communities you’re both a part of. You know it firsthand—all the bad stories you’ve had to hear about him against your will. “Just hope it doesn’t affect your game.”

“It won’t.” 

“That’s great, babe.” 

You stiffen up. Someone’s called Beckett over, some surfer he knew, so he’s gone before you can say anything.

Babe is…a friendly term. Friends call each other babe. It’s different from baby, a lot less weight. It still makes your pulse spike.

You figure out Beckett’s across from your room when you go out to get ice to chew on for your nerves.

“You going out tonight?” He asks, card in his hand, bag still on, as he waits for your response before he enters his room.

“Uhm, probably not. I’m tired.”

“Is it because of him?”

“No! What? I mean, why do you care? You don’t know me, Sennecke.” Plus, it feels like he’s inviting you to wherever he’s going, and that freaks you the fuck out. The comp’s already been pushed back a day, and it starts the day after next, so there’s a lot of reason to explore the beach town…you just don’t know how to lie well enough.

“Okay, last names again. I thought we were progressing.”

You sigh. “Why’d you lie about that thing in the interview?” It’s a very vague thing to say, and it happened a while ago, but Beckett knows what you’re talking about immediately.

“I wasn’t. Your point average is better when I’m not going against you.”

“That’s stupid. We’re together all through the regular season. It just means I perform better on tour than at local competitions that barely mean anything, dumbass.”

He smiles, biting his tongue. “I wonder how many other things we’d do better together—“

“I’m done. Oh my god. Goodbye.” You heat up so fast, turning on the spot to fumble with your key card. You hear him laugh before you close the door with your back. 

—

There’s a knock on your door two hours later.

“Hey, doll face? You there?” You hear his deep voice through the heavy door. You scramble out of bed. 

You swing the door open. “Are you one thousand years old?”

“What? You do have a doll face.”

He’s dressed to go out in this thin white linen shirt and black slacks. 

Your lips form a tight line.

“I’m sorry about that comment earlier, okay? I’m just messing with you. You’re easy to make angry.”

“Okay,” you say, looking down between your socked feet. 

Beckett’s having a really hard time not letting his heart burst out of his chest seeing you in a tank top and sleep shorts.

“You should come. There’s a whole bunch of surfers going out too. It’ll…help you get over him.” He clears his throat.

“I don’t know.”

“Just…” he pulls his phone out of his back pocket, and tells you the restaurant everyone’s apparently going to. “Come if you want.”

“Okay, maybe,” you say. 

“Good.” Beckett seems really pleased. 

—

He’s the first to catch notice of you walking in. His arm is slung around the backside of a booth, eyes glazing over you once, twice, like he can’t believe you took up the offer, then he says, “Hey! You made it.”

He’s fuzzy, maybe two or three drinks in. Empty, wide-rimmed margarita glasses are filling the table. He’s sitting with a group of guys, but there’s just enough room on the edge for you to squeeze in. You feel awkward.

“Yeah, I guess.” 

He pats the leather next to him. You want to high-tail it out of there.

“Sit right here, baby. I’ll order you a drink.”

Is the world tilted off its axis? He’s called you three nicknames in the span of five hours. 

The guys at the table don’t make a fuss about it. They don’t even acknowledge it, like it’s normal.

Somehow, you’ve managed to blurt out the silly details of your break-up to him, all numb now with a couple of drinks in your system. It happened over the phone in an airport, you say, and you had to make him repeat it because you didn’t hear it the first time. Beckett laughs at that.

“He couldn’t even wait until you were back home?”

“Nah, it’s okay though. Like, probably better that I didn’t have to see him again.”

“Right.” Beckett lightly taps your bare knee, and it’s almost accidental until his entire palm wraps around your upper thigh. It feels like he’s claiming you, making sure you’re not going to leave him.

At this point, it’s just the two of you making conversation now.

“I have no idea how he could break up with you.”

“I’m pretty stubborn and…not a great girlfriend.”

“Really?”

“I don’t think—“ your breath hitches as he squeezes your thigh, “—don’t think I should be dating during the season.”

“Oh,” he says, eyes dark, “yeah. I don’t think you should be either.”

You clear your throat. “What time is it?” You scramble around for your phone. Beckett still has his hand on you, watching you. “We should go back.”

As you’re leaving, Beckett’s palm rests on the back of your neck. Heat is pooling so fast in your lower stomach. He’s practically gripping you with one hand, helping you get out of this crowded restaurant. 

The walk back is very, very awkward. The cool rush of air is sobering. Maybe Beckett doesn’t think so, because he’s still talking about your ex.

“You know, dating people who aren’t surfers just doesn’t work.”

“And you know from experience, right?” You smirk, trying to get him to stutter or something, but he never does.

“Yeah. I do.” God, he says it so matter-of-fact.

“What? Are you proposing something right now?” You egg on. 

“Hmm,” he contemplates something in his head. “Don’t know. I think you’re a little emotionally strung out right now.”

“What? No I’m not. I’m perfectly fine.”

“So if I kissed you, you wouldn’t regret it?”

Your breathing stops. You’re on the sidewalk; red and green lights from the traffic stop illuminate his face.

You shut your eyes tight, shaking your head. “I’d regret it just because it was you.” You start walking again, and he has to take a few long strides to get back next to you.

“Oh, come on. You know that’s not true.”

“It is.” You keep your head held high. 

“What’s your issue with me?” He asks as you step into the hotel lobby. The receptionist gives you both a small smile.

“Everything.”

“You’re such a bad liar.”

You scowl at him, pressing the elevator button.

“Why would you let me hold you like that?”

“Uh—uhm, I don’t remember.” It was maybe twenty minutes ago when his hand was dangerously close to the edge of your shorts.

“You can say it, say that you want me. I won’t judge.” 

“I don’t…” In the elevator, the light is brighter, and you can see the hard, tanned skin underneath several buttons he’s undone through the course of the night. His neck is long, and there’s so much room to kiss him there. 

“Fuck you,” you blurt out, and take him by the hand once the elevator dings open.

“Whoa,” he’s startled, but follows you anyway. You fumble again with the card. It beeps red before he takes it in his hand to press down slowly on the pad. You murmur an apology when it works.

You drag him inside. “I just want to see. Want to know if it’s true.”

He looks at you, amused. He knows damn well what you’re talking about, the rumors that he was fucking insane in bed. You’ve heard that since you were seventeen, and now that you’re on edge since your break-up, and he’s this warm, willing body, you have a hard time thinking of anything else.

“What’s true?” He grins, walking forward, closing you in. You stumble back, falling onto the bed. Your forearms keep you up. You try to kick your shoes off. Beckett looks really different, like a whole other person has taken over his body.

You know you’re sober enough that you’ll remember this tomorrow morning. He will too. 

“I’m not saying it.”

“Course you aren’t. Too embarrassed. You just have to promise me one thing.”

“What?” You’re exasperated.

“That you won’t fall in love with me after.”

Too late.

“Yeah, right, idiot.” You start unbuttoning your jean shorts, and Beckett takes over, a chuckle escaping his lips. He flings you toward the head of the bed like it’s nothing. You look at him, wide-eyed. He shucks his shirt off, then dips down onto the mattress. 

You used to read what the comments said about you two. How perfect you slotted in together. This is what the comments had said, and you’d blush looking at the pictures. You swear you looked at them every night. Obviously, one does not do that in a healthy, committed relationship.

There’s a flicker of doubt, as he drags your shorts down, that this will ruin everything. You don’t have it in you to care right now.

He smiles at your underwear. It was white with little red hearts on it. “Shut up.” You groan, bucking your hips up into the air.

“Didn’t say anything, baby.”

“I’m not—“ he presses his thumb into the fat of your inner thigh, forcing your legs wider to accommodate him. “—stop calling me that. I’m not your baby.”

“Sometimes you act like one, don’t you?”

“What the fuck.” You flop your head back onto the pillow. It’s hard to keep eye contact with him. The pale blue was so intimidating. “No.” You grunt.

“Sure,” he agrees half heartedly against your skin, kissing down your inner legs. 

It’s dizzying how no one else has seemingly cared more to please you than Sennecke. You think you might pass out.

With your panties bunched to the side, Beckett presses his tongue against you like his life depends on it. His nose grazes over your clit, and your hand fists in his hair. He liked that because his eyes fluttered closed, soft groans vibrating through your pussy.

And once you’re done keening, broken sobs falling out of your mouth, you force yourself to attack him because he’s not very assertive about this one thing—about making you do anything else. It looks like he’s about to leave, like he’ll just go and jerk off in his own hotel room.

“I have to…” You pant, “…finish what I started.”

“You’re crazy,” he breathes out as you palm him through his slacks. You kiss him hard. You’ve never tasted yourself before. He’s licking your bottom lip, and you shudder, opening your mouth better for him. You’re sitting between his legs, digging the heel of your hand into his filled-out cock.

You whine particularly loud into his mouth, and he’s gone. He cums right in his boxers. He swears, little fuck’s coming out against your cheek.

His eyes are blown out. He can’t believe that happened. 

“Okay, wow.” You fall backwards, too tired. A small simmering heat is building up in your chest knowing you made the notorious fuck boy cum in his pants. 

“Yeah, uhm,” he’s looking down at you, his eyes barely open now, like he’s just remembered he’s tired. “I’ll go.”

“You always cum that fast?”

“Don’t act like you weren’t crying my name five minutes ago.” He wipes his face with the back of his hand. He winces as he stands up, the patch of wetness making it uncomfortable.

You throw a pillow at him. “Fuck, god. Sorry,” he says, the blow hitting him right in the side of the head.

“You’re avoiding the question,” you complain.

“Goodnight.” He says, narrowing his eyes at you. He picks the pillow up and throws it next to your body. Your hair was a mess, chest heaving up and down. 

You groan loudly, twisting in your sheets, mumbling something close to a bye. You shift onto your side, and he sees your shirt riding up your back and your panties that hug your buttcheeks. You hear him snicker before he’s grabbing his things and leaving. 

You don’t sleep for another hour, flipping over tomorrows possibilities in your mind.

—

You wake up with a pounding headache but an even bigger feeling of dread.

It’s noon and everyone else has probably gotten along with their day. You wonder if Beckett is still in bed or if he’s not affected by hangovers like you are. You grimace. He’s probably had a very productive day. 

You drag yourself to your bathroom, trying not to think about last night—you fell so easily, like putty in his hands, and now you know the feeling of his mouth against yours. You know what he sounds like when he’s moaning with want. 

After mulling over 10 options, one including possibly becoming a Buddhist, you decide not to talk to him about it. You weren’t very close anyway, and you could get away with speaking to him in two word sentences just like the last five years.

You’re sure he’s had experience with this kind of thing: having sex with a friend. He probably won’t even mention it either.

—

Beckett knows why you ‘hate’ him. He’s studied enough of your film, watched enough of your mannerisms after a heat, that he could roughly deduce why you gave him the cold shoulder. You hated not constantly being the best.

It’s why he likes you.

On the first day of the competition, he finally finds you there before him. There’s barely anything set up yet, the orange horizon waning into a light blue. You’re all jittery, he can tell. You’re applying too much wax on your board.

“Calm down.” You look up from where you sit in the sand. His damp hair from the shower frames his forehead. He’s looking at you all quizzical, like he’s going to blurt out: “what’s wrong with you?”

“Phft. Thanks. That helps.”

“You’ve got nothing to worry about.”

“Yeah, okay, sure.”

“You’re not this…on edge, usually. Was it…” he lets the silence speak for itself.

“No! No, of course not. I’m not even, like not even—I’m just thinking.”

He hesitates. There’s a fondness in his eyes that you’re not quite used to. It makes your body feel really small. 

Your ex-boyfriend really did look a lot like him. Gosh, do you think he noticed that? When you posted your boyfriend on your story, did he notice the same floppy brown hair, the same lanky, built body? You bite down hard on your lower lip, squinting at Beckett now because the sun has risen higher above the horizon. 

“I’ll see you later?”

You’re forced into an impromptu interview with him at the end of the day, where he lies about how close you are, but then you flush thinking about how it really is true now—the closeness. You avoid him for the rest of the competition. Every time you look at him, your heart blooms too big in your chest. It’s the lush Hawaiian trees, the clear sky, the orange and pink hibiscus flowers that are tricking you, intensifying your feelings.

—

At the airport, Beckett’s sitting right next to you in the terminal, legs spread, phone in hand because it always seems like he’s texting someone. Not that you care.

You decided it would be weird not to sit next to him, but it’s also weird sitting next to him. So no one’s winning here, really. Except if you count Beckett, who won the whole damn thing yesterday. You placed third—which was still really good, but you’re an athlete; you’re jealous. 

“Excuse me?” You feel a tiny poke on your knee, drawing you out of the spiral you’re leading yourself down. 

There’s a girl, no older than eight, standing in front of you. She’s rocking back and forth, clearly nervous. She asks you if you’re really you, eyes blown wide. You notice her mom is a little ways away, smiling at the whole interaction.

“You wanna take a picture together?” You ask. She beams.

“Is that…your boyfriend?” She tries to whisper, but children whisper loud. Beckett’s got his hand over his mouth, trying not to laugh. He’s also a little mortified at the fact that he wasn’t recognized, and it hangs a little quieter on his face, but you know it’s there.

“Uh—no, he’s a surfer too.” She nods her head, mouth formed in an o shape. When she leaves, skipping back to her mom, Beckett turns to you.

“Wow.”

“Does anyone even watch men’s sports anymore?” You chide, grinning so hard.

“I’ll let you have that. Needed to be humbled after my win.”

You groan, slinking back into your chair. You take the small victories where you can.

—

Recently, Beckett’s been spending so much of the winters in tropical climates that Canada is such a shock to come back home to. 

Christmas kind of sucks cause he has no excuse to see you. It’s been two weeks since that night in your hotel room, and every night since then, he’s thought about how he probably ruined everything. You don’t see him as someone serious, someone mature enough to be in a relationship. It doesn’t help that he’s never been in one longer than a couple of months, but that’s your fault, he swears. 

Last night, he dreamt of going to the Olympics with you. He’s torturing himself at this point.

And his grandma won’t stop asking about you.

“Why isn’t she at one of these yet?” It’s Christmas Eve. His entire family is here.

“Grandma, I don’t think she likes me back.” It feels like a confession, because it is. An indirect one, but it still holds all its weight in it. 

“Oh, dear.” She pats him on the cheek. “You have to tell her you like her first.” His cheeks are aflame, feeling like he’s 12 years old again. He has never mentioned his long-standing crush to anyone else. She always knew. It was plain obvious.

—

On Christmas Day, his little cousins wanted to go to the town rink to ice skate. It’s really fucking cold, and if he had it his way, he wouldn’t go at all. 

He thinks he’s dreaming again when he sees the back of you, your hair pulled up in a ponytail, a thick black puffer jacket on, leaning against the side of the rink. 

The white glow of the ice hits your face. You’re watching everyone else, hands folded underneath your chin, elbows resting on the boards. All his little cousins go off to rent skates close by.

“You’re the last person in Canada who doesn’t know how to skate. I’m impressed.”

“Christ! You scared me.” You turn, breath hitched in your throat. There’s only one person whose voice you know sounds like that. “And I do, actually, okay. I just don’t want to twist my ankle.”

“Yeah, sure.” All Beckett has ever seen you in are wetsuits and bikinis. He’s never seen you dressed in mittens and long pants. He’s never seen your nose sniffle from the cold. 

“Some of us have careers to think about.” You scoff, looking at the ice instead of him. The whole place is sickeningly festive. A huge Christmas tree with multi-colored lights rests across the pond. 

Beckett curls his hand around your arm and pulls you away, toward the renting booth.

“Beckett, seriously. I can’t.”

“You have to. What are you going to do, stand there the whole time?”

“Yes.” You let him drag you over there.

Skates are a little hard to put on, especially when it’s been years since you’ve done it. Beckett laces his quickly, and he notices how you’re still tying your first. He doesn’t say anything. He just kneels and does it for you. His eyelashes rest on his rosy cheeks. His eyebrows are knitted in concentration. You flush, bringing your head up because looking at him like this is completely inappropriate. Letting yourself believe this is anything but a power trip for him, seeing you bad at something he’s good at, will send you into psychosis. 

Then you grow hot in your jacket at the realization that this feels more wrong than letting him settle between your legs. Imagining him as your boyfriend is embarrassing and you really need to get a grip.

Of course, he’s vindicated when he sees you shaky on your feet. 

“Shut the fuck up,” you whisper, cause there’s kids everywhere, whizzing past you. His hand rests on your back. He’s sure half his family realizes he’s gone, but they probably saw your face and decided not to interrupt. He doesn’t have the time to mull over how humiliating that is. “Can’t be good at everything like you.”

He thinks that’s supposed to come off as a joke, but he can hear the honesty beneath it. He looks down at you. You’re avoiding his gaze. 

“That’s not true.” 

You stop yourself on the boards, holding onto it, your back pressed against it. “It’s okay. You don’t have to pity me. I don’t like other people being better. I need a therapist or something—”

“I’m terrible at cooking and responding to text messages, and I’m a nervous wreck before every heat—you’re good at that. Always so calm. You’re a better surfer than me, seriously.”

“Beckett—”

“And, I’m really bad at telling you how I feel.”

You cock your head. “What?”

“That I really like you,” the words just tumble out of his mouth, “liked you for a long time. Before the night at the hotel. I didn’t mean to make it seem like I was using you. I wasn’t. I want to be with you.”

“Oh,” you say, because it’s all you can think of. All your thoughts ceased to exist. Your face stings from the cold air. 

“And I know it’s probably bad to date another competitor, but all those other guys out there suck. I’m the only one who knows what you’re going through—”

“Slow down, please.”

“Yeah, sorry,” he says sheepishly. You’re not angry at him, which he thinks is good. You’re analyzing his face. 

“I agree. The whole—I mean, we’re compatible.” You look down at the ice underneath your skates. “But I’m a bad girlfriend.” 

His heart forgets to beat.

“I can be the judge of that.”

You weakly push him in the chest, and he clings hard to the boards, his knuckles going white so he doesn’t drift away. 

When he kisses you, this time your lips are cold and chapped. It feels like he’s kissing you for the first time, and he’s so grateful for that. 

“You’re gonna last a little longer in bed?“

He covers your mouth in horror. His bright blue eyes go wide. “You can’t say that!”

⊰══════════════════════⊱

Your earliest memories of Fraser Minten are those of cold hockey rinks and layers upon layers of jackets.

The mornings always started before the sun came up, long before any five-year-old should’ve been awake. Connor would somehow have endless energy, already halfway dressed in his hockey gear, running around the house while your mom tried to make him eat something besides half a granola bar before you had to leave the house. 

You, on the other hand, usually ended up bundled in three layers of blankets in the backseat beside Connor, still half asleep by the time everyone arrived at the rink. Your mom would carry you inside more often than not while your twin brother ran ahead, eager to get on the ice. 

Your mother would settle onto the cold bleachers with you tucked against her side, wrapped in your favorite blanket while Connor chased after the other kids toward the locker room.

You never liked talking much, not because you were unfriendly, you were just quiet. The kind of little kid who hid behind her mom's leg when someone new introduced themselves, and who answered questions with tiny nods instead of words. 

Connor had always been enough of a talker for the both of you anyway, this far into your life, as early as it was, he was your rock, your best friend, the person who understood you more than anyone else. 

Fraser noticed.

He noticed in a different way than adults did. He never tried to pull you out of your shell or tell you to speak louder. He got to know you because he was such good friends with Connor, and he came to realize that you really came out of your shell when Connor was around. 

Sometimes before practice, Fraser would wander over to the bleachers already dressed in half his equipment.

“Hi,” he’d say quietly. You'd peek up from your blanket, and say so quietly it was almost inaudible, “...Hi.”

Then silence, but comfortable silence. Most kids would’ve kept talking, asking you questions, trying to get you to say something, but Fraser never seemed to. He’d sit beside you for a minute, swinging his little legs over the edge of the bleachers before one of the coaches called him back onto the ice.

“See you after?” he asked. 

A tiny nod from you, always. Then he’d smile and hop back over the boards, “Okay.”

That was always enough. You think that's why you liked him so much. Even then, he never expected more from you than what you wanted to give.

⊰══════════════════════⊱

As the years went on, hockey became tournaments instead of just practices on weeknights and games on Saturday mornings. Long day-trips became weekend trips and hotel stays all over British Columbia. 

Eventually, someone had the brilliant idea to start carpooling. The adults loved it, but the kids loved it even more.

Connor always claimed the window so you always somehow ended up squished in the middle. Fraser on one side, Connor on the other. The drives were filled with handheld games and snacks your parents swore you'd ruin your appetite with but never did.

The boys would be talking almost the whole drive. You mostly listened, occasionally laughing, occasionally joining in. Sometimes falling asleep somewhere around the halfway point of the drive. 

Without fail, you'd wake up with your head resting against somebody's shoulder. Sometimes Connor’s, but usually Fraser’s. 

⊰══════════════════════⊱

Hotels quickly became your favorite part of tournaments. The Bedards always stayed one room away from the Mintens, which meant the hallway between your rooms became your own little world.

The boys ran back and forth until one of the parents inevitably yelled for everyone to slow down, and you followed behind them every single time. You played cards on the floor, ate lukewarm pizza from some place down the street, someone always ended up knocking on the wrong hotel room door by accident. Nearly every single night one of your parents was saying, "Okay, that's enough. Everyone back to your own rooms."

None of you ever wanted to.

⊰══════════════════════⊱

Your parents noticed things long before any of you did. One afternoon during a tournament, while Connor and Fraser were racing each other around the rink, your mom laughed quietly from her seat in the stands.

“It’s funny,” your mom says. 

Mrs. Minten looked over, “What is?”

“They've become best friends,” your mom says while she nodded toward the boys.

Fraser’s mom nods in agreement, “They really have.”

Your mom smiled before glancing toward you. You’d wandered over to the boards by yourself—which at six years old was a big jump from how nervous you had been just a year ago, always wanting to be next to your mother—coloring quietly while occasionally looking up whenever Connor or Fraser skated by.

“But so have they,” your mom adds, gesturing to you looking at Fraser skating by and waving at you. Mrs. Minten followed her gaze.

“I think Fraser's one of the only kids who doesn’t see her as just ‘Connor's twin,’” your mom said.

Mrs. Minten smiled softly. She watched her son wave at you again before circling back into the drill. “I think he wants to see just her.”

⊰══════════════════════⊱

By the time you were eight, everyone expected to see you sitting on the same section of bleachers with a blanket wrapped around your shoulders, a snack and book in your hand, watching practice. It became part of the routine.

Which is why one Tuesday evening Fraser looked toward the stands during warmups and frowned. Your seat was empty. He looked further up into the bleachers, thinking maybe you’d chosen to sit with your mom instead. 

Nothing.

After warmups he immediately found Connor. “Where's Y/N?” 

Connor blinked, not following. Then it clicked, “Oh,” He grinned, “She started ballet.”

Fraser frowned, “Ballet?”

“Yeah,” Connor said, “My mom signed her up. She wanted to try it, so she has lessons now.”

“When?” Fraser asked. 

Connor shrugged, “Same time as practice. Our dad takes her.” 

Fraser nodded slowly. “Oh.”

He didn't realize he'd sound disappointed until Connor laughed, “Do you miss her?” 

Fraser furrowed his brows, “No.”

Connor raised his eyebrows. “You do.”

“I don't. I didn’t say that,” Fraser said. 

“You asked where she was,” Connor had argued. 

“I was just wondering.”

Connor rolled his eyes, “Sure.”

⊰══════════════════════⊱

Even with ballet taking up nearly as much of your time as hockey took up theirs, you never missed a game. Recitals and practices came second whenever you could help it, you’d still be waiting after every game.

Always waiting to give both boys hugs, because that was your thing. Always hugs. Connor got one first because he was your brother. Fraser got one right after Connor because...well, he was Fraser. 

“You played really good,” you’d always say after you hugged Fraser. He’d smile every single time, “Thanks.”

Then, like clockwork, both families would head out to whatever restaurant you kids wanted to eat at. And every time like clockwork, whenever he sat next to you, half the fries on Fraser's plate somehow always disappeared before dinner was over. He never once complained.

⊰══════════════════════⊱

Eventually your lives stopped feeling separate, around age eleven. There wasn’t just hockey, there wasn’t just dance, there wasn’t just school, it all blended together. 

One of Fraser’s parents would pick up him and Connor from practice, and one of your parents would pick you up from dance, then everyone would meet at the same restaurant. Every Tuesday and Thursday, and almost every weekend. 

The boys would spend dinner arguing about whatever happened at practice, and you’d pretend not to listen, hiding your smile behind the rim of your water glass. 

Eventually, the conversation would splinter into smaller groups. The parents would fall into conversations about work schedules, upcoming tournaments, or whose turn it was to drive the next weekend. Connor was almost always in the middle of animatedly recounting every drill from practice, talking over anyone who tried to interrupt him.

Fraser would naturally turn toward you instead. “How was ballet today?” he’d always ask. 

You looked up from the fry you'd been absentmindedly dipping in ketchup.

“Good,” was sometimes the only response he would get. He smiled knowingly. “Just good?”

You shrugged. “I learned a new combination.”

He turned in the booth to face you while he spoke to you, “Was it hard?”

You nodded, “Really hard.”

“Harder than the one you were doing last week?”

You thought about it for a second before answering, “Yeah, they always get harder. I kept messing up one part.”

“Did you get it by the end?” he asked. 

A small smile spread across your face. “...Yeah, but I had to try a lot of times, everyone else got it before me.”

“I knew you would, doesn’t matter when, you still got it.”

You ducked your head a little, hiding your smile as you reached for another fry from his plate. Fraser noticed, of course, he always noticed. But he hardly ever said anything. 

“Did your feet hurt today?”

You blinked, “How’d you know?”

He shrugged, “You keep stretching your ankles under the table.”

You looked down, only then realizing you'd been rolling your feet back and forth without thinking. “Oh.”

“Was today pointe?” he asked. 

You nodded again, “Miss Meyer says I need stronger ankles.”

“You'll get there,” Fraser said, “You just started, you can’t be perfect at it overnight.”

“How do you know?”

Fraser shrugged like it was obvious. “Because every time you tell me something's hard, the next week you tell me you figured it out.”

You looked at him for a second, not expecting the answer. “...I guess,” you said. 

“See?” he said with a grin. “You're already getting better. You’re really good, Y/N, don’t compare what you do to other girls in your class and make yourself sad.”

You smiled to yourself before stealing another fry. Fraser looked down at his plate. “You know those are mine, right?” he asked. 

You froze. “Sorry.”

He laughed. “I didn't say you had to stop.” Without another word, he nudged the basket a little closer to you. “You can have some.”

“You're sure?”

“Yeah, you like them more than me anyway,” he said. 

“Connor already ate all of his,” you said, looking over at your brother. Fraser glanced across the table where Connor was arguing with one of the adults over whether a goal in practice should’ve counted.

“That's because Connor eats like he's in a competition,” Fraser said, “He just wants to finish his food to talk about hockey.” 

You giggled, smiling big for the first time the whole evening. 

Looking back, it really wasn’t the conversations themselves that stayed with you. You couldn’t remember every story you told him about ballet or every question he asked. What you remembered was the feeling of them, Fraser never made you compete with Connor’s personality to be heard. He never mistook your quietness for having nothing to say. He simply waited, always listened, and somehow made you feel like whatever you were thinking was worth hearing.

⊰══════════════════════⊱

Summer tournaments were always your favorite weeks of the year. Not because of the constant rush of hockey and the few months you could rest from ballet, but because it was one of those times where everyone was together. 

Pool days after mornings filled with games, ice cream runs became constant, hotel elevators were always packed with the boy’s teammates and their siblings. Inside jokes no one else understood were created quickly, racing down the hallways of small arenas and different floors of hotels were a staple. 

Summer tournaments for you meant spending time with people in a way that you didn’t get to anywhere else. You were with people who brought you out of your shell, and that meant more to you than any of them woud be able to understand. 

By then, people had stopped introducing Fraser as Connor's teammate whenever he came around. He was just Fraser. He was almost always at your house when the boys had practice so he could see you. 

He was integrated into your life in little ways that meant something. He knew where the extra plates were in your kitchen, your parents asked about him when he wasn’t there, his parents asked about you when you missed a game or a tournament because of dance. The lines between the two families blurred until nobody really remembered when it happened. 

By the time you were all driving, it felt impossible to remember what life looked like before Fraser was part of it. He wasn't just Connor's best friend anymore, at this point he would consider you his best friend, but he’d never tell Connor that. 

Somewhere between early mornings at the rink, endless tournament weekends, shared dinners, hotel hallways, and years of ordinary moments, he'd quietly become one of your favorite people. Neither of you noticed it happening, and neither of you stopped to think about what it meant. 

Because to everyone—including the two of you—it was simply the way it’d always been, and neither of you realized just how important that would become.

⊰══════════════════════⊱

When your last year of high school rolled around you couldn't remember the last time you had gone a full week without seeing Fraser. 

That was about to change, because Fraser was eligible for the NHL draft, and of course he had taken the opportunity when it was brought to him, because who would he be to turn down the possibility of taking the next step and doing what he loved professionally? 

The entire Bedard family sat in front of the television that June, waiting. Connor’s leg was hitting yours, bouncing impatiently, from where he sat next to you on the couch. 

Your mom had made enough snacks to feed twenty people even though there were only four people in your house. You kept checking your phone, waiting. You figured the service in the arena must be awful because you hadn’t gotten a message from Fraser since before he left his hotel. 

Waiting. Waiting. Waiting. 

Then Fraser's name was called, and the room erupted. 

Toronto Maple Leafs. 

Connor was already reaching for his phone before the broadcast had even finished announcing the pick, your parents were smiling and clapping, you were smiling. 

You couldn't have been happier for him.

You called him that night, and the second he answered you were already talking. 

“I knew it!” 

Fraser laughed, “You definitely did not.”

“I absolutely did, I’ve been saying this would happen since we were little.” 

Fraser laughed again. “You cried? Connor told me you cried,” he said. 

“Maybe, but they were happy tears, can you blame me?” 

His laugh softened, “I’m just teasing, I was happy too.” 

You hummed in response. “I’m really proud of you,” you said.

“Thanks,” he replied. 

You swallowed, “When do you leave?”

Fraser sighed, “Soon.”

You nodded even though he couldn’t see you. 

Thoughts started running rampant in your head. Toronto wasn't just another city, it was on the other side of the country. For the first time since you’d known each other, Fraser wouldn’t just be down the street. 

⊰══════════════════════⊱

The airport was the first goodbye that actually hurt, because it felt more permanent. You didn’t know when the next time you’d see him would be. You know the NHL moves quickly, and changes happen all the time you just didn’t want to get your hopes up on any possibilities that he would be close anytime soon. 

You hugged him for longer than either of you usually would’ve.

“You'll text me?” you asked. 

Fraser smiled, “Every day if you want.”

You laughed through the lump in your throat. “Don't make promises you can't keep,” you told him. 

He gently squeezed your shoulder, “I don't. I’ll call you too.”

You sniffle, “You hate phone calls.”

He smiles weakly, “I'll learn to hate them less.” 

That made you smile. “Okay.”

“Okay?”

You nod, “Okay.”

Neither of you said, I'm going to miss you, because you didn’t have to, it was obvious.  

⊰══════════════════════⊱

Only a few months later, life surprised you too. When the early acceptance email from Berklee arrived, you read it three times before believing it. Boston Conservatory at Berklee.

You'd dreamed about studying dance there for years, and so far it had felt impossible, until suddenly it wasn’t. 

Your parents cried. Connor lifted you up in the tightest hug you think you’d ever received in your life, while he yelled about how proud he was of you and how excited he was for you. 

Fraser called before you even had a chance to text him.

“I heard,” he said as soon as you answered the phone. You laughed, “Connor?”

You could hear Fraser’s smile on the phone, “He sounded more excited than you.”

You smile too, “I'm still processing.”

“You got into Berklee,” Fraser emphasized. 

“I know,” you said. 

But hearing him say it somehow made it real. “I'm so proud of you,” he continued, “You’re going to be incredible.” 

You closed your eyes, “Thanks,” you said shyly. 

It was almost funny, the two biggest dreams in your lives were finally happening. And somehow they were both pulling you farther apart. 

⊰══════════════════════⊱

The following summer, it was Connor's turn. The draft felt completely different this time. This time you were there in person, crammed into an arena in Nashville, with your brother projected to go first overall. 

You sat next to him, holding his hand tightly like you used to do when you were nervous as kids, waiting for the first overall to be called. 

Then: “The Chicago Blackhawks are proud to select Connor Bedard.” 

Chicago. Your brother was going to Chicago.

You smiled and were on your feet immediately to hug him. He hugged you the longest, murmuring a dozen “thank you for everything, thank you for being here, thank you for supporting me, I love you Bug”  into your ear before heading up to the stage to receive his jersey and begin the whirlwind of media for the evening. 

You celebrated with your family that night, you went out to dinner, you talked to Connor in your hotel room for nearly three hours before you were finally alone. 

As soon as he left the room you collapsed on the bed and cried into your pillow. Not because you weren’t happy or proud of him. You were, you were so unbelievably happy and proud, but for the first time in your entire life, Connor wouldn’t be a few feet away anymore. 

There would be no walking into his room whenever you wanted, no late-night conversations on the living room floor, no being able to just go to him when you needed him anymore. 

You'd spent eighteen years never knowing what it felt like to be without him, and now you were about to find out.

⊰══════════════════════⊱

By September, everything had changed. Connor was in Chicago, Fraser was in Toronto, and you’re now standing alone in a dorm room in Boston. 

The city was beautiful, and Berklee was everything you'd dreamed of. The dance studios were incredible, your professors were kind and excellent at teaching technique and helping you improve. Your classmates were talented, you should’ve loved all of it instantly. 

But instead you felt like you were six years old again. The quiet version of yourself you’d almost forgotten existed slowly crept back. You kept your head down in class, you spent more time in your room than anyone probably should. You still smiled politely when people talked to you, and it wasn't that you didn’t want friends, it was that you’d never had to learn how to make them. Connor had always been beside you, he was the outgoing one, the one who was so eager to talk to other people when it made you too anxious. 

Then came Fraser who immediately understood how to make you comfortable and included. Without them you felt untethered, like someone had quietly removed the two people who’d always made the world feel safe and familiar, so suddenly it felt like the scariest thing in the world all over again.

⊰══════════════════════⊱

Fraser noticed before anyone else, how you were really feeling. 

One night he called you after practice. You answered on the third ring, “Hey,” he said. 

“Hey,” you replied weakly. 

“How's Boston?”

“It's good,” you said, your voice lacking much emotion or excitement for you to actually mean it. 

He frowned, he knew you said it too quickly and that it sounded practiced and forced. 

“You sure?” he asked. 

You looked out your dorm window, biting your lip for a moment to keep your emotions in check. “Yeah,” you answered slowly. 

Silence followed from his end. “You're lying,” he said a moment later. 

You laughed weakly, “I forgot you can do that.”

You can hear the slight smile on his face on the other end of the phone, “I've been doing it since we were five,” he said gently. You don’t know how to respond, so you let the silence linger gently. 

Eventually you speak up again, “I just…” Your voice cracked, “...I miss home.”

Fraser doesn’t rush to fill the silence, he lets you talk at your own pace, because he knows if he tries to reassure you too early then you won’t get all your thoughts out. So he hums and waits for you to keep going. 

“I don't know anyone here, I’ve had a hard time talking to people outside of class,” you continue. Your voice breaks when you say, “I miss Connor, I really really miss him, it’s so hard not having him here.” 

Fraser speaks up gently, “I know.”

“I miss you too, like a lot,” you say through your tears that are now gently falling down your face. 

“I miss you too, Y/N. I’d be there if I could, I wish I was with you right now,” Fraser says. 

You nod, even though he can’t see you. “You’d like Boston, Frase,” you manage. “It’s a good city.”

“Yeah?” he asked. 

“Yeah,” you said. 

“Well, I know it’s lucky to have you.” 

⊰══════════════════════⊱

Your first year of college was, in your opinion, the most difficult thing you’d ever experienced. Not because classes were impossible or because people expected too much of you, but because every single thing was new and uncomfortable.

Learning a whole new city filled with completely new people wasn’t an easy experience for anyone, let alone you. You had to live for the first time without a safety net of people around you.  

Some days were easier than others. Sometimes you forgot how homesick you were, while others you’d leave rehearsal with your feet throbbing and wonder if you made the biggest mistake of your life by coming all the way out here.  

If something reminded you of home, you called Fraser. If rehearsal went well, you called Fraser. If rehearsal went terribly you definitely called Fraser. 

Connor still called, of course. Sometimes the three of you would FaceTime together, laughing and catching up until one of you had to leave for class or practice. 

Nothing had changed, not really, but at the same time it felt like everything was completely different. 

Connor was still your brother, your favorite person, your other half. But somewhere between late-night rehearsals and post-practice phone calls and different time zones, Fraser had quietly become the first person you reached for. 

Not because you loved Connor any less, but because Fraser had become the person who understood the version of you that existed away from home. He knew the homesick girl in Boston, he knew the exhausted dancer, the college student trying to figure herself out. 

You never meant for it to happen. You weren't even sure when it did, exactly. One day you caught yourself smiling at a text from Fraser before you'd answered Connor’s message, and the realization made your stomach twist. Partially out of guilt for not reaching for Connor first like you had your whole life, but also out of fear, because Fraser had somehow become your first phone call for everything, and you didn’t know what to do with that. 

⊰══════════════════════⊱

By the time spring finals were over, your body felt completely shot. Months of rehearsals had left your muscles aching in ways you didn't know were possible.

The semester had been incredible, but twice as hard as it had been in the fall. 

When you stepped off the plane in Vancouver for summer break at home, you barely had enough time to get your suitcase off the baggage carousel before someone yelled your name.

“There she is!” Connor.

You turned around and barely saw him before he was wrapping you in a hug so tight your feet left the ground.

“Ow,” you laughed into his shoulder, hugging him back. 

He laughed before setting you back on your feet. Then he leaned back just enough to look at you, and his smile softened. “I really missed you,” he said. 

“I really missed you too, Con.”

And just like that...you were home.

The drive to the lake house felt almost exactly like it had when you were kids. Except now Connor was driving instead of your parents. 

The music was too loud coming through the car speakers, the windows were down despite the breeze coming off the water, and your brother spent nearly the entire drive talking about Chicago, teammates, post-season practices, and something Frank Nazar had done that made him laugh so hard he nearly missed a turn.

You mostly listened, even though you only understood half of what he was saying because you could barely keep up. You'd missed this, missed him. Really missed home. 

The familiar roads slowly gave way to winding trees until Connor turned down the gravel driveway you'd driven down nearly every summer since you were little. The lake came into view first through the trees, completely still. It looked glass-like, exactly how it always looks in early summer. 

Then the house came into view. Cars were already lined up in the driveway, with a few friends unloading coolers and paddleboards into the front yard. 

Connor had barely put the truck in park before opening his door. “We’re here!” he yelled.

You laughed as he grabbed your suitcase out of the backseat. 

The moment your feet hit the gravel, voices started calling your name.

“You finally made it!”

“Boston!”

“We’ve missed you!”

“How was the flight?” 

One by one you hugged old friends you hadn't seen in months, some of Connor’s old teammates, a couple of girls you’d danced with growing up, a few family friends.  

It was loud, busy, but comfortable. 

You looked toward the porch, Fraser stood near the porch railing with a bottle of water loosely held in one hand, the other tucked into the pocket of his shorts. He was listening to one of the guys talk, nodding every so often, his head tilted slightly as he laughed at something you were too far away to hear.

For a moment you just let yourself look at him. He’d changed a little, it was barely noticeable, but it was there.

His shoulders seemed broader than you remembered, years of hockey somehow even more obvious now than they had been before since he’d been playing professionally. His hair had grown out just enough to curl beneath the brim of his hat that was sitting backwards on his head, and there was something steadier about him now. Older, more confident. 

But the second he looked up and found you, he was still Fraser. As if he felt your eyes on him, his gaze met yours almost immediately, like he’d been looking for you too. 

The conversation beside him stopped holding his attention, and he seemed to completely forget that he was talking to someone at all. 

A smile slowly spread across his face, the kind that only ever seemed reserved for you. Without really thinking, he murmured a quick, "Hang on," to the guy beside him before stepping away.

You did the same. One of your old dance friends was halfway through asking you another question when you found yourself apologizing with a distracted smile, “Sorry, I’ll be right back.”

Neither of you hurried, because now there wasn’t any need to. The distance between you closed naturally, the same way it always had over the years; you always found each other. 

You met halfway across the yard, and for a second neither of you spoke, you just stood a foot apart. 

Fraser broke the silence first. “Hi,” he said. His voice was quieter than everything else around you, but somehow it was the only thing you heard.

You smiled before you even realized you were doing it. “Hi,” you replied. 

He looked at you for another second, almost like he was making sure you were actually standing there, just taking you in. Neither of you moved, it felt like you both didn’t know who was supposed to bridge the last little bit of space between you first. Then Fraser smiled to himself, almost like he’d made up his mind, and he opened his arms. 

It was a small gesture, questioning. The same way he had always been with you. Asking without words and waiting to gauge what exactly you were comfortable with. 

Before he could second-guess himself you stepped into his arms. His arms wrapped around you immediately, and the rest of the world melted away instantly. 

You let out a breath you hadn't realized you'd been holding the second your cheek rested against his shoulder as your arms wrapped around him in return. He smelled exactly the way you remembered. That clean, almost woodsy scent that somehow always reminded you of summer. 

You closed your eyes for a moment. 

"I missed you," Fraser admitted quietly, just for you. 

Your grip tightened around the back of his shirt. “I missed you too,” you replied. The words came out easier than you expected, because of how true they were. You just hadn’t realized how much until he was standing right in front of you. 

The hug lingered, not awkwardly, but as if you were making up for lost time, like neither of you seemed eager to let go. 

When you finally stepped back, Fraser's hands stayed lightly on your arms for another second before he caught himself and let them fall. He looked at you carefully. “You look…” he trailed off. 

You tilted your head. “What?” you asked with a smile. 

He smiled, almost embarrassed, “You.”

You laughed. “I don't know what that means, Frase,” you said. 

“I know.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “I was going to say ‘different.’”

Your stomach tightened. “Good different?”

He nodded, “Yeah. Really good different.” 

You looked down at yourself with a small laugh. “I’ve basically lived in a dance studio for eight months.”

Fraser rolled his eyes playfully, “That’s not what I mean.” 

Your eyebrows lifted, “What does that mean?”

“You just…” He searched for the words, “...You look stronger, you look happy.”

The comment caught you off guard. Most people noticed how you changed a bit physically, or how tired you looked, or how ‘Boston had changed you.’ No one had used the word “stronger” and no one had noticed the change in your emotions. 

You smiled. “Thanks.” 

His expression softened. “You’re happy?”

The question was gentle, careful, like he wasn’t just asking about school or dance. Or Boston. He was asking about you.

You opened your mouth to give your usual ‘yeah.’ 

The honest answer sat on the tip of your tongue. Not really. I've been lonely. I've missed home more than I ever thought I could, I’m glad to be home now, I don’t want to go back in the fall without everyone. 

Instead, you offered him the truth you could manage. “I'm getting there.”

For just a second, something flickered across Fraser's face. He knew. But he didn't ask, didn’t push, he simply nodded once. “You will.”

You looked at him, a small smile on your face, “You sound pretty sure.”

He smiled back, “I am.”

“Why?” you asked. 

“Because I know you, I know you’ll find your way, you always have.”

Your laugh escaped before you could stop it. It wasn’t because you thought it was funny, it was because that was exactly what you needed to hear. 

“Atta girl,” he said. 

Your smile didn’t waver, “What?”

“That sounded like you.”

⊰══════════════════════⊱

The first few days slipped by the way lake days always seemed to. The kind of days where nobody really knew what time it was because there was never any reason to check.

Mornings started with coffee on the deck while everyone wandered into the kitchen one by one, still half asleep. Afternoons disappeared between boat rides, naps, overly competitive card games, and Connor insisting every spikeball match had been scored wrong. Evenings ended around the bonfire with music playing softly in the background and someone always making s'mores.

It was easy.

Somewhere in the middle of it all, you and Fraser slipped back into your old rhythm like the past year had never happened, like the two of you were never apart. 

He’d hand you a bottle of water before you realized you were thirsty. Somehow there was always an empty chair beside him at dinner, and whenever everyone broke off into smaller conversations, you almost always found yourselves talking to each other. Sometimes it was about hockey, sometimes ballet, sometimes the book he was reading, and sometimes it was about nothing at all.

One afternoon you wandered down to the dock with a book, hoping for a little quiet in contrast to the constant movement and unintentional chaos of the house. You’d barely finished a chapter before footsteps echoed across the wood.

You looked up to find Fraser holding his own book. “I promise I’m not following you,” he said.

You laughed, “Well good because I was just thinking that you were.”

“I saw you come down here,” he admitted with a shrug. “Figured I’d read too. Take a break from everyone else,” he said sitting down next to you. 

“So you are following me,” you joke. 

“Maybe a little.”

You rolled your eyes, scooting over to make room for him anyway.

The two of you then spent the next half hour reading in comfortable silence, occasionally looking up to point out a passing boat or laugh when Connor’s voice carried all the way across the yard down to the dock. 

It never felt awkward, it never had. You didn’t think much of it, you had never thought much of it. You didn’t think much of the way your eyes searched for Fraser whenever everyone scattered around the property, or how he always seemed to find you a few minutes later.

Why would you? It had always been that way.

⊰══════════════════════⊱

The fourth night, you couldn’t sleep. Everyone else had gone to bed almost an hour ago, and the house had fallen completely quiet. 

You slipped out the back door without bothering to put shoes on and padded across the yard towards the dock, the only light being from the one on the dock and the moon casting a soft glow across the lawn. 

The dock was cool beneath your feet once you got to it, and the lake reflected the moon so perfectly it almost looked silver. 

You took a seat at the end of the dock, pulled your knees against your chest and breathed. For the first time in…so long; you got to breathe. As much as you love it at the lake house with everyone, it’s a lot of talking, a lot of keeping up with everyone. 

“You always end up here,” you hear someone say from behind you. You smiled before turning around.

“I knew you'd find me,” you replied. 

Fraser walked down the dock with his hands shoved into the pockets of his sweatshirt. “I wasn't looking,” he said. 

“No?”

He shook his head. “I just had a feeling.”

He sat beside you, not too close but close enough.

“You okay?” he asked eventually.

You nodded, “I think so.”

“‘Think’?”

You turned your gaze to watch the water ripple beneath the dock. “I don't know,” you admitted. 

He waited for you to keep going, because he always knew when you had more to say. 

“You were right,” you eventually say. 

He looked over. “About what?”

“About me not being happy in Boston.” You pause again, gathering your thoughts, and continue; “I love dancing.” 

Fraser hums in understanding as you keep going. 

“More than anything I love dance, what hockey is for you, dance is for me. I also love my school, but…it was so lonely over there. I felt like I didn’t have anyone.” 

Fraser looked down at his hands. “I wish I'd been closer,” he said, “I would’ve come.” 

You smiled sadly, “I know, but I couldn’t ask you to do that.” 

Fraser’s answer was immediate, “You would’ve never had to ask.”

Your heart stumbled, and you looked over at him to see that he was already looking back. 

Then Fraser stood, “You wanna swim?” he asked. 

You blinked, caught off guard by the sudden question. “Right now?” 

He shrugged. “Why not?”

You laughed, “We’re adults and it’s the middle of the night.”

“So?”

“We should know better.”

“We absolutely should,” he agreed 

Before you could respond, he reached for the hem of his t-shirt and pulled it over his head in one easy motion, tossing it onto the dock beside him.

You shook your head, laughing to yourself. “You didn't even think about it.”

“Nope,” he replied easily. 

You rolled your eyes, but the smile on your face gave you away. Setting your phone beside his shirt, you slipped off your sweatshirt and folded it into a small pile on the dock. The cool summer night air wrapped around your skin, cold after the warmth of the oversized hoodie.

Fraser politely looked back out toward the lake, giving you the privacy to finish getting undressed without making a big deal out of it. It was such a small gesture that anyone else probably would've missed it.

“Okay,” you said, tugging your shorts off so you were standing in the same thing you'd worn under your clothes to sleep. “No laughing.”

Fraser glanced back over with a grin, “At what?”

“The fact that I'm actually agreeing to this,” you said. 

You nudged his shoulder as you walked past him toward the edge of the dock.

You shrieked the second you jumped in, the water was freezing, much more than you had anticipated. 

Fraser was already laughing. “I forgot how dramatic you are,” he teased. 

“It's freezing!” you exclaimed. 

“It is not,” he started to argue. 

“It absolutely is!” you countered. 

He splashed you, so of course you splashed him back. Within minutes, both of you were laughing so hard your stomach hurt. Water flew everywhere as you tried to shove him under the surface, which accomplished absolutely nothing considering he had nearly half a foot on you.

“You know,” you laughed, trying to catch your breath, “you’re really annoying.”

Fraser hummed, “So I've been told.”

You rolled your eyes, smiling despite yourself, and took another step backward to get away from another splash. Your foot searched for the lakebed, then you realized you couldn’t touch. You froze, still trying to find your footing despite finding nothing. 

“...Frase,” you said cautiously. 

He immediately stopped smiling at the tone of your voice. “What?”

“I can’t touch,” you said, treading water. 

He looked down for half a second before realizing you’d wandered into the deeper part of the lake. “You’ve got another step behind you,” he said calmly, moving a bit closer to you. 

You carefully reached your foot back. Nothing. “I really can't touch.”

The confidence disappeared from your voice almost instantly, and Fraser was beside you before you could say anything else. “I’ve got you,” he said. One of his hands settled gently around your waist beneath the water, steadying you before you had the chance to panic.

Your hands found his forearms, and your legs instinctively circled his hips. You tensed up at the closeness, and the warmth of his skin in contrast to the temperature of the water. 

“You okay?” he asked softly. 

You nodded too quickly, “Mhm, all good.”

He smiled a little. “You don't really sound convinced.”

“I'm fine, I promise.”

“You’ve gone all stiff, too,” he said, poking your side with his free hand. 

The gesture made you smile slightly. “Because I can’t touch.”

“You’re okay,” he said softly. “I’m not letting go.”

You looked up at him, now really realizing how close he was, so close that you could feel his breath on the skin of your face. 

“I know,” you replied, your voice a whisper now. And you did know he wouldn’t let you go, there was never a second where you questioned it. It was Fraser, he’d never let you fall. Never. 

He adjusted the way your body was resting against his, so you didn’t have to hold on as tight, and now he’s holding you more and just letting you relax against him, while the water pushes you closer whenever a small wave rolls through because of the wind. 

“There,” he smiled. “Better?” 

“A little, yeah,” you said. 

“You trust me?”

You answered without thinking, “Always.”

The word hung between you, and now the only sounds left were the quiet ripples of the lake and your uneven breathing. His hands were still resting carefully against your waist, not gripping, just holding you there. 

Your hands hadn’t left his arms either, your thumb lightly tracing a muscle in his forearm. Right now you’re closer than you’d ever been before. You notice the droplets of water running down the side of his face, before you notice his eyes searching for yours. 

Your eyes found his, then almost hesitantly his eyes dropped down to your lips quickly. Your heart stuttered immediately, and everything around you seemed impossibly quiet. 

The house lights blurred behind him, the sound of the water and the bugs on the bank vanished, everything seemed to slow down until it was just the two of you. All you could feel were his hands and all you could hear was your own heartbeat in your ears as your gaze flicked down to his lips in return. 

He leaned in, only an inch, just enough that you knew what he was asking. He was giving you every opportunity to stop him. You wanted to close the distance, god you wanted to so badly. 

“Fraser,” you said, meeting his eyes. 

He stopped immediately, and your eyes squeezed shut, a guilty feeling pooled in your gut before you said, “I can’t.” 

And for a second, neither of you moved. Then his hands loosened ever so slightly around your waist; not letting go, just giving you room to step away if you wanted to.

“Okay,” he replied, his voice just above a whisper. Not an ounce of frustration or disappointment, which somehow made you feel even worse. 

He took a few steps closer to the dock, and when he reached a higher point of the lakebed he gave your thigh a small tap, silently telling you the water was shallow enough for you to touch now. You slowly stepped back toward the shallower water, your feet finally finding the lakebed again, and only then did Fraser let his hands fall away. 

The absence of him against you was immediate, and you wrapped your arms around yourself.

“I’m sorry,” you said. 

He shook his head, “You don't have to apologize.”

“I do.”

“Y/N, you really don’t.”

You looked at him one last time. The moonlight caught in his eyes, and for the first time since you'd been five years old, being with Fraser didn’t feel simple anymore. 

⊰══════════════════════⊱

After the lake house, life became relentless. It felt like summer had gone by far too quickly. Now you’re back in Boston, and ballet was demanding everything from you. 

Your professors expected perfection every single day, because at Berklee, everyone had been the best dancer in their hometown before they arrived. Suddenly, you weren't exceptional anymore. You were one of hundreds. Of course you’d known this coming in, but it was your second year, no one was treating you gently anymore. 

Technique classes started before the sun was fully up, hours of rehearsals stretched well into the evening. Corrections never seemed to come to an end, some you took easily, others started to get to you. 

Recovery was getting more and more difficult each day. Your body never stopped hurting, your toes were taped constantly, and you didn’t even want to think about how many tubes of IcyHot you had gone through by the time November rolled around. 

Every evening you peeled the tape back off, revealing blisters that had reopened before yesterday’s had even healed. Your arches constantly ached, your calves were permanently tight, and some nights your legs were so sore you had to lower yourself onto your bed with both hands because your feet refused to cooperate.

You loved ballet, you always would. But loving something didn’t make it easy, oftentimes it just made it feel harder. 

⊰══════════════════════⊱

Fraser noticed, but he didn’t realize the real reason for your exhaustion and why you were distant. He just assumed you were overwhelmed and overworked. He noticed the texts that turned into answered texts six hours later, phone calls that ended because you said you needed to finish another assignment. How your voice sounded heavier every time the two of you talked. 

“You don’t have to call me if you’re exhausted,” he told you one night.

“I wanted to,” you said. 

“I know.” His voice stayed gentle, “I just don’t want you feeling like you have to keep me company.”

You frowned. “I don’t feel like I have to, I want to.”

Fraser sighed, “I know dance is a lot right now. If you need space, I’ll still be here.”

You closed your eyes. The sentence almost made your chest hurt. You swallowed, “I know.”

And that was the problem, he would always be there but you didn’t want to stop calling him. You assumed, though, from the way he had offered you space, that maybe he was the one that wanted space. 

You didn’t know what to do with that information, and your mind automatically jumped to the assumption that he just didn't want you around as much as you had been before. Maybe it was because of the night at the lake a couple of months ago. Surprisingly you hadn’t thought about that night much since it happened, because you’d been so busy, but now you start replaying every second of it in your head. 

So after you hung up the phone, you came to the conclusion that he was subtly asking for space, so you gave it to him. 

⊰══════════════════════⊱

Now it’s a Thursday, and you haven’t talked to Fraser in a few days, and you think it’s safe to say that this day has been one of the worst during your time so far at Berklee. 

You barely made it back to your dorm before your body gave out. Your dance bag hit the floor, and you barely managed to make it to the edge of your bed to sit down and kick off your Birks and peel off your socks. Your hands were shaking and you were trying to hold back tears. 

By the time you finally pulled the shoes off, your feet were raw. Blisters were bleeding through the tape you’d put on this morning and replaced halfway through the day. Every muscle in your lower body was aching. 

You stared at your feet, not even processing everything going through your mind, and that was the breaking point. Suddenly you felt like you couldn’t do it anymore. 

Your phone was already in your hand and you quickly dialed the number pinned at the top of your contacts. 

Connor answered on the second ring. “Hey, Bug.”

The nickname shattered whatever composure you had left, and a sob escaped your mouth before you could stop it.

On the other end of the phone you could hear Connor sit up from wherever he had been laying. “Y/N?” he said your name with caution, as if he didn’t want to do anything to overwhelm you more than he assumed you already were. 

You couldn't answer, so you just cried. You cried and cried and cried until your chest hurt. You cried hard enough that breathing became difficult. Not once did Connor tell you to calm down, or try and ask you what was wrong, he just knew that you needed him there in that moment, and on the phone was as good as it was going to get. 

Eventually you managed— “I can’t do this.”

His heart sank, “What happened?”

“My legs…” you whispered, “They hurt so bad. My feet are bleeding again, I know I’m not supposed to feel perfect but it just won’t stop.” 

You buried your face in your hand, your voice muffled as you continued, “I keep messing everything up, I can’t do anything right.” 

“You are not messing everything up—” Connor said, but you interrupted. 

“I am.” 

“You’ve wanted this since you were little,” he said. 

You let out another sob, “I know, I’m just so tired, Connor.” 

Connor let the silence settle, he’s heard you say those words before but not like this, not with that much defeat behind them. 

“You want to go home?” he asked quietly.

“I can’t, I can’t leave everything I’ve worked on and I don’t have time for just a visit,” you say. 

“You want me to come to you? I can book a flight and stay with you for a few days,” he offers. 

Immediately you’re shaking your head even though he can’t see you. “You don’t have to drop everything you’re doing just for me, Con,” you sniffle. “I love you but I’m not letting you do that.” 

Connor just listens to your shaky breathing on the other end of the line as you calm down a bit, and as he thinks he starts to realize that this isn’t about dance. You’d danced through stress fractures, performed with fevers and food poisoning, competed while injured; you had never sounded like this talking about dance. 

Something else was hurting you, something you weren’t saying. Connor thought about asking, Is this really about ballet? But he didn’t, he knew that if you weren’t ready, forcing it wouldn’t help. 

So he stayed on the phone for hours. He talked and you listened. He talked about home, about how it was in Chicago, new recipes he was trying to make, about anything and everything. 

By the time your breathing had fully evened out he asked, “You okay?”

“A little.”

“You don’t have to be okay tonight,” he said. 

Your eyes filled again, “I know.”

“You just have to get through tonight, yeah?” 

You nodded before remembering he couldn't see you, “Yeah.” 

Connor sighed softly. “You want me to stay on the phone with you until you fall asleep?” he asked gently. 

The question made you feel like a little kid again. Whenever you had a hard day, he would always sit in your room with you until you fell asleep, so you’d feel less alone. Even now with all the distance and how much your lives had changed he always knew what you needed.

“Yes please,” you say softly. 

“Yeah,” Connor replied without hesitation. “I’ve got you.”

You smiled despite yourself, pulling your comforter higher around your shoulders.

Connor kept talking, his voice low and familiar as he told you about a teammate trying (and failing) to cook a fancy dinner the night before, about a coffee shop he'd found near the rink that he thought you would like that he wants to take you to next time you visit, about a movie he thought you’d like. 

None of it was particularly important, but that wasn’t the point. He was just giving your mind somewhere else to go. 

Eventually, your responses became quieter, they turned into little hums rather than words, and then they stopped altogether. Connor listened for a moment, smiling to himself when your breathing settled into the slow, steady rhythm he'd recognized his entire life.

“Goodnight, Bug,” he whispered, even though he knew you were already asleep. He stayed on the line for another few minutes anyway, just to make sure you weren’t alone. 

⊰══════════════════════⊱

It was almost ten o'clock on a Tuesday night when your phone buzzed on your desk. You were sprawled across the floor, stretching and foam rolling your legs. You barely looked up, you figured it was Connor and he could wait a few minutes, you’d call him back. 

You reached for it absentmindedly a few minutes later, settling into your desk chair. Your stomach dropped at the name attached to all the notifications. 

Frase.

Two calls and a text. 

Hey, you’re probably busy but just call me when you get a chance, please? 

Your first reaction is that it’s something serious, otherwise he wouldn’t have called more than once, or maybe he just wants to talk to you since you haven’t in a while, and that “space” you thought he wanted is disappearing and he wants to talk to you again. 

Before you can overthink it or lose the little bit of courage you’ve worked up to call him back, you tap his name on your contacts, and the phone begins to ring.  

It barely rings three times before the call connects. 

“Hi.” His voice is warm and easy, like no time has passed at all. He sounds happy, so the worry in your stomach is starting to ease, knowing that he didn’t call you to talk to you about something negative. 

“Did I catch you at a bad time?” he asks. 

You glanced around your dorm room, “No,” you say, not very convincingly. It’s not a bad time for him to be calling, but at the same time it is, because you hadn’t spoken properly in nearly two weeks, so you don’t really have a lot to say. 

“You sure?”

“Mhm,” you answer, “I was just stretching.” 

“Okay.” There wasn't an ounce of doubt in his voice. 

For a moment, neither of you spoke, but unlike you expected the silence wasn’t uncomfortable. It had never been uncomfortable and right now you didn’t know what to do with that, it felt like you were shrinking back into yourself like you would do when you were little. “Forgetting your words,” as you used to call it. 

Fraser had always been good at not forcing a conversation, and right now he could tell that you might not exactly want to speak a lot, so he waited. 

After a little bit he figured he’d ease into it, not asking questions that would make you talk but might make you think of something you’d be comfortable to talk about. “So…” his voice was light, no pressure, “How’s your week been?”

You picked absentmindedly at the sleeve of your sweatshirt, understanding what he was doing. “Busy,” you said. 

“I figured,” he said, followed by a small pause. “I saw Berklee posted rehearsal photos,” he continued. 

You smiled a little. “You saw those?”

“Yeah, you looked really happy.” 

Your smile grew without you realizing. “It was a good rehearsal,” you said, your voice so soft it was nearly not there. 

“I could tell,” Fraser replied. 

“Really?” you asked. 

“You looked proud.” The words were so matter-of-fact that they didn’t feel like an observation, just something he’d noticed, because he always noticed little things about you and he knew how you were when you felt good about something. 

You looked down at your lap, suddenly feeling strangely shy. “It was a good day.”

Fraser hummed, “I'm glad.” Nothing more. No ‘Tell me about it,’ or ‘What made it good?’ No trying to pull the story out of you.

Somehow, that made you want to tell him all the details anyway. Since he noticed you were happy and proud you now wanted him to know why. “We finally got through the last section of choreography,” you said. 

His smile was audible, “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you laughed softly. “It only took us three weeks.”

“Worth it?”

“Definitely.” 

You tucked one leg beneath you on your desk chair, absentmindedly twisting the sleeve of your sweatshirt around your fingers.

“So…” Fraser said after another comfortable pause. “I actually called because I wanted you to hear something from me before everyone else.”

You frowned slightly. “What do you mean?” you asked, concern lacing your tone. 

He let out a quiet breath, almost like he was smiling to himself. “I found out this afternoon.”

“Found out what?” There was another beat of silence. Not because he was trying to be mysterious, but because he was still wrapping his own head around it. 

“I got traded.”

Your eyebrows pulled together, confusion washing over you, because the last thing you had heard was that things were going great for him in Toronto. “Traded?” 

“Yeah.”

You sat up a little straighter, definitely not satisfied with the one word response from him. “Where?” you asked. 

Fraser laughed softly. “I was wondering how long it'd take you to ask.”

“Frase, tell me.”

“I’m getting there.”

“Fraser.”

“Okay, okay.” You could hear him smiling now. “I’m coming to Boston.”

Everything around you stopped. Your fingers loosened around your sweatshirt and your jaw physically dropped. For a second you thought he was joking, but you quickly realized that he wouldn’t joke about something like this. 

“What?” you asked, like you needed to hear it again to really believe it. 

“The Bruins,” he said. “I’m playing for Boston now.” His voice somehow sounded even softer when he said it out loud. “They traded for me this morning.” 

You blinked. “Boston?” you repeated, emotion now lacing your tone. 

“Mhm.”

You inhaled sharply, “You mean…” You couldn’t even finish the sentence.

“I’ll be living there.” He laughed quietly.

You covered your mouth, a laugh escaping before you could stop it. “No way.”

“I swear,” he said. 

“No…” You stood from your chair without even realizing it, beginning to pace the tiny dorm room. “No way, Frase. You’re serious?” 

“I’m serious, the teams are announcing it tomorrow.” 

You laughed again, this one completely breathless. “You’re going to be here. In Boston, you’ll be here with me.”

There was something in the way you said here that made Fraser's smile slowly fade into something softer. “Yeah. Twenty minutes from campus, actually.” 

You stopped pacing. “Twenty?”

“Mhm, I checked as soon as I got details on everything about the move.” 

Of course he had checked. Your chest tightened. “You checked?” you asked softly. 

“I wanted to know,” you could practically hear him shrugging over the phone, “So I looked.”

Your eyes started to sting. “You’ll…” Your voice caught. “...You’ll actually be here.”

“Yeah, Y/N, I will.”

For a second after that, neither of you spoke. Then Fraser was the one who broke the silence. “You okay?” he asked. 

A laugh escaped through the tears already gathering in your eyes, “Yeah.”

“You crying?”

You laughed harder. “Maybe.”

“Happy tears?”

You nodded instinctively before remembering he couldn't see you. “Happy tears.”

He smiled, “Good.” 

You sat back down in your chair, suddenly feeling lighter than you had in months. “I can’t believe you’re coming here.”

“I can’t either. When they told me I thought, ‘what are the chances?’” 

“You’ll like Boston, Frase, you’ll like it a lot,” you said, even though you’ve told him the same thing two dozen times since moving here. 

“I was actually hoping you could show me around,” he said. You smiled so hard your cheeks hurt. The thought of taking him to your favorite spots, walking with him in the parks around the city when you both had free time (that part wasn’t entirely realistic, but you didn’t care). Having someone here that actually knows you, who gets you, after how hard the past few weeks of the semester had been you think that this is hands down one of the most relieving things you’ve ever had happen to you. 

“I think I could do that, there’s a lot of cool places I’ve found.” 

“I was hoping you’d say that,” Fraser said, before silence settled between you again. It didn’t last long, because he broke it again. “I’ve missed you, Y/N, I’ve missed you a lot,” he said quietly, without hesitation in his voice, while also not trying to make it into something bigger than it was. To him it was just the truth. 

You closed your eyes, trying to keep your tears from turning from happy to sad, “I’ve missed you too.”

He smiled. “I was kind of getting tired of only seeing you through a phone screen,” he said. 

You laughed, “Me too.” 

For the first time since you’d left Vancouver, Boston didn’t feel quite so lonely. And for the first time since that night at the lake…talking to him felt somewhat normal again.

⊰══════════════════════⊱

The first couple of months after Fraser moved to Boston settled into something that felt almost dangerously easy. Despite both of your schedules, somehow you always found each other.

If he had an afternoon off and you finished rehearsal before dinner, he’d be waiting outside the dance building with a coffee in one hand and a grin that made even the longest rehearsal feel a little more manageable.

If you had a free Sunday and the Bruins happened to be home, you'd end up curled into the corner of his couch with takeout containers spread across the coffee table while some random hockey game played quietly in the background. Sometimes neither of you paid attention to the television at all.

You showed him the city exactly like you’d promised. The coffee shop tucked down a side street where the owner already knew your order. The bookstore near the Common where you’d hide between classes more times than you could count. The Charles River walking paths that looked beautiful no matter the season.

He showed you his side of Boston, too. Practice at TD Garden when the arena sat almost empty. His favorite diner near the apartments. The grocery store he’d declared had the best produce after somehow turning grocery shopping into a ranking system of which stores he liked the best.

Somewhere along the way, your shampoo quietly appeared in his shower, and an extra pair of your sweatpants sat folded in one of his dresser drawers.

He bought reusable ice packs because he was tired of watching you wrap frozen bags of peas around your ankles and arches after rehearsals.

The only thing you weren’t being open with each other about was the lake. Neither of you ever mentioned it or talked about the almost kiss. It hung over the two of you noticeably, but unbeknownst to the other person, you each thought bringing it up would cause a stir in your friendship, and you individually decided it was better if the whole thing went unspoken. 

⊰══════════════════════⊱

It almost felt fitting that Connor’s first trip to Boston during the NHL season happened to be the same weekend as your midterm showcase.

The Blackhawks were in town to play the Bruins, and your showcase was late in the afternoon the day before the game. The Blackhawks were in town early, so for the first time in what felt like forever; all three of you were in the same city. 

Standing backstage after the final curtain, your chest was still rising and falling as you tried to catch your breath. Sweat clung to your temples beneath the neat ballet bun you'd managed to keep intact. Your body was already aching from all the dancing, and you just wanted to go home and crash, but you knew with both boys in town that wasn’t going to be happening. 

By the time you reached the lobby it was already buzzing with families and friends of the other dancers. It felt like too much, and you almost turned around to go straight back to your dressing room, until you heard someone call your name. 

You turned just in time to see Connor pushing through the crowd, an enormous bouquet of flowers balanced awkwardly in the crook of his arm. 

You burst into laughter. “Con…”

“What?” he questioned as he stopped right in front of you. 

“That looks like half a garden has been dug up.” 

He looked down at the bouquet, “I panicked, all the bouquets were pretty and I know you like lots of colors so I told the lady to surprise me and to ‘make it colorful,’” he said. 

“You panicked?” 

He shrugged, “It’s not like I could go to someplace familiar that puts together bouquets exactly how I know you like. I figured too many was better than not enough.”

You laughed again, softer this time, “Thank you, Connor.” 

He smiled at you. “Of course, Bug. You danced beautifully, I missed seeing your perform.” 

You smiled softly back at him, “Thank you,” you said leaning into him a bit. Immediately he pulled you into a hug. 

Looking over his shoulder, you saw Fraser walking towards the two of you, holding another bouquet in his hands. Smaller, wrapped in simple brown paper tied with white ribbon. Your favorite flowers, tulips and baby’s breath. 

He smiled at you, and you pulled away from Connor’s hug slowly. Fraser stopped in front of you, offering them with an almost shy smile. “These are for you.”

You took them carefully, your fingers brushing his for the briefest second.

“They're beautiful,” you said quietly, looking down at them before glancing back up. “Thank you.” 

“Thank you for being here,” you said. “Both of you.”

Fraser's expression softened immediately. “There wasn't anywhere else I'd rather be.” The words were simple, said with complete sincerity. 

You looked at him for a second longer than you probably should have before smiling again. “It means a lot.”

He gave you one of those small nods he always did, like he understood exactly what you weren't saying out loud. “You danced really well,” he said. “I don’t know enough about ballet to sound convincing, but...” A tiny grin appeared on his face. “I know you looked happy up there.”

That caught you off guard. Connor had noticed your performance. Fraser had noticed how you felt during it. The difference was interesting, but neither compliment was less valuable than the other. 

Your chest warmed. “I was,” you admitted. “I was nervous at first, like always, but once the music started it felt right.”

Fraser’s smile never faltered. “I could tell,” he said. 

You looked down at the bouquet in your hands, smiling to yourself.

A stage manager poked her head into the lobby and announced, “Twenty minutes until we need the dressing rooms cleared!”

You sighed dramatically. “I should probably go change and get my stuff together.”

Connor nodded immediately. “Take your time.”

“We'll wait,” Fraser added.

You glanced between them. “You guys don't have to just stand around here until I’m done.”

Connor laughed. “We’re meeting everyone downstairs anyway.”

“Reservation’s in forty-five,” Fraser said. “Your girls are riding with us.”

“And then,” Connor added with a grin, “apparently somebody decided we're all going out afterward.”

You rolled your eyes. “That was definitely Frank.”

“It was absolutely Frank,” Connor confirmed.

You laughed, clutching both bouquets against your chest. “Okay,” you said. “Give me...twenty minutes? I’ll be quick.” 

“You’ve got it,” Fraser replied. “Take your time.” 

You took a few backward steps toward the dressing rooms before stopping. “Hey?” They both turned and looked at you. “Thanks,” you said. 

Neither of them asked what for, because they already knew, and they knew they’d hear it a million other times tonight. 

Connor simply pointed toward the hallway. “Go shower, ballerina.”

Fraser smiled. “We’ll be here when you’re done.”

You nodded once before disappearing backstage, somehow feeling lighter than you had when you’d walked offstage only minutes earlier.

⊰══════════════════════⊱

By the time you arrived at the Italian restaurant near the outside of the city, dinner stretched longer than anyone intended. The crowd for the night consisted of a couple of Fraser’s teammates from the Bruins. A handful of Connor’s teammates from Chicago, and several girls from your ballet program. 

You honestly weren't sure how the combination worked as well as it did, but it was a very comfortable group, lots of easy conversation and laughter. Frank Nazar was asking a million questions about pointe shoes, and all of the boys seemed genuinely concerned to find out that dancers stand on their toes inside the shoe, no matter how much support they get from the box and padding. 

After dinner everyone migrated to a nearby bar. Music filled the room and people scattered into different conversations. 

You stayed for almost two hours before Fraser noticed something nobody else did. You’d stopped talking. Your smile was still there, but it looked tired. 

He leaned over just enough that only you could hear him. “You ready to head out?”

You looked at him for half a second before nodding immediately. “Yeah,” you replied quickly and quietly. 

He smiled. “Let’s go.”

Connor caught the movement from across the room. “You guys heading out?” he asked as he made his way over to you and Fraser standing by the door. 

Fraser nodded.

Connor looked at you. “You okay?” 

You smiled. “Just tired.” 

Connor nodded once. “Text me when you get there.”

“I will,” you said, “I’ll see you tomorrow.” 

“See you tomorrow,” Connor said as he pulled you into a quick hug. 

Nobody questioned it when you and Fraser walked out the door, to them it was simply Fraser knowing what you needed, and taking care of you, making sure you were comfortable. Like he always had. 

⊰══════════════════════⊱

His apartment was quiet when you stepped inside. The silence felt almost startling after the noise of the restaurant and bar, but you absolutely adored it. You slipped your flats off with a relieved sigh. “My feet are going to fall off,” you said, stretching your feet slightly. 

Fraser let out an amused huff, “They’re not. You’re strong.” He started to make his way to the kitchen, saying over his shoulder, “Go sit on the couch, I’ll be right there.” 

Fraser disappeared into the kitchen and you made your way to the living room, throwing yourself onto the couch, and shooting Connor a quick text you'd made it to Fraser's.

Fraser returned a moment later with a small tub of water and a cup of ice in his hand. “For your feet,” he said, setting the tub on the floor in front of you. 

You laughed. “Bossy.” 

“I’ve seen showcase weeks, I’ve also seen you do this a million times, I know it helps,” he countered. 

You put your feet into the tub, and he dumped the cup of ice into the water. The relief it brought you was almost immediate, as you sunk further into the couch with a dramatic groan.

He crouched in front of you, and his eyebrows immediately pulled together. “Too cold?”

You shook your head. “No, it feels good.” 

“Too much?”

You shake your head, closing your eyes. 

“Okay,” he said softly, standing up to move to sit in the armchair next to the couch. 

After about ten minutes, you raised your feet out of the tub and onto the towel he had brought you, drying them off. Without saying a word, Fraser stood up and grabbed one side of the coffee table, scooting it out of the middle of the floor. 

“What are you doing?” you asked, genuinely confused as to why he was moving the table. 

“Making room,” he answered easily. 

“For what?”

He looked at you like the answer was obvious. “For you to stretch,” he said. 

Within ten more seconds the table was gone from the center of the room, and the whole living room floor remained open for you. 

“There,” he said, standing up, satisfied with his work. 

You smiled despite yourself. “I never asked you to do that.”

He shrugged, “You didn't have to.”

Your chest tightened unexpectedly. You stepped onto the rug and slowly worked through your usual routine. Calves, hamstrings, hip flexors, and of course your foam roller on your legs. 

Fraser disappeared into the kitchen while you stretched before returning with two glasses of water. He didn’t interrupt, he didn’t hover, he just let you do your thing. He sat on the floor a few feet away, reading through something on his phone while occasionally glancing up to make sure you weren’t pushing yourself too hard.

By the time you finished stretching, your body finally felt like it belonged to you again, like you’ve finally wound down for the night and settled back into yourself. 

You stood up and collapsed dramatically onto the couch. “I don't think I can move,” you groaned, sprawling all your limbs out onto the sectional. 

“I’ve heard that before,” Fraser said from where he was still sitting on the floor. 

“I mean it this time,” you say, rubbing your eyes. 

“I’m sure you do,” he said, getting up and sitting down next to your feet. 

You laid there, he sat next to you, occasionally brushing his hand against your leg or the arch of your foot, providing a little extra comfort. The two of you started talking about anything and nothing, you just let the conversation drift. You talked about funny things that happened at dinner with all your friends, you talked about Connor and how confused he was when you tried to pick him up at the airport the day before. Eventually Fraser started talking about hockey and his upcoming few games. But what you really settled the conversation on was summer at home. 

It started as something nostalgic, but it quickly turned into something else when Fraser said, “I don't think Connor ever figured out that we went swimming in the middle of the night this past summer.” 

Your smile froze, and you looked down at your hands. “Yeah,” you murmured. 

He leaned back into the couch, “It feels weird now. I think about that trip more than I should.” 

You nodded faintly.

He kept going, “I think about that trip more than I probably should. I kept wondering what I’d done wrong”

Your head lifted. “What?” you asked, confused as to what he meant because he hadn’t done anything wrong, at least not with you. 

He sighed. “After that night, after summer was over and we all went back to our different cities you stopped calling as much.” 

Your stomach tightened, an anxious feeling creeping into your bones. 

He laughed softly, but there wasn’t any humor in it. “You’d answer eventually, but everything felt different.” He rubbed a hand across the back of his neck, “I figured I’d crossed a line.”

You stared at your lap now.

He shook his head. “I thought maybe you didn’t really want me around anymore.” 

Your eyebrows pull together. “What in the world are you talking about?”

He looked over, noticing that you weren’t meeting his eyes. “You wanted space,” he said. 

“No,” you answered. 

“You stopped—”

You cut him off before he could say anything else, “I thought you wanted space.”

Fraser blinked. “What?”

“You said if I needed space…”

“I said if you needed it, Y/N. I never said I needed it,” his statement was firm but his voice remained gentle. 

“I thought…” your voice got incredibly smaller. “...I thought you were asking for yours.”

The room fell completely silent. You had no idea what to say, all you could think is that you were the one who got it wrong so it’s your fault everything had been so off lately, that it was your fault he had been distant. The thoughts started to roll faster and faster around your head, and the silence wasn’t helping. 

The silence stretched between you. It wasn’t an angry silence, but it was heavy. It was like twenty years of knowing each other had suddenly been viewed through an entirely different lens.

Fraser was the first to speak. “I never wanted space from you,” he said quietly. “I didn’t know how to fix what happened at the lake, but I never wanted you gone.”

You kept looking down at your hands, twisting the sleeve of your sweatshirt around your fingers until your knuckles turned white. “I thought…” you swallowed, not quite knowing if you had gained all the courage to speak. “I thought maybe you regretted it,” you managed. 

“What?”

“The kiss.”

Fraser shook his head slightly, leaning his head down to try and look at your face, “It never happened.”

You let out a semi-frustrated huff, “You know what I mean.”

He stared at you for a second before slowly shaking his head again. “No.”

Your eyes burned. “You said if I needed space,” you whispered. “I figured...I figured you were trying to let me down gently because I messed everything up.” 

Fraser frowned. “Y/N…”

You kept going, “So I stopped calling as much.”

“You thought that's what I wanted?” Fraser asked, really trying to make sure he was understanding you correctly. 

You nodded. “I didn't want to make things harder for you,” you tell him. 

His shoulders fell. “Oh…” The word came out like someone had knocked the air out of him. “You were trying to be nice,” he added. 

“I was trying to respect what I thought you needed,” you correct. 

“I spent months thinking I'd ruined the most important friendship in my life,” Fraser admits. 

Your head snapped toward him now. “You never ruined anything,” you tell him. You take in a shaky breath before looking down at your lap and whispering, “I just got scared.”

His expression softened immediately. “I know.”

“No,” you shook your head. “I don't think you do.” Your vision blurred even more, and you hate that it’s happening while you’re trying to be brave and say how you feel. “I wanted you to kiss me,” you manage. A tear slipped down your cheek before you could stop it. “I wanted you to so badly.”

Fraser didn’t move, and he didn’t interrupt. You always needed to finish your thoughts before anyone tried to comfort you, he knew that, and he wanted you to be able to say everything you were thinking, so he let silence fill the room until you said something else. 

“I was terrified,” your voice cracked, “If something happened between us…” you kept looking at your lap. “What if it changed everything? Or what if things got weird with Connor?” You took in another shaky breath and said, “What if something happened and we weren’t friends anymore.”

You laughed through your tears. “I’ve spent my whole life with the two of you. I couldn’t lose either of you like that.” 

Fraser’s heart broke, and he shifted a little closer to you on the couch. Not touching, just closer. “I know,” he said. 

“You do?”

He nodded. “I would’ve had the exact same fear.”

You sniffle, “I just really couldn’t think about the idea that I might lose my brother because of it, even though I know I probably wouldn’t…I couldn’t risk it for my own peace of mind. Which is selfish of me.” 

“No, it’s not selfish,” Fraser says. “I understand exactly what you mean, it’s not selfish at all, Y/N, please don’t think that way about it.” 

You looked at him, finally. “Can I ask something?” you question cautiously. 

“Anything.”

“Do you ever think about…” your voice almost disappeared, “...what would've happened if I didn't stop you?”

Silence, real silence this time, like you’ve fully caught him off guard and he doesn’t know what to say. Fraser looked down at his hands, his thumbs rubbing together absentmindedly. 

Then he nods once and says, “All the time.”

The tears you'd been trying so hard to keep in finally fell, silently, and you let them. 

“I think about it after games,” he continues, “When I can’t sleep, when I’m driving, when someone mentions the trip or a memory pops up on my phone. When I come back to an empty apartment after a road trip…” he looks up at you, now. “I think about it more than I probably should.” 

You can’t stop crying now. “I’m sorry,” you manage through your tears. 

His head shakes immediately. “No.”

Your breath hitches, “I’m so—”

“No,” he says firmly. “I don’t want you apologizing for protecting something you love. Your relationship with your brother is important, you shouldn’t feel bad for not wanting to waver that.” 

He rubs his hands over his face before he says, “I love Connor too, he’s one of my best friends, he always has been.” 

You nod, tears still falling steadily down your face, and you reach up to wipe some of them away with the back of your hand. 

He looks at you for a long moment. Then he says something so quietly you almost miss it, and you definitely assume you mis-hear it. 

“I love you.”

Everything stopped. The quiet sounds of the apartment die in your ears, your mind goes blank, like someone unplugged everything keeping your thoughts running, you have no idea how to respond, no clue how to process the words you’ve just heard, but you don’t have to, because Fraser keeps talking. 

He smiles, almost sadly, “I think I’ve loved you for a lot longer than I’ve been willing to admit.”

All you do is stare at him while he talks. 

“I don’t even know when it happened. I’ve tried to figure it out, I thought maybe in high school. Then I’d remember something from when we were twelve…then when we were eight. I honestly think it just never stopped. You’ve always been my favorite person, you always will be, I know that.” 

He’s smiling softly at you now, the most tender look in his eyes as he says, “You feel things so deeply, and I love that about you. I love that you notice things no one else notices. You make room for everyone, you always make people feel seen. You work harder than anyone I’ve ever met, and you’ve spent so much of your life worrying about and putting other people before yourself. You’ve never been loud, but you’ve always been the loudest part of my life, the part I notice the most.”

Your face crumpled, and you covered your mouth with your hand to stop the sob that escaped. Fraser’s expression immediately changed, concern replaced everything else. 

“Oh, sweetheart…” The pet name slipped out before he could think, he’d only called you that once before when you had a stress fracture in your ankle when you were sixteen. 

He hadn’t called you that since because he had always wanted it to mean something to both of you, and he didn't feel like any other time had been appropriate until now. All he wanted to do right now was hold you and make all your tears go away. He wanted to make sure you were okay, and that you felt safe because he’d just hit you with probably one of the most overwhelming things you’d ever heard. 

He reached toward you before stopping himself halfway. “Can I…”

He didn't finish the question. He didn't have to, because you nodded immediately. 

The second his arms wrapped around you, every wall you’d spent months building collapsed. You buried your face against his shoulder, crying harder than you meant to. “I’m sorry,” you whispered.

His hand gently cradled the back of your head. “No.”

“I should've told you—” you choked out. 

“No, no.” 

“I made everything worse,” you cried. 

“You didn’t, Y/N, you didn’t.” His voice was impossibly soft. “We both thought we were protecting each other.”

You stayed like that for a long time, wrapped up in him. Neither of you tried to fix anything, and neither of you were pretending anymore, nearly everything was out in the open now. 

After a few minutes your breathing evened out and you pulled back enough to look at him through tear-soaked lashes. “I love you too.” The words came quietly, you’d been holding on to them for years. 

“You’ve always—,” you smiled through your tears, still falling hot down your face, “you’ve always been safe.” 

Fraser’s heart melted immediately, and it took everything in him not to pull you down into another hug.

“When I was little you never tried to make me talk, or be loud, or be in a situation I wasn’t comfortable with. You never made me feel like I wasn’t enough. You were just there for me, and I don’t think I’ve ever been more thankful for something in my life.”

Fraser smiled. “I’m not going anywhere.”

After another quiet moment, he brushed a loose strand of hair behind your ear. “You should stay tonight,” he suggested quietly. You nodded before he had even finished asking.

“I don’t really want to be alone.” 

“You won’t be.”

“Will you sleep in the bed with me?”

He smiled. Not teasing, not surprised, just warm. “Only if that’s what you want.”

You nod, “It is.”

He stood, offering you his hand, you took it. His fingers intertwined with yours naturally, like they’d done it a thousand times before, though somehow this felt entirely new. 

The night didn’t end with a grand declaration that would change things in the morning, there was no kiss, there was no label. All there was, were feelings that had been kept private for fifteen years, and two people finally admitting to choosing each other in every way, like they always had. 

⊰══════════════════════⊱

A week later, Boston still felt different even though not much had changed on the surface. 

You still went over to Fraser’s after rehearsals whenever he was home. Usually your dance bag was slung over one shoulder and your hair had started falling out of its usual tidy bun by the time you climbed the stairs to his apartment.

Fraser still kept a drawer in his bathroom stocked with tape for your toes, blister pads, IcyHot, extra hair ties, while in the kitchen he made sure to have your favorite tea, and nearly every snack you’d ever mentioned liking.

You’d stretch on the living room floor while he cooked dinner, occasionally asking him to pass you your foam roller without either of you looking away from what you were doing. He’d complain that you were stealing vegetables off the cutting board before they ever made it into the pan, and you’d remind him that he'd left them within reach.

Dinner was almost always eaten on the couch just because it was more comfortable than sitting at the kitchen island. Afterward, you’d tell each other about your days until the exhaustion caught up to both of you. And eventually, almost without fail, you’d find yourselves in his room.

Sometimes you’d read while he watched film. Sometimes he’d fall asleep before you did, and you'd quietly mark your place in your book just to watch him for a minute, smiling to yourself before turning the light off.

Sometimes he’d wake up before you and slip out of bed to make coffee before you had to get up for class, leaving one of his sweatshirts draped over you because you’d always reach for it as soon as you woke up. 

Nothing looked different, but everything felt different, there wasn’t pretending anymore. 

Your hand found his without thinking, not because either of you needed reassurance anymore, but simply because it felt right. He brushed loose strands of hair behind your ear whenever they fell into your face. You leaned against him whenever you were tired. He kissed the top of your head absentmindedly while he stirred pasta sauce or reached around you for a plate.

Small things. Ordinary things.

The kind of things that would’ve absolutely terrified you a month ago, but now they just fit. 

Neither of you rushed to define it. You still hadn’t had a conversation about what you were, there was no grand announcement, no labels (yet). Fraser never asked you for one, he knew you’d get there when you were ready. He’d already waited this long, it didn’t hurt to wait any longer. 

One evening, while the two of you stood side by side in his kitchen washing dishes after dinner, your phone buzzed against the counter.

Connor.

You glanced at the screen before looking over at Fraser who was drying one of the plates with a dish towel, completely unaware that you were watching him. 

"What?" he asked, catching your stare. You smiled to yourself. “Nothing,” you said, returning your gaze to the bowl you were rinsing out. 

He looked unconvinced. “That wasn’t a ‘nothing’ smile.”

You laughed quietly, shaking your head before drying your hands on a towel. “I was just thinking about…about telling Connor at some point.”

Fraser nodded almost immediately. “Yeah,” he said, no hint of hesitation in his voice. Not because he wasn’t nervous, but because Connor mattered to him too. 

“He’ll probably figure it out before we tell him anyway,” Fraser said with a small grin.

You laughed. “He absolutely will, he probably already has.”

His smile softened, and silence settled between you again. 

You traced your thumb absentmindedly along the edge of the kitchen towel in your hands before speaking again. “Can we wait a little?”

Fraser looked over immediately. “To tell him?” he asked. 

You nodded. “I’m not scared to, but I feel like I’ve spent my whole life sharing things with Connor…I’d kind of like this to be just ours for a little while.”

He didn't answer right away, but he turned to face you, his hip now braced against the countertop. “I’d like that too,” he said. 

Your shoulders relaxed almost instantly. “I want us to figure this out,” you admitted. “Without everyone asking questions or expecting us to have answers.” 

Fraser reached for your hand, his fingers naturally finding the spaces between yours. “We can do that,” he said gently. 

“You don’t mind?”

He smiled, almost like the question surprised him. “Y/N,” he said as his thumb brushed slowly across your knuckles, “I’ve never been in a rush. And whenever you’re ready we can tell Connor.”

A smile spreads across your face at that. “When we’re ready,” you correct. 

He squeezes your hand once. “When we’re ready.”

The conversation ended there. It didn’t need anything else. You finished the dishes together, bumping shoulders every time one of you reached for the same cabinet. Fraser made you tea before bed, and you both ended up curled on the couch beneath one blanket. Your feet resting comfortably across his lap while he absentmindedly rubbed slow circles into your sore arches, you found yourself reading the same page of your book three times, because every few minutes you caught yourself looking at him. 

He noticed eventually. “What?” he asked without looking up from whatever game happened to be on the television.

You smiled. “Nothing,” you said, your gaze returning to your book.

He chuckled. “That one I believe.” 

Outside, the city carried on as it always did. Cars passed below the apartment windows, people mingled on the streets, moving about their lives. The whole world kept moving contentedly. But inside Fraser’s apartment, time seemed perfectly content to slow down.

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Some couples could tell you the exact moment they fell in love. They could point to one conversation, one kiss, one look across a crowded room and say, there, that was it.

You never could. Maybe it had been when the boy on your brother’s hockey team sat next to you on the bleachers before and after practice. It could have been when he let you steal fries off of his plate after he had practice and you had ballet lessons. It might’ve started when he became another rock for you, always willing to listen, to be there for you when you needed someone. None of that changed even when you lived hours apart from each other, and everything went back to normal when you were physically next to each other. In a lake in the middle of the night in the summer, or sitting on the couch in his new apartment in Boston that had hardly any other furniture. 

Or maybe it had always been every ordinary moment in between. You still couldn’t tell anyone the exact moment you fell in love with Fraser Minten, you don’t think you’d ever be able to. But for the first time, you knew one thing for certain; you never have to pretend that you hadn’t loved him your whole life. 

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