#parallel circuits

Quinn accepts your phone. On the screen – it’s your fucking lock screen, shit -there’s a photo of you and a monster woman, grinning into the camera. It’s a selfie-style picture and the woman’s cheek, a vivid royal purple covered in fine, downy fluff, is pressed to yours, smooshing your smile into an adorable, fishy pout.

“Cute,” she says weakly. “A month, huh?’

“Yep. We’re taking it slow, but I’m not seeing anyone else, and I don’t think she is either. I’ve even deleted Tinder off of my phone.” The words are said with raised eyebrows and enough seriousness for her to realise that that’s apparently a big deal.

Something ugly sits on her tongue and she’s self-aware enough to name it jealousy. The irrationality and unfairness of it – she has no leg to stand on, since she’s in a relationship with eight other people – doesn’t make the feeling any less potent. It writhes in her, a living creature, filthy and starved and pacing the length of its cage, gnawing at the bars.

Does she make you feel as good as I can? Does she know you like I know you? There’s nobody who can love you like I can love you. I know you agree. You agree, right? I know you’ve been chasing my shadow for five years, just like I used to chase yours. We’re both a little wrong without the other.

Quinn takes a deep breath and fixes a smile to her face, cooing appropriately when you begin telling her the story of Steven’s jaunt to the downstairs balcony. This is a setback, yes, but all isn’t lost. She really does think that you’re at your happiest when you’re with her, and you’ve always agreed. Reminding you of that might be tricky, but it won’t be impossible, and once you remember? This girlfriend will just be another notch in your bedpost. Countless people have made their mark on your past, a blur of friends and enemies and lovers, and she’s fine with that, because all of that lived experience is what makes you you.

But your present? Your future? That’s all hers, just like hers is yours, if you want it. She’ll give it time, show you how good it feels to with her datemates and remind you how well you fit with her, and let you make up your own mind. Let you choose.

If there’s one thing that all of the dimension fuckery she’s been exposed to has taught her, it’s that some things are universal truths. Every Sans has a Papyrus. The humans trapped monsters Underground. The sky is blue. The grass is green. These are principles that permeate everything, bleeding through whatever separates each universe.

This is another one of those truths. There is no universe where Quinn Lawson isn’t in love with her version of you, or a universe where you aren’t in love with your Quinn Lawson. You always choose each other, in the end.

It’s New Year's Eve and you feel fucking fantastic.

You look hot. You feel hot, both in terms of your confidence in your appearance and the temperature; it’s sweltering in Izzy’s apartment. Too many people crammed into a too small space. It feels like there’s hands everywhere. Your skin is alight with warmth and touch, so many people close to you. They grow on you like vines, like weeds, like ivy, weaving ‘round and ‘round until you’re all bound together, one pulsing, living organism.

The music is so loud that it’s an almost palpable presence in the air; you can viscerally feel it filling your ears, pressing against your skin, pouring down your mouth when you open it to sing. It clings to you like plastic wrap as you dance, shaping your movements.

Sweat runs down your back and between your breasts. But you’re the hottest fucking thing in this room, right, so it just gives you a mysterious, sexy sheen, like you’re a fucking nymph or some shit, stepping out from behind a waterfall, batting your eyelashes at the Olympian raging to fuck you. You’re ready to be drowned in ambrosia. To choke on nectar. Swallow swallow swallow.

Fuck, your mouth is dry. Your tongue feels like sandpaper. Is this how cats feel, with their arid, pointysharp little tongues? You hope not, the poor things. This sucks.

“I need a drink,” you shout against the music, jaw clicking around the words, “anyone else want one?”

Izzy, your host, nods enthusiastically. She springs up from where she’d been dancing low to the floor and grasps your sweaty hand in her own cooler, scaly one. “I’ll come with you! I need a piss.”

You let her drag you from the throng of bodies into the bathroom, where you scroll on your phone as she sits down to pee. Your vision’s pleasantly blurry, but you manage to successfully reply to a few messages and send a few of your own. You then examine yourself in the bathroom mirror, mostly pleased with the way your hair falls, the way your makeup makes your eyes look dark and sultry. You apply a fresh coat of lipstick and smack your lips together, making faces at your reflection. The skin on your cheekbones stretches tightly, almost too-taunt, casting a sharp shadow.

For a moment, you don’t feel as pretty as you had before, but then your thirst returns with a vengeance, and you forget all about it. You stick your head in the sink, mouth poised and open beneath the tap, and drink deeply from the cool, refreshing water. Probably should’ve waited to do your lipstick, but ah well.

“You look like a horse,” Izzy snorts at you, hip-checking you to the side so that she can wash her hands. “When you said you wanted a drink, I thought you meant booze, bunny, not water.”

“A girl can want two things,” you say. Have enough and it all tastes the same, anyway.

Bunny is what this particular social circle likes to call you. You don’t really get it, but nicknames aren’t ever chosen by the person, are they, and it’s hardly the worst name in the world. You like bunnies, anyway. They’re cute. Fluffy, funny little things. They’re either pets or pests or lab animals, too, and somedays you feel like a mangled amalgamation of all three, so you guess it’s fitting.

Izzy washes and dries her hands and then does a line of coke off of the countertop. She offers you a bump, but you decline – tonight, you’re pacing yourself.

This year, you want to watch the time tick over to midnight, and you want to remember it. You’d gotten too fucked-up last year too early and had been out like a light by ten, so being awake and cognizant for this one is your resolution, or some shit. You don’t really do resolutions, but this one seems achievable enough. Stay up and ring in the New Year. Yeah, you can do that, you beautiful, gorgeous, magical creature. The world is ready to be bent to your whims. Midnight’s a piece of cake.

You follow Izzy back out into the party and to the kitchen, riffling through her fridge for a decent mixer. You end up pouring orange juice into two glasses, along with a healthy serve of tequila. If you had any grenadine on hand, you’d have yourself a proper sunrise.

You sit on the kitchen countertop to drink it, bare legs swinging lazily in the air. Izzy sits next to you, her hip pressed against your own. Her hand rests atop your thigh, drawing little patterns with the tip of her claw. The sensation makes ticklish goosebumps erupt all over your legs.

Your head is buzzing like it’s full of bees and it’s making your vision go a little funny. You blink a few times, then scan the apartment in an attempt to refocus your eyes. The party is still a writhing, pulsating mass, moving with the thrum of the music. Everyone looks so beautiful. You wish that you could live in this moment forever.

You know everyone – at least, you think you do – so you’re surprised when your eyes fall on someone you’ve never met before. He’s a monster, a skeleton monster, dressed in an oversized, dark jacket with a furry hood. He’s reclined on Izzy’s shitty sofa, looking easy and relaxed. His legs are spread wide, which you normally find obnoxious, but he’s really making it work for him. As you watch, he brings a bottle of something to his skull, and scarlet magic flickers to life inside of his mouth as he drinks. You watch, eyes wide.

The red of his magic looks hot – red-hot, you think, holding back a snort at your creativity. You knew someone, once, who would’ve had a far better, more eloquent, poetic way of describing it, but you’re refusing to think of her tonight. Even that tiny little reminder sends cold skittering through you, so you wrench your focus back to the guy and his magic. You wonder if it’s as warm as it looks. It looks like it’d heat you up from the outside-in.

That sounds amazing right now.

“Who’s that?” you say, transfixed. There’s an eager breathiness in your voice.

“What?” Izzy says, tapping the side of her head.

“Who is that?” you shout in Izzy’s ear, loud enough to be heard over the music. You gesture towards the sofa with your chin.

“He’s a friend of one of the birds, I think,” she says dismissively, “can’t remember his name right now.”

“He’s hot as fuck. Please tell me he’s single. It’ll ruin my whole year and the next ones if he’s not.”

She cackles. Her laughter takes up her whole face, splitting it down the middle like an axe wound to the head. You have the urge to shove your finger into her open mouth, but she probably won’t find it funny. She’d probably bite you, actually, with her sharp little teeth, and the Tylenol and antibiotics you’d get as a result are hardly worth the hospital trip. Now, if she took off your whole finger, you’d get oxycodone or hydromorphone at the very least, but they probably wouldn’t mix well with the rest of the pharmacy’s worth of drugs in your bloodstream.

And you’d also miss midnight. You can’t have that.

“You’re so funny, bunny,” Izzy giggles at you. She throws her arm around you and tugs you to her side. “I love you soooo much.”

You hug her back, pressing your face into the cool hollow of her neck. You choke on your muffled laughter. The hug feels really nice. “Love you too.”

You do, in this moment. You’re full of enough love that you’re afraid it’s all going to spill out of you, tear through your skin and flood the entire apartment. You love love. So much. Feels so good.

Izzy pulls back from the hug, then brings her own glass to your lips. You drink greedily. She doesn’t pull it away until you’ve drained the whole thing.

“Pretty sure he’s single, so go ring in the New Year the right way,” she says, pulling you from the countertop and giving you a friendly smack on the ass to spur you on.

Not that you need a lot of encouragement. You fix your sexiest smile to your face and do your best impression of a lingerie model’s saunter down the runway as you stride towards him, snagging a pair of shot glasses as you go.

…

Opening your eyes is a fucking ordeal.

The ceiling of Izzy’s darkened guest bedroom greets your dry, crusty vision. The fan on the ceiling spins in slow, lazy rotations, sending cool wafts of air over your bare body.

Your muscles ache, in a good way, as you pull yourself up into a sitting position, your legs stretched out in front of you. You look down at your chest and find it decorated with several pretty red marks and the memory of receiving them sends remembered pleasure shivering through you. You knew that the guy would be a great fuck; maybe you’ve just got a sixth sense for shit like this.

Speaking of the guy, he’s still asleep. Ha, you must’ve worn him out, just like he did to you. He’s lying on his back, skull turned to the side, so his face is half buried into the pillow. The sheets are kicked messily around his feet.

You watch the way his ribcage expands and contracts with his breathing. So strange, breathing with no lungs. What purpose does it serve? Does he have to do it, the way you do?

You imagine, for a moment, your own lungs, wet and pulpy and probably black with tar and pockmarked with holes, imagine them filling and deflating with air. You hold your breath until your vision goes fuzzy just to feel the way they strain against the confines of your chest. The burn reminds you that there’s something inside of you. Something warm and real.

You look back at your bedpartner, at all of that empty space inside of him. You wonder if he feels the hole as part of himself, if he walks and talks and eats and fucks, all the while perceiving that absence. You wonder if he feels like you do sometimes, like a discarded orange rind, all of your insides scooped out until just the smooth outside remains.

Something prickles at your eyes. You feel dizzy. A little sick.

You exhale in a deep, desperate rush, suddenly remembering that you have to breath. You take a few ragged inhales, deep ones, to make up for the oxygen you’d been deprived of.

Your chest hurts. Your head hurts, too, a dull throb. Either you’ve just accidently almost asphyxiated yourself, or it’s time for a top-up. The ecstasy’s probably worn off by now; that’s probably why you’re feeling this way. Yeah, that’s it. The comedown always sucks.

You have no other reason to be sad, after all. You sit here, freshly fucked, muscles aching pleasantly. The party downstairs still beats on, a riotous chorus of early two thousands throwback music and laughter. You can feel the thrum of the base in your blood. The world is alive around you. Revel in that. Be happy for that. This is your life. You chose it. You made it this way. You have to live it, now.

Yep, definitely time for a top-up. Izzy owes you; you can scum a little extra off of her. You don’t remember why she owes you, exactly, but a favour’s a favour. S’not like you to look a gift horse in the mouth. Take the goodness as it comes and let go of the bad. Breath in again. Breath out. Keep reminding yourself to do it, so you don’t forget.

You fumble underneath the pillows and retrieve your phone. The cracked screen reads 12:36am. You have a dozen unread messages, drunken New Years well-wishes from names you can’t put a face to.

Your mom and dad used to always stay up late on New Years Eve, drinking port wine and watching Christmas movies until they’d fall asleep on the couch together. It was their tradition. As a kid, you begged them to let you stay up with them, but you always fell asleep before the clock struck midnight and you’d wake up on January first in your bedroom, your dad having carried you to bed.

Every year, your New Years resolution was to stay awake next time long enough to watch the clock tick over to midnight. There was something magical about it as a child, the idea of peeling away the old paint of the past year to reveal the shiny, fresh surface of the new.

You wonder if your parents are awake now, watching the end of the Polar Express and drinking out of those funny little port glasses.

Your bedpartner stirs, murmuring sleepily into his pillow. He’s drooling. It’s cute. You get the feeling, from the way that he’d fucked you, that he’s not the kinda guy who appreciate being called that, though.

Those type of guys are always the cutest.

If he’d woken up, you would’ve told him that, but he doesn’t. He just settles back into the pillow. You do throw the blanket over his naked pelvis, though, because you’re considerate like that. Nice girl. Sweet girl. Bunny. Everyone likes you. You’re so much fun. And you’re having fun. Buckets of it. Enough to drown in it.