Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

0.

James wasn't around anymore. And no, he wasn't dead (though sometimes it felt like it), he was just... gone, off to L.A, living his star-studded Hollywood dream. And, yeah okay, Ozzie knew it wasn't fair, and he wasn't really angry - he was proud dammit, he was, his best friend was going to be on the big screen! - no matter what he said, James was someone from their bourgie ass town that got out, someone who was actually making a name for themselves, but there was a part of him that just couldn't help feeling jealous of James all the same.

And that wasn't the saddest thing. No. That belonged to the jealous part. Because really, that was just him being scared of being lonely.

It was pathetic.

Ozzie could still remember the moment he stole James' favorite sweater clearly. It was right before he left. His last day in fact. Thinking about it made him feel a bit like a girl and way more sentimental than he'd have liked but he did it anyway.

He remembered that the fabric was soft and worn between his fingers, a dark green that reminded him of James' eyes. The sleeves were fraying at the wrists, looking moth eaten where James had taken to stress biting their ends.

It was well loved, that sweater, smelling of Axe and weed and something just a touch muskier beneath that - which was a pretty fucking gross combination - but it was so James and that knowledge by itself was enough to make his heart hurt.

He remembered that he didn't cry that day. He wanted to, but he didn't. He was strong enough to avoid that.

Maybe he should have though, the vindictive, lonely side of him said. It's the part that Ozzie kept buried deep, a little devil locked behind a closet door. James would have given everything up for him, even then. His heart was just too big.

Ozzie knew one day it was going to get James hurt.

Instead, he helped James pack what few things he was shipping down to SoCal and Ozzie didn't care that the mood was a little (a lot) more somber than it should have been between them. Neither mentioned it. They were together and that had to be enough.

Even if it really, really wasn't.

So, when the opportunity presented itself, Ozzie took the sweater. It was big on him, falling to his mid thighs, his body drowning in its cotton folds, but that wasn't a surprise. It didn't matter that Ozzie was a year younger, he was a mousy fifteen, slim and not having hit his growth spurt yet, and James was taller at sixteen, already passing six foot, and more filled out than Ozzie could ever dream of being.

He remembered that was how James found him when he came back to the room. He was swamped in James' sweater, sleeves pressed against the thin line of his lips, looking small and over bony with how it hung off his shoulders, his knees pulled up to his chest.

James didn't say anything though, he just walked over to Ozzie and brought him into this weird half-hug--more of a hold--the crook of his arm bearing Ozzie's head down against  his  sternum. His other arm came up to bracket the side of Ozzie's face.

And they stayed like that, breathing.

"I'm just a phone call away," James had murmured after awhile, voice more subdued than Ozzie could ever remember hearing it.

"Sounds like a song lyric," Ozzie had forced out, "'just a phone call away'," he warbled out of tune and in a key of his own making, catching a whiff of James' deodorant through his shirt. He bit his lip, "'M sure those L.A chicks'll love it." James laughed, void of humor.

"I mean it though," he breathed, patting the top of Ozzie's head. "Anytime. I'll always pick up."

"I know," Ozzie whispered.

And he did. It was why Ozzie let go. He had to. Because James' heart was too big for his body, too big for the world in Ozzie's opinion, and it was plastered on his sleeve for all to see. He had to let go, because keeping all that to himself wasn't an option. It wasn't fair.

It didn't make him a good person, Ozzie knew, but it made him something that wasn't bad and that was enough for him at this point.

When they parted, the two of them went back to packing. When they finished, James ordered pizza and they ate in the maze of boxes they'd set up, chilling until the sun had fully set. Then it was time for bed. James' dad still wasn't home (which wasn't odd, the man had seemed to have forgotten he had a son by the time James had turned ten) so Ozzie took a shower and crashed on the sofa.

He thought it would take him ages to fall asleep but it didn't.

(In his  dream  he was happy. Cynthia hadn't cheated on him but they'd still broken up and James was still the best friend anyone could ask for. There was a kiss too, one that sparked butterflies in his stomach, black hair tickling his cheeks and for once Ozzie was tilting his head up to meet the lips in front of him. He was smiling, he knew, and his partner was too, their laugh deep and warm and--)

Then it was morning and James had to go. Ozzie watched as the movers came and took the boxes they'd packed up away and James stood by his side until he couldn't anymore. He turned, bringing their foreheads together, green eyes meeting honey-gold.

"Be good, Romanoff," James said.

A watery laugh. "Right back at you, Stark. Stay an asshole, yeah?" Ozzie mumbled.

"'Course man," he smiled, warm and soft, giving the back of Ozzie's neck a squeeze. Then they were hugging, full body, chest to chest, hip to hip and Ozzie was more than willing to stand there until the movers said they were ready to go and James had to pull back.

Ozzie sniffed. "Bye," he whispered, throat burning.

"Hey," James said, "don't cry man. Phone call remember? It'll be fine. We'll be fine. Like Gucci bro."

"'M not crying," he sniffed again, "and you're a dork."

"You love me."

"Yeah."

James' lips twitched with just the faintest of ticks upwards, though his eyes remained sad. "We'll be fine," he repeated, then sighed, running a hand through his raven curls. A truck honked behind them. The movers where getting impatient. "Well," he said, "guess this is bye for now." Ozzie just nodded, not trusting himself to speak. James would never leave if he did.

So he watched. Silent.

"Take care of yourself, Oz."

He walked away after that, backwards and clumsy on the two left feet he'd been born with before getting in the car. He waved  once more.

Then James  was gone.

It was only after the fact that Ozzie realized he was still wearing James' sweater - that his friend had left it behind for him to keep. It filled his stomach with butterflies and he finally let the tears run down his face. And it was weird, because now Ozzie couldn't really say they were sad. They were sweet, but tinged with something a little sour but above all he was at peace. Content.

He swiped at his eyes with the sleeve of his stolen sweater and began the short walk home.

"Do you feel it?" Sam asked. Her voice was hardly over that of a whisper, light like the smoke in the room. Ozzie kept his eyes closed, the smell of incense vaguely overpowering, "it will only work if you find tranquility." Ozzie frowned.

"Like Nirvana," he said.

"Some say the Touch is synonymous with enlightenment, if that is what you mean," Sam replied, "it is a feeling of peace and understanding in the world around you. Do you have your moment?"

Green sweaters and dreamed kisses. Black hair and a dimpled smile. Tears not born of sadness but something much more complicated. Something much less easily defined.

"I-" Ozzie bit his lip.

"You do," he heard the sound of rustling and then he smelled rosemary on top of the incense, strong enough to make him gag. "Keep your eyes closed," Sam warned, "I'm going to touch your forehead. It will be cold for a moment but it will help you focus." There was the pop of a cap and then a breath running across his face that smelled like cinnamon. Ozzie wrinkled his nose.

"How do you even know I have it?" He mumbled, disgruntled as he felt Sam's finger begin to trace lines across his skin.

"Because of the Knowing," she said simply, "not unlike how you Visit. Where you see the past imprinted in the objects you come in contact with, I can see the future. It is how I found you in the first place. I Knew you would need my help." Her hands stopped moving against his face and the smell of cinnamon and rosemary began to fade.

"Wish I could do that."

"No, Ozzie," came the response, "you do not. The Sight is as dangerous as it is powerful. Do not wish for the blessings of others for they very well may become your curse. Now--" she said,"--open your mind."

And Ozzie did.

It was sudden, the rush. His forehead burned where Sam had placed the oil, but he hardly noticed what with everything else he was feeling. It was sensory overload, everything  sharper, the smells the sounds, the feelings.

"Holy shit," he gasped, eyes snapping open.

"Focus," Sam directed, calm as a placid lake.

"On, what?!" Ozzie grit out. His vision was swimming, lines upon lines of...he wasn't even sure what, clouding his sight, "everything's just rocketed up a million."

"Direct it," Sam said, "give it purpose. Let it flow through you, like water. You have it bottled up, breathe, close your eyes. Focus."

Ozzie gasped again, wincing as another wave of, whatever the fuck he was feeling rolled through him, but he complied all the same. He closed his eyes. Breathe, she said. He could do that. So he did. And she was right. It did help, the burn started to fade, replaced by that really awesome mellow feeling he'd felt at the start. It was like being high but like a bigillion times better. Okay. He could do this.

Direct it, she said. Let it flow through you, she said.

He had no idea how to do that, he just knew he wanted it out of him. Because no matter how good the high, it was still overwhelming, too many points of stimulation to be remotely comfortable.

Well, Sam had called it the Touch...

So, Ozzie focused on his hands. He imagined all of the... energy in his palms, tingling in his fingertips, not unlike the static he felt when he Visited. He breathed. He felt the waves traveling through his body and he imagined he could feel them pooling in that one spot. He wasn't really sure it was working though. All he knew was that things were starting to feel even less overwhelming, more controlled in his mind, like maybe at some point soon this whole Touch thing would actually be manageable.

Then it was gone.

Ozzie blinked, staring confused at Sam. "That's...it?" He asked. He brought his hands up to his face as if they'd have magically changed in the past however many minutes it had took him to come back down from his spiritual high.

"For now, yes," Sam nodded and stood up, blowing out her candles and incense sticks, "you've taken the first steps towards understanding, which is all I Know to happen."

Ozzie cocked his head to the side, stretching out his legs. He didn't trust standing yet. Even if he was no longer 'enlightened' he could still feel the aftershocks trembling through his limbs, almost like dull phantom pains. "W'as that mean?" He asked, hair falling out of his eyes.

"It means that this was our last lesson," Sam said, hand poised over a fluffy, sequin lined pillow, "it is time for the both of us to move on. I'm sorry." She picked it up, moving it back onto the couch of her trailer. "I have nothing left to teach you."

"...Oh," Ozzie bit his thumbnail, brow furrowing. He licked his lips, bringing his gaze down to his faded jeans, "but what am I supposed to do now?"

Sam sighed. She crossed the distance between them in a few short strides. "Now," She said, kneeling beside him and tilting his chin up with her forefinger, "you carve your own path." She opened his palm and slipped something small and cylindrical inside it, curving his fingers back into a fist when that was done, "do you understand what I am saying? Your destiny is yours to make. Let no one tell you otherwise."

Ozzie swallowed. "Do you mean that?" he whispered.

She smiled. "Of course Ozzie."

His eyes darted to the side and he would have looked back down if not for the firm grip Sam still had on his chin. "Don't look away Ozzie," she chastised, "do not feel less than others. You are not weak. You are stronger than you know. Own it."

Slowly, Ozzie brought his eyes back up to meet the pale gray of her own. "Do you believe that?" He said, sounding even smaller than before and looking every bit the mousy fifteen year old he didn't want to be.

Sam held his gaze, as serious as anything. "I do," she said, "Ozzie, you are going to make history. That I Know."

Chapter Text

Dear Nobody,

Hi again, I guess. The shrink sorta told me off for not writing in this thing last week. I just don't see the point. Don't get me wrong, I get the theory. I get the application. I just don't see how it's supposed to help me. I'm supposed to be doing this to 'express myself' and 'work out my problems' or some other new-age bullshit. Honestly, to me it just sounds like a lazy cop-out for a lazy shrink who doesn't want to do any work but wants to still have something to talk about. I see here you were feeling particularly shitty this week Ozzie. Care to elaborate? Nah not really, I mean I always feel shitty, that's sorta why I'm here. So, it had nothing to do with XYZ? Great job, I see you can read. Want a cookie? Now, no need to be hostile Ozzie. See? Lazy.

Oh and of course the want to get paid. Huh. I probably shouldn't say that though right?

But fine. Okay. I'll bite.

People always ask me: 'Ozzie, why do you hate your Birthday so much?' Well. No. No one asks that, because no one knows that the thought of my birthday makes me want to puke. But if people did, that's probably what they'd ask.

The answer? Because...

NOYFB.

(That's 'none of your fucking business' by the way)

Ha. You probably thought I'd actually humor you. Funny. Sorry. Do not pass go. Do not collect two hundred dollars. Figure it out yourself. You have my file. You know what I've been through.

HMU when you do.

...That means 'hit me up'...seriously, brush up on your 21st century acronyms.

Chapter Text

②⓪①③

It was June. Early in the month and hot. A time where the edges of spring and summer met, blurring together like a shimmering mirage in a desert. The colors seemed to vibrate in anticipation of the coming season, waiting to explode in a flurry of too bright greens and oranges and vibrant yellows. Already the poppies were blooming, turning grassy fields a warm honey gold, their leaves a shock of color in between the petals.

Ozzie brought the joint back up to his lips, inhaling slowly as he watched a faint copper glow light up the tip. He held it for a beat, feeling the smoke slip down into his lungs before exhaling and passing it on. He grinned. That was good stuff. His body slumped back against the balcony wall. Outside it was raining. Hot and humid and he could smell it all, the mix of grass, weed and evaporating water, comfortable and protected from the wet by the balcony's awning.

The smoke curled in the air, dipping upwards between his pursed lips. It was James' idea to do this, sporting a fresh new tan and bag full of Mary Jane courtesy of his stint in Los Angeles. His most recent film had just finished shooting and he'd decided what the heck, let's pay Ozzie a visit. Ozzie remembered James saying something about this being the first week of Ozzie's summer vacation and to take proper advantage of it as he'd sauntered into his room before promptly flopping--falling--onto Ozzie's bed.

James' body was a long strip of sluggish arms and uncoordinated feet so Ozzie couldn't say he'd been surprised when his friend had tripped during the two-step journey across the room. Classic James. Able to make teenage girls swoon without a word in a movie but barely able to cross a street on his own in real life.

Still Ozzie wouldn't complain. He wouldn't. If he was being truthful, it was one of the few things that still made him smile. It wasn't like James had any other reason to come back to their boring middle of nowhere town in Northern California except for him. The thought made him grin even more.

It'd been awhile since he'd been able to do this. Relax. He felt loose-limbed and content and something else, something close to happy.

James took a hit. His cheeks dimpled and his eyes crossed a bit as he tried looking at the joint between his fingers. His brow wrinkled. Ozzie wanted to reach over and smooth his hand across it. No one should look so serious when they were getting high. Even he was grinning. James breathed out and chuckled in Ozzie's direction, his ebony curls bouncing with the movement.

James tilted his head to the side.

"Wa's so funny?" Ozzie slurred.

James grinned. "Your face," he drawled, voice slow and low and even. It reminded Ozzie of someone thinking really hard about what they were going to say next. And not in a I'm-thinking-of-the-most-diplomatic-response kind of way but in a legitimate sort of I-have-no-idea-what-I'm-trying-to-say-so-let's-just-say-it-real-slow-like-so-they-won't-notice kind of way. James handed the joint back to Ozzie. "You look like you need to take a shit."

"Ay," Ozzie took back the joint and gave his friend the finger. His cheeks hollowed as he blew a smoke ring in his friend's face, "fuck you, man."

James held his hands up in surrender. "What?! You do!"

"Yeah?" Ozzie rolled his eyes and took another hit from the joint before slouching back against the wall, "well whatever." He looked down at the joint between his fingers. The end was burning dangerously close to his fingertips. "You gonna finish this? Or...?" He left the question hanging in the air.

"Nah, you can," James said with a wave of his hand, "I can get more back in L.A."

Ozzie snorted. "Fuckin' movie star."

"Don't hate just 'cause you're jealous man."

Ozzie took one last long hit from the joint and stubbed it out on the ground beside him. He brushed his hair out of his face, the stringy black locks moving across his forehead and out of his eyes. He raised an eyebrow in James' direction, leveling him with his most deadpan look.

"What?" James blinked, "don't give me that look."

The corners of Ozzie's lips twitched upwards and he rubbed his thumb across them, like the action could somehow hide the grin growing there. His stubble felt rough and patchy against his finger. Fucking puberty. Sighing, he slid down to the balcony floor, his hair fanning out around his face. His arms mirrored the movement.

"So," James cleared his throat, expression suddenly serious, "how was school this semester?"

Ozzie tensed. "Fine." He shrugged.

James turned to fully face him. "You know if people are giving you hard time again-"

"Things're okay, 'kay?" Ozzie flipped onto his side, lips pulling together in a taut line, "you don't need to worry about me."

James frowned. "I know, but after last year-"

"It's done okay?!" Ozzie bit out, "My dad helped me through it, explained some stuff to me, and Sam's been a real help with the whole low self-esteem thing. Just drop it."

James opened and closed his mouth before nodding and running a hand through his hair. "Okay..." he said, "just know I got you okay? If you need it? Even when I'm in L.A. I'm just a call away."

"I know," Ozzie hugged his knees to his chest. A pause, "M' sorry." He mumbled.

"It's 'kay," he scooted closer to Ozzie and wrapped an arm loosely around his shoulder. "What're friends for huh?"

This, Ozzie couldn't help but think. It would be so easy to just tell James the truth. Especially in this moment, with the sun setting and the last of spring rains dissipating into summer heat-waves. All of his feelings low and calm and mellow.

It would be so easy to tell him that sometimes when he tries really hard he can know things he isn't supposed to know. Secrets about people's lives and families from a single touch. Never touching the person themselves, but by holding their watch or necklace or the teddy-bear they've had since birth, he can see things, flashes of images, tidbits of sounds. Lies and truth's better left buried.

He could do it. He could let James, his best friend, the only person he could ever trust with his secret, in. He knows it would be a weight off his shoulders to have someone other than his father to confide in.

Ozzie looked down at the silver band inlaid with emerald wrapped around James finger. He could grab it. Close his eyes and tell him everything. Ozzie knew it would work too, because James never took that ring off. It had belonged to his mother before she ran off god knew where when he was eight. He was sure it was packed with memories.

"Everything alright?"

Ozzie blinked. James was looking at him with wide concerned eyes. He bit his lip.

"Fine," he said, "just- " His mouth opened-I know it'd seem crazy but I swear-his lips snapped shut. He couldn't do it. He can't do it. Not after Cynthia. Ozzie turned away hunching in on himself. "Never mind."

He heard James snort and some faint rustling as he repositioned himself beside Ozzie, a bag of Doritos in his hand. He took a bite, munching on a handful. "You're a shit liar Oz," he said around the mouthful of chips. Crumbs dusted the corners of his lips and his tongue peeked out to lick them away. "But okay, it's your birthday," he swallowed, sighing contentedly and leaning back on his arms. "I'll drop it."

"Thanks," Ozzie mumbled, scooting into a corner himself. It was comfortable, the silence and they stayed like that for a good few minutes as the rain picked up. Ozzie stared out at it, the sky a sea of endless gray while James lounged peacefully beside him, a humming sort of purr leaving his throat like a house cat's.

Sighing, Ozzie glanced over at the other boy as he sleepily smacked his lips. There was a patch of skin, pale like ivory and milky smooth peeking out from under James' shirt. Ozzie quickly looked away, wringing his hands in his lap. Guilty.

"S'when's the red-carpet gig?" Ozzie asked. "'Jamie Evans: Breakout star of 2013' right?" A small half smile tugged at the corner of his lips.

James scoffed and out of the corner of his eye Ozzie saw him scratch his forehead. "I wouldn't say that Oz. Movie's not even out yet."

"Come on," he said, nudging the eighteen-year-old with his foot, "you're Tony Stark, man, cocky and charming as fuck. Hollywood'll eat you up."

"Whatever you say Romanoff."

"Don't even, you know Black Widow is bad ass."

James grinned. "Johansson has a hot ass. I've seen it. Hollywood has its perks."

Ozzie snorted, shaking his head. "You're so full of shit."

"Got you to lighten up though," James said in that low drawn out way of his. "Figure that's gotta count for something."

Ozzie blinked, his chest suddenly feeling tight and warm and he's giddy like a school girl but at the same time dreading the feeling and-oh no-oh shit-he's seriously fucked now and-

Come on, Oz, it's the rebound talking, don't fuck seventeen years of friendship up over a rebound. You'll regret it and James will hate you and then you'll hate yourself even more and be  girlfriendless  and best-friendless and holy shit you're going to do it anyway-

He wasn't consciously aware that he was leaning in, just that James' eyes were closed so he had no idea that Ozzie was licking his lips nervously right above him, so close, but not close enough-

Don't do it. Don't do it. Don't do it-

But he had to. His body was trembling, with it, with the same twisted sense of self-loathing that urged him out of art when he was fourteen. The same self-loathing that made him punch Devi Davis in the face in the ninth grade for sneering at his sneakers. His fucked life. In hindsight, it was no surprise Cynthia cheated on him. All he seemed to be able to do was fuck shit up. Tear it all down. Rip it all to shreds. Destroy and maim and wreck until nothing good remained. Until all that was left was a bleeding battered skeleton in a wasteland of his own making.

Heart in his throat, hands clammy with sweat, he breathed a simple, desperate and broken 'James', his weedy breath brushing over James lips and-

James was looking now. He knew it. Could see it in how James' loose body was suddenly tense and this was it. This was the moment Ozzie wrecked the last stable thing in his life-

His lips touched down. Chapped and rough and lacking in finesse-

James didn't stop him.

He opened his mouth. Pulled Ozzie over his waist and tilted his head up. His mouth tasted like weed and cool ranch. His hands felt strong and steady on Ozzie's hips. James' chest was smooth and firm under Ozzie's grip. His tongue a velvet tease against his own.

God-

He wasn't even hard. Neither of them were, but Ozzie kept going. Kept taking. Kept trembling in James' grasp like if he let go Ozzie would float away. And he would. Ozzie knew he would-

"Shh," James pulled back, wrapping his arms fully around Ozzie, the words shaping themselves along Ozzie's lips, "don't cry man. It's okay. I got'chu." I'm not going away. I'm not going to leave you behind. You're still my best-friend. James chuckled softly to himself. "Guess this crosses off the bromosexual box in our friendship huh?"

Ozzie buried his face in the crook of James' neck, letting out a watery laugh, ugly tears staining James' collarbone. James rubbed his back.

"F-fuck," Ozzie blubbered, "y-y-you're such an a-ass-hole."

"I'm not the one who just made out with their straight best-friend. You're lucky I love your scrawny ass."

"Fuck off." Ozzie mumbled. James patted his back and Ozzie finally relaxed, sniffing loudly.

"Dude, that was fucking gross. Get off, you big baby."

Ozzie gave him the finger.

James sighed. "Fine, you can stay there, but only 'cause it's your birthday."

"You're sucha good friend." Ozzie slurred groggily, "best mate ever."

"Damn straight. I'm Tony fuckin' Stark."

Ozzie snorted.

Six hours later his parents were dead.

Chapter Text

②⓪①⑤

Hunger was a funny thing. Ozzie didn't know why but it always seemed to hit hardest at night, right in the moments where he wasn't doing much of anything at all. It crept up on him, usually a startlingly piercing nudge in his lower belly that made him open his eyes and blink back up at the pop-corned ceiling of his room. Usually when that happened Ozzie would let out an exasperated breath, fists clenched as they pressed into the lean meat of his stomach as he waited for the pangs to pass. Usually he'd fall asleep like that, maybe a little tense, maybe with a dull ache in the palms of his hands, but it was sleep and the price was one he was more than willing to pay for it to be dreamless.

Hunger, though, was a funny thing. A living thing. A beastly thing. A glutton. A total bitch really. And tonight, Ozzie's tried and true methods of coping just weren't cutting it.

Rolling over onto his side, Ozzie forced out a trembling breath, biting his lip and trying to keep his breathing steady. Outside it was raining. He could hear it gently pitter-pattering against the sole window in his room, a small arch shaped thing made of stained glass—the only one left in the house—but Ozzie liked it. When the sun was out it bathed the room in shimmering rainbows, the colours shifting as the sun fell across the sky. Ozzie would stare at his ceiling for hours, watching golds melt into greens and vibrant sapphire blues. It was soothing. A menial pastime simple in its pleasure. A surefire way to slow down his ever-working mind when nothing else could.

But the sun wasn't out right now. Instead he was left with dreary skies and moonlight. Rain. The warped image of Saint Raphael's face etched in stained glass made to look like he was crying. He honestly wasn't sure which was worse: the silent disappointment he felt bleeding from the window, the hunger that had him curling in on himself, or the rain. Man, did he hate the rain. Ozzie turned away.

Three days. That's how long it'd been since he'd had anything more than one of the many cans of soda he kept stashed under his desk and that was also, ironically, how long it'd been since it'd started raining. As if the weather decided to mourn his loss with him. An overzealous toast between bros. Late spring showers, his Aunt Toni called them, Spring's last, watery hurrah being pumped on out the sky before finally giving way to that baked bitch we call summer.

Who was he kidding; if anything, it was just to piss him off. Not that Ozzie cared. He just wanted to go the fuck to sleep.

Groaning as another pang swept through his body, he finally gave in, kicking back the covers on his bed and shakily taking the few steps between it and his desk. He pulled open the bottommost drawer, yanking a protein bar out of the box he kept there and headed towards the window, peeling the wrapper open on the way.

There was a short bench in front of it, a simplistic mahogany thing with a simple white cushion placed on top of it. Ozzie perched himself there, casually resting his side against the window sill, his head against the wall, looking out. Not that there was much to see with Saint Raphael silently judging him through the rain. His stomach growled and Ozzie's hands clenched reflexively over the bar in his hand. He eyed it warily. Raphael's two-dimensional gaze bored back. A silent demand.

If I fucking throw up because of this... Ozzie winced at the thought.

Lifting the bar up to his mouth, he took a bite. Chewed. Swallowed. Washed it down with a half-finished can of 7-Up he'd left sitting by a near empty pack of cigarettes on the windowsill. Narrowed his eyes back at Raphael's indifferent glance. Waited a moment. Let it sit.

Okay... At least he didn't feel like he was in immediate danger of puking his guts out...

Ozzie took another bite.

It didn't take him long to finish the bar after that. Just a few more measured mouthfuls and he was licking his fingers clean, tossing the wrapper onto the floor. He'd pick it up later. Right when he decided to actually clean the rest of his room. It wasn't much, he knew, the bar by itself wasn't enough, but his stomach clenched in limbo, stuck in that strange in-between state that couldn't seem to decide whether it was satisfied or not. It would do, he figured.

"Happy now?" he mumbled, staring back at Saint Raphael's blank gaze.

Raphael didn't answer of course, but that was to be expected— His was a face made of glass, sharp and fragile all at once.

Ozzie huffed out a breath, toying with a loose string that stuck out from the waistband of his sweat pants. He wasn't really sure why, but he was looking at Raphael from the corners of his eyes now instead of dead on, his free hand tapping the near empty cigarette carton against the windowsill while a small crease formed on his brow. "You wouldn't be." A soft derisive laugh escaped his throat, more a puff of air than anything, choked and sticking to him like tar. "You don't even know what that is."

There was a scathing note of self-deprecation in his voice, his tone rough from disuse and perpetually raspy. Ozzie ignored it, or maybe didn't even notice it; perhaps it was an integral part of his being that he let sit and fester as the rain continued to pour outside.

When it got to be too much—and of course it did with the sound of the rain threatening to deafen him, the sight of it to drown him—he lit his final cigarette, tossing the empty carton at his desk. Three packs for three days. Three Indulgences to keep him sane.

He missed.

The carton bounced off the edge of it, rolling once stiffly on the carpeted floor. He mentally shrugged. Ozzie would pick it up in the morning with the wrapper. Lighting the cigarette with one of the many disposable lighters he kept strewn around the room, he watched it catch, the ember red tip glowing in the darkness. Smoke furled off it, further muddying the air in front of him and filling the room with that acrid tobacco smell. He let it warm him, pulling in deep puffs that eased the trembling in his fingers—the sound of his breathing, long and deep, burying that of the rain.

On the edge of the bench, Ozzie's cellphone buzzed and he tapped it with his foot, dragging it closer to read the message.

From: James—Sent: June 6, 2015 @ 00:00

Happy Birthday, Oz! Dude, Toni says she has plans for you in the a.m. Which cool. Whatever. Respect and all that to your aunt. She's a BAMF. I'll C U @ 5 though. Think Clint might tag along too. Be ready. It'll be lit.

From: James—Sent: June 6, 2015 @ 00:01

P.S That's 17:00 for you

From: James—Sent: June 6, 2015 @ 00:02

Weirdo

The words were innocent yet they twisted inside him like a knife, shearing their way up his spine and settling in his heart. They hurt inexplicably and it felt like... like... what, he didn't know. But it hurt. It hurt and he didn't know why. Or. He did, but it was complicated. Or. Really, not even that. Really, he simply didn't want to know. Didn't want to admit the why. Because then he'd be forced to accept it, be forced to face it, the reason, and Ozzie, Ozzie didn't really know what to do with that either.

Sighing, Ozzie stubbed out the dying ember of his cigarette, cracking open the window and flicking it out onto the alleyway below. His thumb rubbed idly at his wrist, knocking against the bracelet wrapped around it. The metal was cool where it hadn't been touching his skin. The tips of his fingers were wet where the rain grazed them.

Ozzie scoffed, pulling the window closed and getting up off the bench. One year older. What a joke. He didn't feel one year older. He didn't feel nineteen. He felt forty. The rain drummed against his window. Ozzie ran a hand through his hair. Man, did he hate the rain.

Fuck the rain.

He crawled back into bed, turning on his side so his back faced the wall. He bit his lip glowering at the Scarlet Witch poster taped to the back of his door.

And fuck his birthday too.

Ozzie closed his eyes. In the small room of a church turned house turned part bookstore, he dreamed of a day full of fake smiles and a rain that never stopped.

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

②⓪①⑤

It was still raining when Ozzie woke up, the sound of it monotonous and grating in his ears. Ozzie pulled the ends of his comforter close, clenching the gray fabric between his fists as a frown creased the middle of his brow. From his bed, he could still hear the rain falling, a steady downpour that sounded heavier than the drizzle from earlier. It grayed out the sky, just like it grayed out his life, just like it grayed out the colors in his stained-glass window, funneling and muting and warping all light that passed through it.

Los Angeles may not have been 'the city that never sleeps' but LA didn't care. It didn't matter. It was still his birthday and it was still raining and cars still drove across slick LA streets just like people still walked down cracked city sidewalks; oblivious. Life moved on. Life continued. And it had nothing to do with him.

A cold feeling settled in his gut, tying it into anxious knots. A shiver ran down his spine unbidden by the temperature of the room. A sigh left his parted lips and he could just hear the faint clicking of the wall clock behind him tick-tick-ticking away over the sound of the rain. His head felt like it was filled with cotton and his mouth tasted like ass and really in the grand scheme of things he figured this was probably about as good of a morning as he could expect for today. Not that that made it any better. Los Angeles may have been the City of Angels, but there would be none flying here. Of that Ozzie was certain.

He opened his eyes.

A glance at the clock told him it was a quarter to eight. Ozzie released a breath, rolling onto his back and throwing an arm over his face. He was going to need to get up soon if he didn't want Toni to do it for him. Actually, it was a bit surprising that his Aunt hadn't already. Ozzie dragged a hand over his face, knee bent towards the ceiling, the blankets bunching themselves around his feet. He'd rather not explain why he was out of cigarettes again to her.

Rubbing the sleep from his eyes he got out of his bed, blinking blearily at his surroundings as he blindly felt for the glasses he'd left on the bedside table. He slipped them on his face when he found them, the dark gray sweats he'd worn to bed riding low on his hips when he stretched.

The room didn't look much different in the light. It was familiar, if not moderately subdued. A little messier. Its lines were a harsher where shadows receded back into their corners, the gray film that seemed to permeate everything spreading across their surfaces. The wall was littered with posters. On the floor, there were a few comics, the rest stacked in alphabetical order on the top three shelves of the bookshelf beside his desk. The last two levels housed his CD's and DVD's. On his desk sat his laptop and the turntable he used for his mixes, his headphones perched on the back of his chair. A spare X-Box controller sat on one of the two beanbags in front of the T.V mounted on his wall across from the lone window in the room.

He crossed over to it, kicking an empty cigarette carton under his bed on the way. There were a few crushed soda cans piled by the windowsill and a couple more by the foot of the bench. Dirty clothes were strewn haphazardly over the floor: a shirt here, a pair of boxers there, a couple of pants draped over the hamper in his room.

Ozzie reached the bench and picked up his phone, tapping the screen open with a yawn. There were no new messages. Not very surprising considering the only people he really talked to were James, Toni and kinda-sorta Clint. He scratched his chin, pulling up the message from James again: I'll C U @ 5.

Ozzie clicked his tongue, a curse mumbled under his breath before he tapped his phone closed. There wouldn't be much hope in changing James' mind, he knew—it was Saturday and his birthday and James was a well-meaning dick that wanted Ozzie to get out more so—fuck it. He'd deal with it later. He dropped his phone back on the bench and walked out the room, shutting the door quietly behind him.

The hallway was tight and narrow, no windows, just a lone lightbulb flickering yellow in the near dark halfway down. It had that old house smell, slightly musty and stale, like not enough air passed through it. It was fitting. This part of the apartment wasn't a big fan of being remembered, it was more like a tomb, lined with dusty pictures on the walls—little forgotten mementos of a family that once was—the hardwood floors old and cold underfoot. Ozzie was grateful for the lack of light.

A staircase led down at the end of the hallway and he took the steps one at a time, stifling another barely-awake yawn with the back of his hand. At the bottom the sound of his Aunt's voice made him pause.

"—ing about an extension," she was saying and Ozzie blinked, a few mere inches between himself and the door. His hand rested on the knob, his Aunt's muffled voice coming in from behind it. She had probably been on her way to wake him up. He bit his lip, flexing his fingers against cool metal and about to step back when she continued.

"Yes, well I know the payment is late, but I'd talked to a uhm," Ozzie heard the sound of rustling paper, "Susan, last Sunday. She was—Yes, Susan. Uh-huh. No, I don't have her last name— She was supposed to call me back— Uh-huh. Nothing there then?" A sigh. "So, does that mean it was denied or what? Tell me something here. Look, it just needs to be until Wednesday, I'll have the money—Fine. Fine," there was another rustling noise, "Okay. So, that's it then. Thank you." Toni let out another breath. "No cell-phones until Wednesday. Fucking assholes." She grumbled and pulled open the door. Ozzie stumbled out of it.

"Ozzie." She blinked down at him, steadying him with one arm, cell-phone still gripped in her free hand. Her hair was styled naturally in a tasteful but simple afro, a bright yellow scarf wrapped around the base of it. She was dark like chocolate and looked very little like Ozzie's dad, her brother, he knew. The only thing they'd had in common were their eyes. They had been a rich warm brown like caramel.

"Mmm," he licked his lips, humming noncommittally, his gaze trained on the peeling wallpaper by the artificial fica in the corner. "Mornin'."

She pursed her lips, narrowing her eyes. "Happy... Birthday...," she crossed her arms, the fabric of her white crop top bunching in the shoulders. She may have been pushing forty but she didn't give a fuck. "how long have you been standing there?"

"Not long," he shifted on the balls of his feet and quietly cleared his throat. "Was... jus' coming down."

Hand on her hip. "Uh-huh." She raised one of perfectly arched brows. Full burgundy lips pursed in the universal expression of 'I-smell-bull-fucking-shit'. "Sure."

"Yeah," Ozzie nodded and licked his lips. "'m just gonna," he pointed vaguely in the direction of the bathroom.

"You do that," Ozzie nodded, slipping his boney body between Toni and the rest of the hallway. She closed the door behind him. "Oh," she said, "and when you're done we're going to that little café off Westwood you like. Le Chateau du Pain. I'll close the bookstore for the day."

Ozzie tensed, "Really don't hafta do that Tones," he said. "Kinda just feel like staying in. Why don't you just make me like waffles."

Toni smiled and there was nothing pleasant about. "Now that's not much of a breakfast for the birthday boy," she drummed her nails against her forearm where they were crossed over her chest. "And stop mumbling, no one can understand you like that."

"S'cool," he shrugged, "not feeling very festive anyway. Let's jus—"

"We're going Ozzie," she said, hard edged and final, cutting him off with no room to debate. Ozzie flinched, gripping the doorframe to the bathroom between rigid fingers. Toni sighed. "It will be fun," she said in a softer tone.

Don't be selfish.

"Okay, Toni," Ozzie nodded, voice tight. He heard his aunt step forward, her jewelry knocking together as she reached out a hand, lightly touching his arm.

"Oz, I—" She began.

He jerked back. "I said okay, Toni," his eyes flicked up in time to catch the wounded look Toni gave him through the mirror, chilling his veins like a block of ice in the middle of the Antarctic sea. You put that look there. Just like with— He looked back down quickly. "Isn't that enough?" He continued softly. Desperately. He was starting to hear their voices, vague intonations in the back of his mind. He could smell that faint flowery aroma that would always cling to the fabric of—

Ozzie steeled his face, expression going dull and apathetic. Silent and stiff he closed the door behind him, effectively shutting out whatever else Toni would have said. He felt like he was floating. Or maybe drowning was more appropriate.

"It'll be fun Guddu."

He could feel the weight of his bracelet against his wrist, hear it faintly jingling behind the roaring in his ears.

"We're going."

All your fault. All your fault. Why didn't you listen to them? You were so selfish. It was a trip to Italy. Venice. You'd always wanted to go there. But James—No you only thought about yourself. Didn't think about how your choice would affect others. They moved the trip back for you. Postponed it a day. All for James. Selfish. Selfish. Selfish. It should've been you instead—

Fist in his mouth, seeing double, Ozzie stumbled forward, simultaneously in the small tight bathroom that barely fit one person and somewhere else. The lights were off but he wanted it that way. Didn't want to the light. Felt shrouded and protected in the dark gray gloom of a cloudy LA sky.

If you were a better son. If you were a better friend. If you loved them more—

His vision was blurry, his breathing a ragged choking thing. He fumbled with the shower head, turning it, twisting it, body shaking like a leaf. He felt sick. Couldn't get enough air. His fist hurt, the copper tang of blood filling his mouth and oh fuck—

Pathetic. Waste of space. Look at you. Just look in the—no don't look, don't see—

The bathroom was filling with steam now and Ozzie jumped in, sweatpants soaked through in an instant, the skin of his chest turning an angry red. He cried out, falling to his knees under the spray, tucking his head between them.

"Okay,  Guddu , it's your birthday."

Ozzie wept.

Chapter Text

②⓪①③

Later, they'd tell him that it was James who'd found him.  Later, James would tell the police that it was merely a coincidence that he'd happened by again in the first place; he'd forgotten something, a hat maybe, didn't really seem that important to remember next to everything else, but he did and that's when he'd seen him. Ozzie. His best friend. Staring at nothing. Sitting in a dark pool of his parent's blood.

The barf stain from that moment was still there too.

Later, when all was said and done and James started camping out in Ozzie's room like some sort of wayward sentinel, scared and belligerent and determined, James would tell him-really the silence around him-that it wasn't the images that stuck with him. Not the sight of the corpses or whether the lights were on or off. It was the blood. The scent of it. The feel of it beneath his nails. How it sounded when he'd stepped in it, trying to calm Ozzie down, trying to make sure he didn't hurt himself when the  EMT's  inevitably had to sedate him. It didn't matter what he did, the blood always clung to him.

Later, Ozzie would feel relieved. He wasn't in this alone. James got it, if only a little.

Later, he'd feel guilt.

Later, still there would be anger. Anger at James for putting this thing behind himself so easily and moving on. Anger at Toni for not being able to understand. Anger at himself for feeling that way.

Right now, though, with his memories fuzzy and a strange, blood curdling sort of scream ringing in his ears, Ozzie was glad he felt nothing at all; it was more than he could hope for in truth. He closed his eyes, vaguely registering the hands on his body and letting that all-consuming blankness edging in the back of his mind pull him under.

***

Fear. It forces him to keep moving. To keep running.

And he is. Running. Ozzie is not entirely sure why or from what, but that doesn't change the fact that he's afraid. It doesn't change the fact that he can feel the very real anxiety crawling in the pit of his stomach. It doesn't change the fact that the hair on the back of his neck is standing on end.

His arms saw through the air and he gasps for breath through dry, chapped lips. He has to resist the urge to look behind him, scared of not knowing and scared of knowing what's chasing him. Paradox. Duplicity. It's the most hated conundrum of the human condition in Ozzie's humble opinion-an expected if not disappointing human inconsistency.

Ozzie's legs pump in time with his pounding pulse. His breath comes in short quick bursts that leave his mouth like smoking tendrils. It mirrors the fog curling around his waist and legs like ghostly tentacles. The sensation is wet and slippery against his exposed skin-a little thick-a bit like running through molasses-

Only then those ghostly tentacles aren't so ghostly. Suddenly they're ghastly. They're ghastly and they're solid and they're very, very real and it's terrifying. They-it-catches him. They grab Ozzie. Hold him in place. Drag him down. The air is knocked from Ozzie's throat. He claws at the ground, nails leaving deep grooves in the dirt around him. He's struggling against it. But the hold only gets tighter. Only gets more painful. And-

The fog covers his body-

Burning-

Turning-

Trying to scream-

***

Time passed slowly. Or maybe it was quickly. If he thought about it more he'd realize that time flowed fluidly. When he was awake, he felt like he was asleep, everything fuzzy and unfocused, voices and sounds and sights whisking over his head like saucers, too quick to really process. But that was preferred. Ozzie liked that, liked the fuzz and static over his mind when he was awake. It was nice. Made him empty and filled the dark parts of his mind with cotton, sponging away the things he didn't want to see. The things he didn't want to remember.

But it was only a reprieve. At night, he remembered. At night, when his body finally succumbed to sleep, everything came bubbling to the surface-a tidal wave of tar and oil and it made him want to burn. He wanted to burn like a pyre. Wanted the pain of Joan of Arc. The witches of Salem. He wanted fire and the scent of ash, the jeers of bigots in his ears. He wanted to rise from the embers, a phoenix, reborn whole and strong and perfect.

He'd light his insides on fire if he could have that for even a moment.

It didn't happen.

Of course, it didn't. Why expect anything else? His mind was no longer his own, no longer his to control, it wasn't his refuge, it was a stranger's and he was taking refuge in a stranger's house.

The stranger didn't like him much at all.

At night, he had no escape and that's when the stranger would come to play, bringing up images of blood and screams-of whisper thin 'Guddu's' thrown from bloodied lips. Night was the time he saw the Monster, the beast with eyes like a cat and a head like a snake's. He could hear its voice, feel that rasping laughter and see that ghastly not-smile full of teeth and filled with malice. Night was the time he wished he was awake. But when he was awake he wished he was asleep. Limbo. He was in constant flux, neither here nor there.

It took three days for the static to finally leave his brain, but even then, he didn't say anything. He just stared at the small calendar sitting next to his hospital bed and listened to the incessant beeping of the machines attached to him. James was a constant fixture by his side. His face looked pinched, skin washed out and pale in a way Ozzie had never seen, but he was there, sometimes a comforting hand over his own, sometimes a warm chest flush against his back.

He didn't see much of Toni in that time. He figured she was busy getting everything squared away and probably keeping the police from constantly knocking on his door.

Because his parents were dead. Murdered in front of him.

Fuck.

He felt James tighten his grip around his waist.

"Go back to sleep, Oz," he whispered, shifting so his head rested mostly on the pillow and not Ozzie's bony shoulder.

Ozzie opened his mouth-I can't-They're dead-Fuck-Shit-What about your movie? -Shouldn't you be back in L.A-closed it. A wounded noise left his throat instead, loud and desperate enough to have James man-handle Ozzie into his chest, rubbing his back. He curled around him, a wall between Ozzie and the outside world.

"It's going to be okay, Ozzie," he said, "it's going to be okay."

Ozzie burrowed his face deeper into James' chest. He smelled the days old sweat that clung to him, felt his breath against the hairs of his neck. He wanted to believe him. He really did. But he couldn't, because behind the comfort and the bluster of strength James put on for him was a crack. He saw it every time he looked into James eyes.

Nothing was going to be okay again.

Another three days passed with hardly a sound from Ozzie. Toni came by every morning and every evening, but she never spent the night. Ozzie wasn't sure why. Maybe she blamed him for her brother's death. Maybe seeing James wrapped so tightly around him put her off. He didn't know. He didn't really care either.

(Except he really, really did)

A week came and went. James had been forced out halfway through that to get some sleep in a real bed but he'd hardly been gone an hour before he'd had to come rushing back. Ozzie doesn't remember this but he'd apparently flipped his fucking shit. People stopped trying to get rid of James after that though.

A week and a half later, Ozzie finally spoke.

It was late, nothing but the glow of a waning moon and the dimmed hall lights peaking underneath the door to outline James' silhouette. He was sitting by the window, the edge opened a crack, chain smoking through a pack of Marlboros. His cellphone rested in his free hand, bouncing against his thigh. His expression was more pinched than usual.

Ozzie wet his lips, felt the chapped skin under his skin and slowly pushed the air out of his lungs.

"You need to go back," he rasped.

James jerked in his seat, dropping his cigarette with a curse and quickly stepping on it with his boot. He picked it up, tossing it into the trashcan he'd dragged to sit next to him. "What?"

"You need to go back," Ozzie repeated. His voice went out half way through the sentence and he cleared throat. James got up, pulling a water bottle out of his overnight bag. He placed it on the edge of the bed. Ozzie took a tentative sip.

"Back where?" James asked with a frown.

Ozzie set the water bottle down, letting it roll down the hill of legs. "To L.A." He stated plainly.

"Oz-"

"You know I'm right Jay," He looked down, focusing his eyes on the faint glow of James' smart phone. "You have to go back. You can't keep stalling. Your career is too new. They'll kick your ass out of Hollywood if you don't."

James let out a breath, raking his hands through the dark curls on top of his head, pacing back and forth. "Dude," he laughed a dry bitter sound, "fuck Hollywood, you-"

"I'll-I-" Ozzie wrung his hands in his lap. "You need to worry about you."

"And who'll worry 'bout you?"

Ozzie shrugged. "I got Toni."

James scoffed. "Doesn't feel like it."

Ozzie tensed, hunched over himself, shoulders to his ears with nails digging into his palms. His bangs fell over his eyes. "She just lost them too."

James stopped pacing, turning to face him, looking, really looking. Ozzie looked back through his periphery, lip worried between his teeth and he could tell the moment everything sunk in for James because he collapsed back in the cheap plastic chair by the window; a puppet with its strings cut. Suddenly he just looked tired. Worn and older than what his eighteen years should.

James tilted his head back, his skull thunking against the baby blue wall behind him and closed his eyes. He scrubbed his hands over his face, Adam's apple bobbing in his throat. A couple minutes passed in silence, Ozzie chewing incessantly at his lip, James with his hands over his face like a prayer.

"Are you sure, Oz?" He rumbled, voice low and even in the half-light.

"Honestly?" Ozzie asked, "fuck no."

James huffed out a breath, small half smile tugging at his lips. "That makes two of us then."

"Peas in a pod, us."

"Romanoff and Stark, kicking ass and taking names." James straightened, and leaned forward, arms hanging over the gap of his thighs, sobering as he looked at Ozzie. "This mean you gonna talk to the police now?"

Ozzie shrugged, chuckling mirthlessly. "Gonna have to I guess. Fuck."

James nodded. "Fuck," he agreed.

"Ay," Ozzie jerked his head in the direction of the nearly empty pack of Marlboros on the windowsill.

"Give me a fucking cigarette."

James rolled his eyes but tossed the pack of cigarettes over to him. Ozzie tapped the last one out, sticking it between his lips. James walked over with the lighter. Bending over, he lit the tip. Ozzie grunted in thanks, turning his head to blow the smoke away from his friend's face.

"If anyone asks, I didn't give you that."

Ozzie leaned back against his pillow. Nodding, he said, "tomorrow."

"Tomorrow." James agreed.

Ozzie handed the cigarette to James and that was that. Tomorrow.

Chapter Text

②⓪①⑤ 

Le Château Du Pain was a quaint little café tucked in a smallish corner of the Westwood Village and set on a strange triangular 'island' that seemed to stand stagnantly solid between the flow of its surrounding streets. Despite being open twenty-four hours, it wasn't the most well-known place in Los Angeles; most of its patrons came from the sleep deprived students at the university a few streets over.

Le Château didn't have much to boast for. The view wasn't spectacular, only concrete sidewalks with tall glass and cement structures reaching towards the sky like stubby metal fingers to see. The façade could use another coat of paint, but it smelled of freshly baked bread and the usually blaring sound of traffic was nothing more than a dull hum in the background. Tinny pop music whispered through tiny hand-sized speakers in the corners of the room, the warm pastel green colour of the walls just as soothing as the abstract art hanging from them. And, of course, the bread was to die for. Though Ozzie found he couldn't stomach much of anything.

There was a half-eaten croissant on the plate in front of him—cooling chocolate the same shade as his Aunt's skin oozing from its middle—and across from him Toni picked up her tea-cup, swirling the contents a moment before taking another small lukewarm sip. The bell of the door jingled behind her, but she ignored it in favor of reading the newspaper, a day-old addition of the LA Times, she'd brought over to the table after she'd placed their orders. Ozzie, toyed with the bread's flaky crust a moment longer before pushing it to the side and staring out the window.

It was a typical Saturday out there, albeit a wet one. Instead of short shorts and tank tops there were blue and gold umbrellas dotting the streets like little pockets of sky. A couple walked past hand in hand while a child skipped ahead of their parents, splashing gleefully in puddles. He turned away, taking a sip of his coffee. Toni, turned the page of her newspaper, and broke off a piece of her garlic baguette, popping it into her mouth.

"This is nice, isn't it?" She asked casually. "Getting out of the house."

Ozzie drummed his fingers against the edge of the table. "Sure Toni, s'nice, I guess." His phone pinged with an incoming message from SnapChat, "got free wi-fi at least. Den/Den, that."

"I never understood why you started saying that," Toni said, setting the newspaper down and settling her gaze on Ozzie as he tapped at his phone. The snap was from James: 'What did the fox say?' It read, a picture of him eating cereal, shirtless and sleep rumpled was attached. The focus of the snap though was James' slippers, which were shaped like sleeping foxes and resting in the foreground on a coffee table. "dehn-ah-dehn."

Ozzie snorted, placing his phone in his lap before sticking his tongue out at the camera and flipping it the bird. 'Give James his phone back Clint.' He hit send, not bothering with a filter. He placed the phone back on the table and cracked his neck, shrugging at Toni.

"It's like ten out of ten, but cooler: Den/Den." He said, pushing his clear-framed glasses up his nose and taking another swig from his coffee mug. It was a rich, relatively dark brew, spiced lightly with something sharp, cinnamon probably, and made smooth with a bit of cream and sugar.

Toni hummed noncommittally. "So," she began, "you'll be going out with James tonight? Have a 'bro night'?" She used finger quotes at the end of her sentence.

"I guess." Ozzie's phone pinged again and he opened the message. This one was of a disgruntled Clint, his hazel eyes narrowed to slits, a caramel hand stroking a small bundle of squirming fur. 'Fuck you birthday boy. How'd you know?' It read.

Ozzie snapped a picture of his croissant and typed: 'Because you're a fucking meme.' "Clint's coming too, I think."

"Ah," Toni chewed thoughtfully on another mouthful of her baguette before reaching over and stealing a piece of Ozzie's croissant. He slapped her hand away, "he's the party boy with the crooked teeth, yes?"

Another ping. 'I am not.'

Ozzie rolled his eyes. 'You named your cat Taco.' "Yeah?" He said, distracted.

"Mmm," Toni drained the rest of her tea, stacking the cup on top of her empty plate when she was done. "I don't like him."

"I know." He said. "He's really not that bad though," Ozzie frowned, biting his lip in thought, "just intense."

"'Intense'." Toni shook her head, crossing her arms over her chest. "That's one way of putting it." Ozzie forced himself not to say anything else, shoving a piece of chocolate croissant in his mouth instead. "How did they meet anyway?"

Ozzie shrugged. "The story's always changing. Just know he drives a Porche and loves memes."

"Lovely," Toni deadpanned. "Don't let him pressure you into anything. We just got your meds balanced again."

Ozzie frowned. "He's not going to drug me Toni, and 'm not an idiot either."

"After last time—"

Ozzie shook his head. "He didn't know Toni. Not his fault. James decked 'im for it anyway."

Toni scoffed. "And you wonder why I worry about you."

"You're allowed to."

The two lapsed back into silence and Ozzie finished his coffee. Ozzie managed to finish half his croissant, sporadically Snapping Clint and James before Toni spoke again.

"So, are we going to talk about it? What happened this morning?" Toni had started working on the crossword in the back of the newspaper, but she stopped to watch how he'd react. Her pencil hovered in the air above the paper. She raised a brow.

"'M fine," Ozzie mumbled.

"You had a panic attack Ozzie," she set the pencil down, "we're supposed to talk about them."

"I've had them before."

"Ozzie—"

Ozzie jerked his head at their surroundings. "Are we really going to talk about this here?" There weren't that many people inside the café—thankfully—just a half-asleep barista by the counter and a drab woman in black sitting at a corner table by the innermost wall of the building. Still, it was the principle of the thing. Ozzie was hyper aware of how public a place like this was.

"Would you talk about it later?" Toni asked.

Ozzie didn't have an answer for that.

"Didn't think so," She clasped her hands in front of her, "so you either talk to me or I can call Dr. Nelson."

"We can't afford another appointment right now if you can't pay the phone bill."

"Let the grown-ups worry about that huh?"

Ozzie glared. "That's low."

"Are you going to talk?"

Ozzie let out a breath, finishing the last of his coffee before speaking. "You can finish this," he said, wincing and pushing his plate over towards his aunt. She took it and began nibbling on the last of the croissant. She raised her eyebrow. Ozzie cleared his throat.

"You reminded me of mom." He said.

Toni paused, then swallowed. "What did I do?"

"You didn't...do...anything," Ozzie bit his lip, wringing his hands in his lap. "S'gonna sound stupid. It was nothing. You know I get edgy this time of year anyway."

"Ozzie, honey, it's not going to be stupid."

"'It'll be fun'," he whispered, "that's what triggered it. Pretty much the last thing she said."

"I'm sorry, Ozzie."

He shook his head, "S'fine, but," he coughed, "can we please go now? Sorta tired of whiny teeny boppers."

Toni chuckled and leaned back in her chair. "Yeah," she smiled, and nudged his foot with her boot clad feet. "Is there anything you want to do?"

He hummed to himself. "Could go for a movie right 'bout now."

Toni rolled her eyes. "Let me guess, the new Avengers one."

"It has Wanda," he defended, "and I've only seen it twice."

"'Only twice'," Toni sighed exasperatedly. "Fine. If the birthday boy insists."

Ozzie grinned, there and gone in a blink. "It's gonna be bad-ass, Tones."

"Bad-ass my ass," Toni grumbled, she started packing up her things, "and language Ozzie." She said belatedly.

Ozzie laughed.

Chapter Text

The Starbucks was packed, busy with hungover muscle clad college dudes in tanks and barely coherent nine-to-fivers in freshly pressed suits. Granted, it was also 8am on a Monday, so that was a bit of a given. Ozzie moved to stand in line, his hands shoved deep in the confines of his sweatpants and the hood to his hoodie pulled as far down over his face as possible.

There was a lot he could stand. Like waiting for his turn in the queue or the ugly dark brown sofas that broke up the rows of tables dispersed throughout the café or the fact the entire shop smelled bittersweet. He hadn't disowned James when he'd told him that his favorite superhero was the Hulk even though James knew Ozzie hated that guy. He could stand the staring, the constant silent judgement and pity and thinly veiled disgust in the eyes of anyone who saw his face, but the whispering... the whispering see...

That got to be a bit much. 

Because...

He could never tell if it was really there.

Or just the little demons in his head.

So, the hood stayed on. The line moved forward. Ozzie studiously avoided looking at the front page of the newspapers stacked on the stand beside him. He knew that they would no doubt have his face plastered all over them. It was a near thing though. There was a very big, almost prominent part of him that wanted to see. Wanted to know what they were labeling him today: Victim or Killer? He wondered when people stopped viewing him as a person and started seeing him as a sensation. Not even a martyr. Just... a thing. Ozzie's stomach lurched. He wondered when he had lost the reigns on his own narrative. He wondered when his life had stopped being his own.

This must be what James feels like, he mused, like a petri dish under a microscope.

The Starbucks was noisy. Not...loud per se, but noisy all the same. Loud in a droning sense; a lot of voices speaking in an enclosed space sense. Like a train station. Or maybe a packed theatre. Sort of echoey. It, also smelled like coffee and a little bit like burnt sugar but that wasn't surprising. What Starbucks didn't smell like coffee? Ozzie figured it would be weirder to find one that in fact didn't. Salt and caramel. Bittersweet.

"Good morning," a bubbly voice said when he reached the front of the queue. Ozzie had to resist the urge to flinch, "what can I get ya' this morning?"

" Café  Mocha,  venti ," Ozzie wet his lips. His voice was raspy, low, and sounded like too many cigarettes, "and that." He pointed to the row of chocolate croissants sitting behind the glass.

The cashier craned his neck around the display to see what he was pointing at. "The plain one?"

No, the chocolate . Ozzie took a breath. Bit his lip. Tapped his foot against the sole of his shoe. He could feel the lady next in line practically breathing down his neck. "Sure."

"Great!" The bubbly cashier said, ringing him up and taking out a cup,  venti  sized. He set it to the side, ready to scrawl Ozzie's name over it the moment he finished with the register. "That'll be seven fifty..." he trailed off, clicking open a sharpie pen and holding it poised right above the cup's Starbucks logo.

"Oz-," Ozzie coughed, glancing behind him. He was taking too long, people were staring, he could feel it. Could see the agitation on their faces. If he took much longer they'd start asking questions and then everyone would know- He took out his wallet, sliding a ten across the counter. "-car," he finished, "Oscar."

"Okay, Oscar, would you like your croissant heated?" He handed Ozzie back his change.

"Uh, yeah," he mumbled, absentmindedly shoving the bills and coins back in the folds of his wallet.

"Wait over there," the cashier pointed to a clear spot off to the side, it was actually pretty isolated from the rest of  café  goers. Ozzie frowned. Did that mean he knew? Was he not keeping his head down enough? Was his voice too recognizable? Maybe his clothes-

"It'll be a minute."

Ozzie blinked, worrying his bottom lip between his teeth as he took a step back. He eased the tension clutched in the hands he'd unconsciously balled into fists. "Course," he said and cleared his throat.

"Next!" The cashier called, bringing that too bubbly smile back to his face for the next patron. Ozzie moved aside, his shoulders hunched and head down. He walked to an empty spot off to the side. It was between an artificial fern and the bathrooms. All things considered it was a pretty okay spot for him. The noise was dampened a bit in this corner of the  café  and the burning itching feeling of eyes on the back of his neck lessened some as well.

That was until a young college aged sorority girl walked out of the bathroom and made eye contact with him.

The moment was almost comical. There was a moment where neither of them moved; her eyes widened like saucers and Ozzie just stood there with a vaguely horrified expression.  Just turn around. Don't say anything. Just ignore her. Break eye contact.  Ozzie took a breath. Slowly broke eye contact. His body turned. With stiff steps, he forced himself to make his way towards the front of the Starbucks.

Don't scream.  He silently pleaded.  Please don't scream. I'm not a murderer. I'm not a murderer. I'm not a-

She screamed. Ozzie bolted.

Victim or Murderer.  Ozzie figured it was probably obvious which category she fell into.

When Ozzie got back to the hotel he and Toni were staying at she didn't even ask why he was back so soon. She just offered a brief nod in his direction before going back to her phone call. He knew it was probably important but...

He felt invisible.

***

He was losing time. Ozzie was pretty sure of it. It wasn't anything drastic. Just small things. He'd look up at the ceiling and it would be noon and he'd look to his side what felt like a moment later and boom. Stars. He'd shrugged it off before. He figured he was just falling asleep, it wasn't really like he had all that much to do but watch T.V but he'd quickly gotten sick of that after discovering every other channel seemed to be talking about him. That was a bit of a turn off.

So, he slept. Or at least he'd thought so. Until he'd woken up with painted nails and no idea how he'd gotten them in the first place.

***

His mind's a blur. He's floating, flying, soaring away and all that grounds him to the Earth is his body alight with unparalleled sensation. Frustration. Greed. He goes with it. Focuses on that. On feeling. He draws his fingers across the clothed skin in front of him, hooks an arm against the neck of the body behind him. People want a show? A smirk graces his lips and it's anything but innocent. He sways. He moves. He's euphoric. He's alive. He's free. He's-

***

Disassociation: The separation of normally related mental processes, resulting in one group functioning independently from the rest, leading in extreme cases to disorders such as multiple personality. Symptoms include mild to severe detachment from surroundings, the inability to recall significant personal memories, and general memory loss as placed in tandem with amnesia. His phone trembled in his hands. He was disassociating. Coping really. At least that's what google told him. Ozzie figured he probably wasn't as okay as he thought he was.

He scrubbed the make-up coated to his skin and tried not to puke.

***

"You look stressed." A glass of... something, Ozzie doesn't even know, is placed in front of him, jolting him back into the now. He picks it up without a second glance and knocks it back with barely a wince. Whatever. The cup is real. The dude who gave it to him is real. He's real and a more than welcome distraction.

"Rough night?" the dude asks, sounding way more amused than he should be in Ozzie's professional opinion.

"I need a cigarette." He grumbles. "And another one of whatever the fuck this is."

***

He came back to himself for all of a second. To a cacophony of pulsing lights and crammed bodies. He vaguely registered the sensation of hair against his shoulders and that he was in a dress. It was a semi shear backless thing that clung to every inch of his skin. Then he was drowning again. Put to sleep in his own head.

***

Ozzie climbs over the couch, straddling Dude Number Six's waist, and leans back in for another kiss. This one is deeper--more tongue, less clacking and more lip--and Dude Number Six sighs into it, wrapping his arms around the small of Ozzie's back, pulling him closer. Ozzie hums, letting his hips meet Dude Number Six' before possessively snaking a hand around the nape of his neck.

"You smell different," Dude Number Six comments off-handedly between kisses, breathless, "muskier."

Ozzie tenses. "Mmm," he hums, trailing his lips down the side of Dude Number Six' porcelain neck, nipping and biting sporadically on his way.

"St-stop, distracting me," Dude Number Six stutters, threading a hand through Ozzie's hair and giving him more room.

"You didn't ask a question," Ozzie murmurs, lips now roaming against Dude Number Six' ear, "you made a statement. Do you need an example? That's a question."

Dude Number Six, moves his hand down to grip Ozzie's almost non-existent ass. He gives it a light tap. "You know what I mean you mouthy bitch."

"I'm wounded, dickless," he mumbles dryly while running a hand up Dude Number Six' naked torso and twisting a nipple. Hard. "It's your roommate's, by the way."

Dude Number Six gasps with a wince, letting go of Ozzie's hair to rub his no doubt red nub. "O-oh." Ozzie feels a sick sense of satisfaction. "Why?"

"Why what, Dude?" Ozzie smirks, a teasing lilt to his voice.

"Why are you wearing her shirt, asshole?"

The teen tenses again. Dude Number Six frowns and sits up. "Did something happen?" Ozzie blinks.

A pause, then--

"No."

"Are you okay?" Dude Number Six tries running his hands up and down Ozzie's sides.

Ozzie sighs, crossing his arms over his chest. "I'm fine," Ozzie says and looks down at Dude Number Six with hooded, hungry eyes. Ozzie's hand reaches between them, coiling around the hem of Goldie the majestic booty shorts.

"Do you really want to talk about your roommate right now?" Ozzie's voice is light and teasing.

Dude Number Six smacks him on the ass. "Stop that."

Ozzie blinks. Then glares. Then goes blank as a piece of slate. "Stop what?"

"You're trying to distract me with your body," Dude Number Six hisses.

Ozzie rolls his eyes. "Of course," he says, leaning down to bite the unmarked side of Dude Number Six' neck, "is it working?"

"Yes! No! Fuck! Just take off the damn shirt."

"Will you drop it if I do?"

Dude Number Six groans, biting his lip, but nods. If Ozzie doesn't want to talk then he isn't. "For now."

"Tolerable," Ozzie takes off the shirt, tossing it blindly to the floor, "now can we continue? I'd really rather talk about what I was thinking over there." He grabs the front of Dude Number Six' shorts.

***

Ozzie woke up in a shower. Naked. Sore. Sticky. There were bruises on his arms and when he brushed his fingers over his neck it twinged. So probably hickeys too. His mouth felt gummy and his jaw ached more than that one time he'd had a cavity when he was eleven.

Shakily he got to his feet. He had no idea where he was. No idea where his things were. His head pounded like crazy and-

Francis makes it...more. Francis is the one that moves their hands like a tease, raises an eyebrow like a challenge to anyone who catches his--their eye. It's Francis that cares about EDM and make-up and ridiculously garish and impractical fur coats. Francis adds a sway to their hips that's downright obscene with the way it draws attention to their tightly leather clad ass and Ozzie feels-Francis feels-They feel-What exactly?

The smile on his lips feels real-

The pounding in his chest feels real-

The wild energy urging him farther better faster stronger feels real-

A hand on their shoulder. "Ozzie."

Ozzie freezes, lurching backwards in his mind, one hand on the wheel the other out the metaphorical door-

Francis is not Ozzie. Francis is his own person and he is not afraid. He turns, drags their eyes obviously over the man (young adult, post adolescent) in front of them. His hair is black like Francis' but curly instead of straight and not streaked with flamboyant neon highlights like their own. Ozzie knows this man-

But Francis, Francis does not. Or he isn't supposed to, so he raises an eyebrow and he can see the moment the young man registers the subtle differences that make him Francis and not Ozzie- Nothing overt. At the end of the day their body is the same, yet the eyes, the curve of their lips. That is different. Radically different-

Memories. Details. Sensations. Words like "best-friend" and "family". Pale skin he (Francis-Ozzie-no Francis) knows will bruise if you punch him on the shoulder. A steadying grip just a shade too hard. Warmth. The smell of weed and heat and browning leaves--

Francis winces and closes his eyes, the overly saccharine smile on his lips twisting into a grimace.

"Ozzie-" James says again, his hands (familiar comforting home-) resting firmly on Francis' shoulders, "Where've you been? Toni-I've-we've all been worried about you, ever since you uh," James rubs the back of his neck looking uncomfortable and worried at the same time, "ran off."

(im sorry i didnt mean to it was too much is too much i cant im sorry im sorry im sorry i-)

Ozzie opens his mouth and Francis snaps it shut before anything embarrassingly sentimental and horribly out of character can come out. Francis coughs; feigning confusion, he says. "Sorry to disappoint handsome," he makes his smirk lascivious, and his voice is lightly accented with something bordering on French. "but I'm not your guy. Really is a shame though, you're cute."

James blinks. Squints his eyes. Blinks again. Backs up a step and good, this is what he wanted, what he needed. He needs James to back off, to back off before-

"Bullshit."

Francis' smirk drops. He opens his mouth to snap something else back, white fur coat hanging around his shoulders. He doesn't care who this boy is to Ozzie, he's nothing to him. Francis is courage personified to the point of stupidity. No one could force him to back down so why would this boy-

(a mantra of James James James in the back of my mind it pounds like a drum and I cringe I need I need I need-)

Francis gasps. Stumbles forward as a searing pain ratchets through his skull. It feels like his mind is breaking, splitting, melting into two. Into three. Because he can feel that other, that voice guiding Francis to the surface and Ozzie to the depths and it's desperate.

He feels it. He feels it clinging to the edges of both their psyches--

and he knows what's going to happen even before he slips to the ground.

He knows what's going to happen when he sees the worried faces in front of him. He knows when he hears the music stop and the lights turn on and all he can hear is a distant ringing. His screaming. He knows...

Everything goes black, his body falling limp into James' solid grip.

Chapter Text

The door to the mini-mart opened with a faint hiss as Ozzie stepped inside. Water dripped from the fringes of his clothes and across the bright linoleum floor, the soles of his beat-up converse squeaking over it. His hands were shoved in his pockets, a couple mashed twenties in his closed palms. The feel of his wallet was a solid weight against his fists.

The rain had picked up again after the movie, turning the sky a roiling gray and whipping the wind to and fro between the fronds of the palm trees lining Santa Monica Boulevard. Taking a breath, he loosened his shoulders, walking towards the snack aisle. The shelves were full of chips and colorful looking candies, some hard, some soft; a rainbow of corn syrup and preservatives. His steps squelched obscenely with each one he took. He glanced out a rain splattered window to where Toni's beat up Prius sat waiting by a gas pump. And people say we're in a drought.

Taking his hands out of his pockets, Ozzie pulled down his hood. He rubbed them together, blowing in the space between them. His pants felt clammy and glued to his legs, his shoes like soggy puddles. He really should've brought an umbrella. He looked back down at the chips in front of him. Pringles. Ruffles. A couple different flavors of Lays before getting into those cheap knock-offs with weird cheese bunnies on them. He grimaced at the sight, grabbing a bag of Ruffles, cheddar and sour cream flavored. He looked back up.

There weren't too many people inside the mini-mart. A droopy-eyed acne ridden cashier, early twenties at the most, flipped through a magazine at the register, her neon nails tapping against the counter top. There was a mother and her child, the child pointing at everything in the store going 'what's that?' 'what's that?' and, finally, a woman dressed in all black. She stood off to the side, a Brisk in one hand, magazine in the other. Ozzie blinked. Her hijab was wrapped around her head and a shroud was draped around the rest of her. Something about her though, beyond her dress...it was in her stature and build, it reminded him of his mother, of his--

***

(" Ammi !  Ammi !" Ozzie called, bounding down the hall towards his parent's room. James had just found the coolest rock ever. It was round and smooth and sorta looked like there was a smiley face etched in the middle. If you squinted. He couldn't wait to show his  Ammi ! Skidding to a halt, he stopped in the doorway, large smile on his face. "Look at what James found!" He said, thrusting his hand out and holding the rock up for inspection. His  Ammi  turned, and the smile slowly slid from his face, replaced with a confused sort of frown. She was dressed funny, covered head to toe so that only her warm brown eyes showed.

She bent forward, taking Ozzie's hands in hers. "Ah!  Guddu ! What a pretty rock!" She gushed. "Almost looks like it's smiling, no?"

Ozzie blinked, tilting his head to the side. He went to pull at the scarf around his mother's head, but she stopped him with a gentle squeeze of his hand. "Where  are  you going  Ammi ?" He asked. He didn't understand why she was dressed like that, covered from head to toe when it wasn't even Halloween, but he knew it had to mean something.

Her eyes crinkled at the corners and she patted the top of his head. "I'm going to see my  Ammi  and  Fafa ." She said.

"Oh," Ozzie said, "can I come?" He'd never met his  Ammi's   Ammi  or  Fafa . Only his dad's. When he thought about it, that was decidedly strange. He nodded to himself. "I want to come." He decided.

His mother laughed, but shook her head. "Oh,  Guddu . You can't come." She  bopped  him on the nose. "You're not old enough."

"But-"

"No." She said again. And Ozzie crossed his arms over his chest, bottom lip jutting out. His  Ammi  tutted to herself, wrapping him up in a warm hug. "Don't be sad,  Ammi  will be back before you know it. Besides if you came along who would keep your  Fafa  company?"

Ozzie hugged her back, burying his face in her heavy dark clothes. He could barely smell the usual lavender scent that clung to his mother through them. "Fine," Ozzie mumbled, "I'll stay."

"There's my good boy."

She never did bring Ozzie with her. Ozzie figured he'd just never gotten old enough.

And he never would.)

***

Ozzie shook his head. The woman in black was staring at a point to the right. He followed her gaze. It was set on a T.V, mounted to a small unobtrusive corner of the wall, the news crackling out through old tinny speakers.

WEST HOLLYWOOD SNATCHER STRIKES THE NORTH?

The caption read in bold print. It was followed by three pictures. Jacob Davis, an average looking eighteen-year-old boy with an unflattering bowl cut and braces. The next picture was of a girl, Samantha Boveen. It said she was eighteen. A year younger than himself. Sam looked older than that in her picture, though. The image looked like a prom photo. Something yanked off Facebook and taken at least semi-professionally.

Finally, there was Martin Hoover. Sixteen, and probably at least decently popular seeing as his picture was of him and couple guys from what Ozzie assumed was their baseball team. Apparently, they'd all last been seen in Silicon Valley (about eight hours north of L.A) in the area around a popular gay club called Eden - a name that was shared with its WeHo counterpart down here in L.A.. The same name where another wave of kidnappings had taken place not too long ago. Ozzie felt his stomach twist and he looked away.

"It's sad, isn't it?" A voice said from beside him. Ozzie jumped, twisting to look behind him and almost popping the bag of chips open in the process. It was the woman in black. Ozzie shifted on the balls of his feet, gaze darting from her face, where he could just make out the emerald quality of her eyes and back up to an unspecified spot a little to the left of her.

"Uh," he wet his lips, rubbing the back of his head, "yeah," he said, standing awkwardly in the middle of the snack aisle. "It-uh-sucks-you know? What happened to those kids." He finished lamely.

The woman hummed in agreement and Ozzie let out a breath, thinking that was the end of the conversation. He began to make his way towards the cashier, snagging a Snickers bar for Toni on the way. Suddenly the woman spoke again.

"You are thinking of the families. How worried they must be." It wasn't a question.

Ozzie frowned, not turning around this time. "Sure. I mean, who wouldn't?" His hands clenched at his sides. "No one should have to lose someone like that. It sucks."

"Most wouldn't care," she continued, "not their problem after all."

Ozzie set his jaw, finally making it to the cashier and placing his items on the counter. The mother and child had just left the mart, heading back towards a white sedan. It was just the three of them in the store now.

"Forty on seven." He mumbled, pulling out the rumpled twenties and a five from his wallet. The cashier drummed her nails on the counter, before sticking a piece of gum in her mouth.

"You want a bag with that?" She drawled, ringing him up.

"No," Ozzie rubbed his thumb over his mouth, glancing back out the window where it was still raining steadily, "actually yes."

She handed him his bag and change and Ozzie nodded his thanks, skirting around the woman in black on his way out. She made no move to stop him, but he could feel her eyes on him. Watching. Following. He shivered. He felt jittery and off balance, his fingers flexing against the brown paper of the bag. He reached the entrance of the mini-mart. The door slid open with that faint ring and he pulled on his hood.

"Be careful, Ozzie."

Ozzie froze and not because of the hand that wrapped suddenly around his arm.

He swallowed. "How do you-" He began.

"Beware limbo," She said, and there was a fire behind her eyes, in her words, behind the faint lilt he could hear colouring her vowels now that he was paying attention. Her grip tightened on him, deceptively strong, and he winced. "Believe me, because I know you aren't like most people."

Carve your own path.

"Wha-" he started.

"Do you understand?"

He didn't. "Y-yeah." He mumbled, trying to pry her fingers off his bicep.

She looked at him a moment longer and nodded, letting go with a sigh. "Good." She said.

With that last word, she walked out, unscrewing the bottle of Brisk she'd kept gripped in her other hand and flipping her magazine open to a random page with her other. She quickly made her way across the lot and he quickly lost sight of her amidst all the flashing lights and umbrellas. He frowned. Something bothered him about her exit, well besides the creepy psychic shaman treatment. He stepped out a little after her, heading back to Toni's Prius. A drop of rain trailed down his nose.

He stopped.

Blinked.

Looked back up at the sky. A chill ran down his spine.

That's what it was.

She didn't get wet.

Chapter Text

They don't believe me. Those were the four words that kept going through Ozzie's head when the police took his statement. They won't believe me. He could see it on their faces. That slightly incredulous furrow of the brow when he told them about... The Beast. Ozzie winced, rubbing the skin of his elbow and bringing it closer to his chest. His body was physically fine, he knew that. The doctors had told him that. Anything he felt now was purely psychosomatic, but-

(He couldn't move. He couldn't scream. He could do nothing but sit there useless and wide-eyed as his fathers choked off yell filled his ears and his mother's raw and blubbering cry of Guddu! Guddu! Just leave my Guddu alone! pierced his soul-)

"Ozzie?"

Ozzie flinched. His bangs hung over his face like a curtain and his too-thin frame looked even smaller in the over-large hospital gown they'd given him. He licked his lips. They felt raw and chapped and sore under his tongue. His legs were crossed at the ankles and a thin scratchy hospital blanket was draped over his feet.

They don't believe me.

"Ozzie," the doctor, ever patient, called for his attention again. Crow's feet wrinkled the edges of the doctor's eyes and flecks of gray dusted his hair, "I need you to talk to me."

Why? So, you can tell everyone that I'm crazy? That I'm too traumatized to know what I saw? 'Course.

Ozzie laughed. Or at least it was his best approximation of one. It barely qualified really but what else was he going to call the mirthless exhale? A sob? No. No matter how much more accurate that title might have been, he refused... He couldn't... If he cried now...

(The scaly fist gripped Ozzie's arm, those swimming serpentine eyes fluctuating between hues of burning red and ice-cold blue. He was paralyzed. Hypnotized. Transfixed by the very power of his fear and by the ever-tightening grip on his arm-)

The doctor sighed. Adjusted his tie, a little frayed and well loved, over the slight mound of his belly. Pushed his large framed glasses up on his nose. "Ozzie-," the doctor began. He sounded tired, "why are you laughing?"

Why?...

Slowly, Ozzie brought his head up to stare at the man sitting in the chair at the foot of the bed. And it was the, he realized. The- Not his-never his; this hospital wasn't a home. It was a dorm. A prison. A temporary lodging, one he didn't have the privilege to leave yet. (Again) "I heard you talking," Ozzie said in lieu of anything else. His voice was like sandpaper: crackly and rough. "You're here 'cause everyone thinks 'm crazy."

Do you even know what you saw in the first place? Does it matter?

The doctor squirmed under his stare. "That's not what people are saying."

Ozzie scoffed, looking back down at his lap and twisting the sheets between his toes. "Isn't it?"

"Of course not. I just want to hear the story from you." Does it matter? They're dead- Dead. Dead.

(Something woke him up. At first Ozzie wasn't sure what. He figured it was James shifting in his sleep, but no. James was gone and Ozzie wasn't on the balcony anymore and it looked like he hadn't been for some time. He must've been more tired than he thought to sleep through James clumsily lifting him into his bed.

But then what-

Crash!

Ah. That.

Groggily, Ozzie rubbed his eyes and threw off his covers, a comforter with an assorted assemblage of Avenger's regalia, and padded across the carpeted floor to the door. It was probably just his mom. She had a penchant for late night packing, never satisfied with what was stuffed in their suitcases until five minutes before they had to leave. Ozzie sighed, twisting the handle on his door and stepping into the hallway.

The home had a very open floor plan. Modern and minimalistic, it was extremely geometric, what with its long swaths of white walls forming harsh angles with the black hardwood floors and floor to ceiling windows. There was supposedly something Zen or maybe Shinto (definitely Asian) about the design. It was his mother's choice, Ozzie knew. His mother had always liked homes with lots of sunlight and room for her gardens. Just like she had always played with keeping her chi and chakra and aura and whatever else as spiritually healthy as possible. It was no surprise she'd gotten his father to accommodate that. Besides Ozzie couldn't complain. They'd been great for his art and Cynthia had always looked so pretty sitting under the cherry-blossoms in the central gardens... Head tossed back and laughing at whatever dorky thing he'd said at the time...

Ozzie yawned and scratched an itch on his chest, one hand on the rail. For some reason that thought didn't hurt quite as much as it usually did. Guess he was getting over her after all.

Only took getting high and making out with your best friend to do it, he mused with just a hint of self-deprecation. Progress really. All in all, he'd consider that a win.

He walked down the steps, a set of suspended light brown wooden planks, to the ground floor. There was a light on at the end of the hall. Ozzie rolled his eyes and made his way over.

"Ammi," he began, sounding sleep rumpled and stiff, "you checked all our bags this morning, go to sleep."

He reached the room where the light was coming from.

And stopped.

That wasn't his mother.

Ozzie blinked. Later he'd blame his idiocy on being half-asleep, but at the time the only thing he could think to say was: Who the fuck are you?

So, he did.

Then the Beast turned and-)

Ozzie shivered, his elbow throbbing at the memory and he clenched it tightly between the fingers of his right fist. He could feel his nails digging into the skin there, leaving faint little crescent moons across the golden hue of it.

He won't believe me.

"You won't believe me," Ozzie mumbled, tense.

"Try me."

He drew his legs up to his chest, resting his head on top of them. "My parents were murdered," he said, "but you know that."

The doctor nodded. "I do. At this point, probably the entire country knows."

Ozzie bit at his thumb nail and rubbed the digit between his lips. "You wanna know 'bout the Beast then." Another nibble.

"Ideally yes. I would like to know about this 'beast'."

Ozzie shook his head. "Not 'beast'," he picked himself up enough to make finger quotes before sliding back down into his little right side up ball, "The Beast." He took a breath. Brought his thumb back to his mouth. Lightly bit the tip. "It wasn't a thing. It was a he," his voice dropped to a whisper, "he killed them."

The doctor shuffled in his seat. He brought something out of his pocket and set it on the edge of the bed. "Recorder," he said, "do you mind?" Ozzie shook his head.

"So, what did the Beast look like, Ozzie?"

"He looked," Ozzie licked his lips. Breathed deeply through his nose, "fuck, uh, shit," there was a tremble running up his arm. A tightness in his throat. He bit his nail hard enough to draw blood.

"It's okay, take your time."

"Sorry, 'm sorry," Ozzie scrubbed a hand over his face. It left a faint trail of blood across his cheek. Took another breath. "He looked," he started again, working past the lump in his throat, "like a man, but-he had like, these...scales...instead of skin and... claws instead of nails," he paused and bit his lip, "and his eyes were..." He trailed off.

(Eyes like fire and eyes like ice. Eyes that paralyzed and eyes too bright. Cunning eyes. Sly eyes. Snake eyes-)

"And," the doctor prompted, "his eyes were?"

Ozzie jerked, the muscles in his jaw tensing. "Like a snake. They were snake-eyes. 'N that's it."

"Nothing else? Can't describe what he was wearing? Any recognizable jewelry?"

Ozzie shook his head. "Nothing."

"Okay," the doctor sighed, "and you said this...Beast grabbed you?"

Ozzie nodded. "My elbow," he mumbled, "left a mark."

"Ozzie," the doctor said, sounding tired and full of pity at the same time, "you know there was nothing there, don't you?"

He doesn't believe me.

Ozzie's head snapped up.

You knew he wouldn't.

"'m not crazy," he glared at the man at the foot of his bed.

"Now I didn't say that, I just think that maybe you should consider-"

"'m not crazy."

"-that potentially what you saw, wasn't entirely accurate-"

"'m not crazy."

"-and this 'beast' was merely your minds way of coping with an event so monstrous that well-"

"'m not crazy!"

"-you know you had a psychotic break, don't you?"

"'M NOT FUCKING CRAZY!"

Ozzie couldn't say what in him made him react the way he did. Logically he knew it did nothing to help his case. It was just... He was just... He was just so angry. And so, tired. Tired of people treating him like glass. Tired of people looking at him like the bubonic plague. Tired of people thinking he was fucking crazy.

Tired of no one believing him.

His hands reached the lapel of the doctor's coat and the force toppled the both of them to the floor with a loud crash.

"'M NOT FUCKING CRAZY!" He yelled, weeks of pent up emotion bubbling to this surface, ""M NOT FUCKING CRAZY AND THE BEAST IS FUCKING REAL AND MY PARENTS ARE FUCKING DEAD NO ONE FUCKING BELIEVES ME!"

His hands trembled where they rested on the doctor's chest. Tears streamed down his face. "'M not fucking crazy," he said, "'m not. 'm not. 'm fucking not."

"Ozzie-" the doctor began.

Ozzie tensed.

"Are you calm? I need you to be calm," the doctor said, voice slow and even, a zookeeper taming a wild animal, "breathe with me."

His breathing slowed.

"That's it."

There was a tingle building in the palms of Ozzie's hands, vaguely uncomfortable like his fingers were falling asleep, but different. Static. Magnetic. Like something was trying to talk to him--get his attention--but he couldn't quite get the station. A frequency off-kilter. Ozzie tilted his head. He knew this feeling. He was  intimate  with it. He followed it. Leaned forward and let his instincts take over. Ozzie's hands gripped the doctor's tie, fingers curling around it like a vice--glued to the fabric. The place where that vaguely static feeling was strongest. A whisper.

There. This. He knew this. Visiting...

"Does she know?" He said, a huff of bitter air against the doctor's ear. "You don't love her. You've never loved  her . You can't."

"What?"

Ozzie leaned back, eyes rimmed in red, but smile sharp and edged like steel. "Your wife, didn't buy you this tie, did she?" He gripped the fabric between his fist and laughed, "bet she'd love to know you're fucking some  twink  on the side," he scrunched his face in a facsimile of pleasure, "'Ah! Harder, daddy!'" That bitter sneer, vindictive like a knife in the back, "that's what he calls you isn't it? Your little side beau," he leaned back down. Whispered in his ear. "Your Jake?"

The doctor's face paled, "How do you...?" and Ozzie...

Ozzie felt... Euphoric.

"'m not fucking crazy."

Chapter Text

We found love in a hopeless place.
We found love in a hopeless place. 
We found love in a hopeless place.
We found love in a hopeless place.

Rihanna's raspy warble blared through the radio's crappy speakers as Ozzie pulled his bare feet up onto his seat. He wiggled them, feeling the worn leather shift underneath his toes. They were driving back down Santa Monica Boulevard, passing Sawtelle and the Little Asia district that was filled with oriental cuisine and shops full of foreign knick-knacks. The tinny whine of We Found Love filled the car with mindless noise, almost drowning out the sound of water splashing up against the sides of its chrome exterior.

The sky was still grayed out but now, at least, it was a little less noticeable, what with the sun beginning to set behind the clouds. Drops of rain splattered against the windshield. They slithered across it only to be wiped away by the wipers and replaced with more rain a second later. It had a funny effect on the lights around him; they seemed to drag through the air, trailing behind their vehicles and across the dimming sky next to the neon signs of all the shops they passed.

(Though, maybe not. Maybe it was just in his head. Or maybe it was just because he was squinting. That was probably possible too he guessed.)

The world whizzed by and Ozzie watched it from his seat, his head against the cold glass of the passenger window. He'd stripped off his soaked hoody the moment he'd gotten back in the Prius, leaving himself in a thin albeit slightly less damp shirt and soggy sweatpants. Toni sat next to him nodding along to the electric stutter of the music coming from the radio. Her fingers drummed lightly against the steering wheel. He shivered.

Shine a light through an open door.
Love and life I will divide.
Turn away 'cause I need you more.

Ozzie sunk farther back in his seat, stretching one gangly arm out to turn the heater up. He rubbed his arms with the palms of his hands before wrapping them around his waist with a grimace. Cold fabric clung to his skin. The heat felt good though. Toni shot him a quick glance. "I hate rain," Ozzie said.

"You should have brought an umbrella then," Toni replied evenly.

Ozzie leveled her with the driest look possible. "Thank you. So much. Real helpful. Seriously."

Toni rolled her eyes before reaching over the console and patting his knee. "Don't be a baby, we're almost home."

"'M not. Just don't like the rain." Besides you're only saying that 'cause you weren't the one soaked to hell.

"Uh-huh," Toni brought her hand back to the wheel, "then stop pouting, you're nineteen years old Ozzie. Act like it."

He glared instead.

"That's better."

We found love in a hopeless place.
We found love in a hopeless place. 
We found love in a hopeless place.
We found love in a hopeless place.

The song ended with a drop that sounded so generic it had Ozzie's bleeding heart crying at the blatant lack of creativity. That definitely wasn't what Calvin had in mind. He mused with a wince. Judgmental? Probably. Still, he could've totally done better. You know, if he ever put more than one remix on YouTube a month.

Baby steps. Dr. Nelson was always going on about balance and positive reinforcement. And...other shit. It helped. Most of the time. Sometimes.

Sorta.

"That was the Sikk Mix with special guest DJ Shade!" The radio personality, a way too peppy sounding male that Ozzie didn't know the name of, said through the radio's speakers. "It's five-o-clock which means it's time for me to get off the air, but before I go let's give it up one more time for our no shame no gain pink haired wonder DJ Shade!" There was the sound of pre-recorded applause. "Hit him up tonight starting at nine-o'clock at-," Ozzie wrinkled his nose and made the executive decision to change the station. It landed on smooth Jazz. He mentally shrugged. Better than Shade. He hated that guy.

"Why'd you change the channel?" Toni asked, turning left onto Broadway. "I was listening to that."

'Not I' said the cat.

Ozzie curled back in his seat. He shifted, scooting his butt up on the cushion to get a little more comfortable. "Shade sucks." Ozzie mumbled. His head was pillowed in the small gap between the seatbelt and the headrest.

"Touchy," Toni drawled, flicking her blinkers on and switching lanes. "Sounded good enough to me."

"He sounds like a wannabe Zedd with none of the talent." His eyes were closed; his words slurred together.

"You sound jealous."

Ozzie scoffed. "'M not. 'M just...," he frowned, clearing his throat. "I know what I like."

"Uh-huh."

"Listen to your jazz, Toni."

Toni chuckled and Ozzie felt the Prius make another turn. The sound of traffic began to fade, replaced with the bumpy crunch of loose asphalt as they drove into the alley he knew from experience led to the back of their home.

It was a converted church. One that had been repossessed for whatever reason and that Toni had jumped in to buy and repurpose. The bottom floor served as a quaint bookstore, the top two floors their living quarters. She'd kept some of the original architecture: a few angelic looking statues here, the twin gothic looking spires that spiralled towards the sky there. Most of the windows had been replaced with typical double pane glass. All except the window of the Archangel Raphael in Ozzie's room. That he'd managed to keep.

The car made one final turn and slowed down. He heard Toni turn off the ignition, pulling out the key with a deft twist of her wrist.

"We're here," she said.

Ozzie slit open an eye. With a grimace he grabbed his soggy garments from the back and padded out the car.

"When did James say he'd be here?" Toni asked, locking the car.

"Five." Ozzie slid his house key in the lock, "I'll see if they're out front."

"Don't even think about leaving those clothes on the floor," Toni said sliding past him and into the dimly lit stock room. "You'll forget all about them and the next thing I know I'll have to deal with moldy socks."

"Wouldn't dream of it, Tones."

"Put them in the laundry room when you head up."

Ozzie nodded. "Will do."

He stepped out into the main foyer, nimbly navigating through the aisles of bookshelves in the store with his armful of clothes. It had a fairly open floorplan. One with lots of windows to let in the bright SoCal light. Well. At least when the sun was out. It looked like the rain was finally letting up though. Which. At this point kind of sucked. He stopped in the front. He may have hated the rain but he'd been hoping to use it as an excuse to not have to go out tonight. Looked like that wasn't going to happen.

Leaning over the back of one of the burgundy couches, he nudged a small green potted plant an inch to the left before looking outside. Run down Nissan. Toyota. Toyota. Honda. Ah. Obnoxiously garish hot pink Maserati at the end of the road. That would be James. He flicked on the light switch beside him, illuminating part of the street, and moved to open the door. Hopefully that would get their attention. He tossed his clothes onto the deep ruddy leather he'd just leaned on and went to wait by the register. He had a copy of The Perks of Being a Wallflower sitting on the shelf directly below it. He was just getting to the part where Patrick kissed Charlie when the door opened, the sound of wind wet roads filling the store. Ozzie set the book down and slouched on the stool. His back was propped against the wall.

"Yo," he said with a slight inclination of his head to the two figures standing in the threshold. One was tall and pale. A killowat smile on his lips and droopy, tired looking eyes on his face. His black curls hung delicately around his ears. They contrasted with the ivory hue of his skin. That would be James.

He wore a black wool trench coat and Ozzie could spot the faint emerald glint of the ring his friend wore around his finger. It was the same deep verdant shade as his eyes. That killowat smile grew wider, showing off his dimples and James nodded in response, walking the rest of the way inside the warm bookstore.

The other figure was Clint. Short with broad shoulders and a tapered waist, his dark skin was a startling contrast to James' and even Ozzie's own. His hair was buzzed, almost bald, making his pursed lipped expression look even more severe. He rested one hand on his hip, the other clinging to a couple plastic bags from H&M.

He shoved past James, strutting purposefully towards the counter where he dropped the bags in front of Ozzie.

"Open them," he commanded, drumming his painted nails against the countertop.

Ozzie blinked. "Uh.... Okay," he said reaching for the closer of the two.

James rolled his eyes and cleared his throat, walking a lot more leisurely towards the pair. "Not even gonna say hello?" He asked as he lightly smacked Clint on the back of the head. Clint gasped with affront. James turned to Ozzie. "Hey Oz," he said in that slow drawn out way of his, "and happy birthday."

"Uh-huh," Ozzie mumbled looking inside the H&M bag with a slight frown. He rubbed his thumb against his lip.

"I took the liberty of buying you a proper clubbing outfit," Clint waved his hand in Ozzie's general direction, "lord knows I'd rather be dead than caught with your usual brand of...," He wrinkled his nose, eyeing the sweats Ozzie was currently wearing. "Ugly."

"Clint," James hissed, "be nice."

Ozzie snorted.

Clint took a breath. "Oh, fine. Happy birthday," he said sounding entirely put upon. "You can thank me later."

"Course, Clint."

"Now!" He clapped his hands together and pointed right at Ozzie. "Take me to your fortress of solitude and make me look pretty. I fucking hate how you can contour better than me. It's such a blatant waste of talent."

"Shame I like being comfortable." Ozzie said dryly.

Clint clicked his tongue. "Beauty demands sacrifice and all that."

"Still would rather be comfortable."

Clint let out a sigh and placed a hand on Ozzie's shoulder. His expression spoke of tragedy and a deep seeded sadness in Ozzie's obvious fashion naivete. "One day you'll understand, my young padawan. One day."

Ozzie scoffed and began leading them up the stairs to the livable part of the building. The bags were clutched one in each hand. "Where are we going anyway?" He murmured.

"You mean after you make me look bomb as fuck in that closet you call a room?"

Ozzie rolled his eyes but nodded.

"Why then lovely James here shall escort us to Limbo! The most popular club in Hollywood at the moment. I hear they even have a super hype DJ playing tonight. Hashtag stoked."

Beware  Limbo

Ozzie stopped. "Limbo?"

"Yes, Ozzie, I already said that, please, I know it's hard but pay attention."

"Oh," he licked his lips and kept walking. "That's... Yay."

Beware Limbo.

"I know right?"

Beware Limbo.

Ozzie shook his head. It was just a coincidence right? The fact a creepy old lady who had mysteriously known his name warned him about 'Limbo' didn't mean anything at all right? His life was normal. Tragic. But normal. He was normal. Bone chilling premonitions didn't happen to normal people. They didn't.

Beware Limbo.

So why couldn't he quite bring himself to believe that?

Chapter Text

He felt like he was floating. Sinking. Suspended in a space where gravity didn't  exist.

But really, he was dying.

He was asleep. Or well, he wasn't asleep. He was awake, but his body was not his to control. Only he supposed it was. That was the only reason he could think of for the way his body was telling him:

You're dying.

***

Ozzie's  Ammi  brought the cake out before the gift. The final gift. He wasn't impressed. There should have been some rule against withholding potentially valuable gifts from excitable birthday boys. It was just cruel. If it wasn't for the fact that James had obviously perked up at the word 'cake' there would be nothing stopping the scowl ('Pout  Guddu , you're too cute to scowl' ' Ammi , stop it!') from showing up on his face.

The cake wasn't even chocolate (his favorite) but vanilla because he knew James wouldn't eat it otherwise (the weirdo somehow hated chocolate). Luckily Ozzie was like the world's bestest best friend ever (or something) and the sacrifice was one he was willing to make. He wouldn't tell James that though. He'd just get that moderately constipated look on his face and fake smile and laugh and call him a girl and Ozzie would be inclined to punch him for being unable to just say 'thanks dude!' which would put a damper on the whole 'world's bestest best friend ever' shtick he had going on.

***

He knew, just like he knew the feel of the sun on his skin or the softness of his blankets, that he was dying. That he wasn't breathing.

A few more minutes of this and it'd all be over, he mused.

In his mind's eye the light of the surface began to fade, to recede. He floated on.

***

Ozzie was no stranger to death. It didn't really bother him growing up, how it always seemed to be him that found the dead things. Like the birds with the broken wings, or the swarms of bees twitching on the ground on particularly cold winter mornings. It had never seemed like his fault was the thing. It was unrealistic to think that, wasn't it? They were already dead or dying when he found them. There was nothing he could have done to save them-he was a child not a doctor-nothing to do besides sit with the creature and hope that maybe the poor thing wouldn't feel quite so alone in its final moments.

It was sad, yeah, but...they weren't people. And maybe that was a little cold. Maybe that said something about the type of person he was, but he understood at a very young age that everything died. Nothing lived forever and death, just like birth and life were all part of the same vicious cycle. It wasn't violent. Even when he'd see a half-eaten, half decomposed carcass slowly rotting into the forest ground he wouldn't think it was violent. Not truly. It was survival. It was nature.

But then death had come for his parents and suddenly death didn't seem quite so benevolent or kind or natural at all.

Suddenly, it felt like it was his fault, because...because if he'd just gotten on the plane, if he hadn't delayed their departure because he wanted to see James again after not having seen him in over a year, then-Then they'd still be alive. They wouldn't have been brutally murdered in their house by that...that...thing, and he'd be sipping wine in Venice overlooking roads made of water and smelling putrid hot trash but he'd have been with his family and they'd have been alive and everything would have been good.

But he had delayed their departure. He had seen his parents get brutally murdered and he had been unable to do anything about it. He'd been frozen to the spot. And Ozzie was no stranger to death. Ozzie had once watched, with morbid curiosity, a Peregrine falcon dive out of the sky, screeching like a banshee as it sunk its claws into the meaty spine of an unsuspecting pigeon, its beak crashing into the  pigeon's  neck and tearing it open. Blood had drizzled off the hooked appendage, the pigeon barely able to let out one shrill undignified squawk before it was dead. It was brutal and swift and vicious and Ozzie...

Well, Ozzie had wanted to paint a picture of it.

***

"What are you thinking Ozzie?"

Ozzie blinked, his vision swimming for a moment before focusing back on the woman sitting across from him. She was older, probably in her late fifties with graying hair and a sharp looking black pant-suit. Her eyes were a cold almost colorless gray, the only three points of life shown in the startling blood red of her prada-esque heels, lips and nails. She looked more like a devil out for your soul than a doctor. Though he supposed the comparison isn't that far off. He felt his stomach start to churn and looked away.

"That you need to take of your shoes," he mumbled, fixing his eyes on the silver chain bracelet wrapped around his wrist.

He heard the lady, Dr.  Chausser  he remembered, sigh and the distinct sound of her heels dropping to the floor. He saw her put them behind her chair out of his periphery.

"Better?"

Ozzie looked up, licking his lips and clearing his throat. Dr.  Chausser's  expression was tight lipped-stern. Severe. "Y-yeah?" he wrung his hands in his lap.

No.

"No."

Dr.  Chausser  pursed her lips and narrowed her eyes. "What else?"

"Y-your l-lipstick."

"Mmm," she hummed, taking a tissue from the box beside her and wiping it across her lips. The red smeared across her skin, streaking between the white of the cloth in her hand. Ozzie clenched his fists and closed his eyes, breathing harshly through his nose.

"There," she said after a minute, "are you satisfied?"

Ozzie slowly brought his gaze back to her lips. They looked a normal if not slightly ruddy, pink. He nodded.

"Good," Dr.  Chausser  shifted in her seat, "then I'd like to try something with you. Something that may help you remember what you've forgotten and give you some closure."

Ozzie frowned, tilting his head to the side. "What?"

"Hypnosis."

***

Ozzie woke up with a gasp, Dr.  Chausser's  previously stern face looking wide eyed and worried.

"Fuck!" Ozzie breathed out, rolling onto his side and puking onto the floor. Chunks splattered against the ground and over Dr.Chausser's shear leggings.

"Ozzie--," she began, reaching out with one of those fucking painted talon-like monstrosities and Ozzie...

"Don't," He gasped, tears in his eyes and body thrumming with a nervous energy he couldn't place, "don't touch me."

Ozzie couldn't handle it.

"Don't fucking touch me!" He screamed, jerking out of her touch and shoving himself as far away from her as possible.

"Ozzie--," she tried again.

"No!" His body was shaking and he brought his hands up to his face, whimpering and shaking his head. "Just no. No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no."

The door swung open. "What the hell is going on in here?!" Toni.

Ozzie curled further in on himself. Sobbing hysterically. He doesn't even know why he's reacting the way he is. He didn't really remember anything. Nothing that should have had him acting like this. Like some crazy person.

Toni and Dr.  Chausser  were arguing above him, and distantly he was aware of his own pathetic blubbering. He tried to focus on their voices. On his breathing. On anything that wasn't the roiling inferno of his thoughts, but it was hard.

"Never fucking again!" Toni yelled.

Yeah. He couldn't help but agree. He felt spots color his vision. Never fucking again. He felt like total shit. He tried to get a word out. A garbled 'fuck' in warning. It was no use though.

Everything went black.

Chapter Text

"Get lost kids," the bouncer was saying, pinching the girl's fake ID's between the thumb and forefingers on his right hand. He stared down at their linked arms and scoffed, shaking his head humorlessly and looking for all he's worth like he'd rather be anywhere but standing at the entrance of the club. "There's no way either of you are a day over sixteen."

The girl on the left bristled, Ozzie noticed, a petulant expression settling on her face. Her black-lined lips were set in a thin line and the heavy-set neon blue eye-shadow around her eyes made them glint dangerously. The bouncer inwardly groaned.

"Seriously?" She demanded, tugging at the hem of her too short dress with her free hand and gesturing to her outfit, "does this look sixteen to you?"

"Not a day older," the bouncer repeated-deadpan. He rubbed his face. "Look you're holding up the line. Just admit you got caught and go home. I ain't got time for this." The bouncer gestured with his chin for the couple behind them to walk in with a brutish sounding, "go." They jumped, startled, took one look at the scene in front of them and hastily walked in.

Ozzie sighed wearily, running a hand through his hair. It hung limply over his brows and the drying edges curled in the late evening breeze. Bright city lights danced off the tips, like a strobe-lit aurora as he listened. He slouched and tilted his head to the side, the bouncer's thuggish timbre carrying all the way down to his spot on the corner. He cracked his neck.

"Why'm I here again?" Ozzie asked without taking his eyes off the crack in the sidewalk, (it was a very interesting crack after all), his head angled to the side.

It had officially stopped raining not too long after James and Clint had arrived at the bookstore. The sky had cleared of clouds for the first time in what felt like a week and though it was chilly, the air was fresh and clean. Crisp. Devoid of smog.

"Because you love me and secretly want to be my doting house-husband," Clint drawled while inspecting his nails. He glanced up at Ozzie with a dull stare that would probably be more aptly called a glare if not for the fact that he had all the sarcasm in the world dripping off his tongue.

"House-husband," Ozzie repeated, wrinkling his nose in distaste, "do you actually think these things through or just say whatever comes to mind."

"Are you naturally an ass or are you really just that socially inept?"

Ozzie frowned. "I am not an ass. I just don't like bullshit."

Clint raised a perfectly arched eyebrow--you're welcome dick--looking wholly unimpressed. "Not a complete ass then," Clint amended after a moment of consideration.

Ozzie sighed.

Clad in an obnoxiously colored neon shirt; Clint resembled someone who'd raided a body paint store and wildly flung it all over themselves with reckless abandon. His pants were tight-tighter than Ozzie's- (the saying "so tight they might as well have been painted on" more than applicable) and were white with black duct tape pasted haphazardly across them. His eyes looked smoky: lined with deep greens and browns that brought out the hazel hue of them. Clint pursed his lips and placed a hand on his hip, eyebrow still raised.

"Of course," Ozzie conceded drily and looked at James; the James who cleared his throat, seemingly knowing without looking up from his phone that it was his turn to speak.

"'Cause Clint's a right little... shit when he doesn't get his way," he said distractedly while nimbly blocking Clint's swipe to his head with his elbow. "Gotta try harder than that, short stuff," James mumbled.

Clint huffed. "Oh, you did not just go there." James' grin was mischievous and Clint let out this weird flabbergastedly frustrated noise before lunging at the taller boy, "oh you little shit!"

"Sounds 'bout right," Ozzie agreed with a nod.

"Fuck both of you," Clint said whipping his head around and pinning Ozzie with a glare of his own. He jabbed a finger in their direction, then stopped, a slow impish smile crawling over his lips, "actually that could be kind of hot-" He said.

James groaned. "Clint!"

Ozzie tuned them out as the line began to shift forward. For a moment, he was able to bask in the metropolitan equivalent of silence, conversation lulling into background noise as the club goers began to catch wind of the commotion at the front of the line. He closed his eyes, shutting out the lights and the crowds and the smell of cheap perfume and body-spray; it was almost like spending another Saturday night cooped up in his room. Almost.

The woman in front of him finally moved and Ozzie mournfully looked away from the crack in the sidewalk he'd been staring on and off at for the past five minutes (in favor of not bumping into her). He caught the back of a flurry of wavy red hair by the "door". He glanced from his spot in line in time to see the girl open her mouth again (no doubt about to dig herself into a deeper hole) and Ozzie frowned with a shake of his head, his forehead creasing. He popped the collar of his leather jacket. The argument was pointless. And typical too.

He could feel the anticipation of the club goers growing like a pack of hungry wolves on the prowl, though. In. In. In. It was a subtle shift, one you'd miss if you weren't paying attention: conversations dying, heads cocking to the side, a sudden tension in the air like every muscle, every sense, every nerve ending is on red alert just waiting to be set off. Snap! Down with the house of cards!

Ozzie shifted on the balls of his feet, trying to alleviate the ache in his soles and turned his attention back towards the street. He didn't want to be a part of whatever drama was on the horizon and as he lazily counted how many red cars passed in a minute (none of them quite capturing the perfect magenta hue of the Scarlet Witch's costume) he couldn't help but silently plead that the girls would take the hint and leave. Go. Go. Go. He begged. The crowd smells blood and nothing good ever comes of that. Rip off the band-aid and leave. It's not worth the trouble.

It was just... clubbing wasn't-isn't even really his thing. Too many people and too much alcohol and really who wanted to deal with a drunk over friendly Clint at one a.m.? Not him. Art, though? That was his thing. (Sort of). Comics? Definitely his thing. Crowds? Not so much.

Though he supposed that wasn't quite right either. It wasn't so much that Ozzie didn't like crowds as much as Ozzie just genuinely didn't particularly care for people as a whole. He was picky like that. Much more comfortable with the idea of watching Iron Man 3 with James on a Friday night in his compact-he refused to call it cramped or small or tiny-room--than going out for "a night on the town." Which granted would have defeated the whole "James needs to get out of his shit little apartment" aka"Ozzie needs to get out his closet room and stop being an anti-social depressed mess" shtick but... fuck it.

Ozzie would have much rather done something just the three of them.

Didn't work out like that obviously.

He was close enough now that the crowd could no longer obstruct his view of the door too terribly and the neon lights that flickered the name Limbo in big curvy letters were actually a visible tangible thing-pulsing from blue to purple to aquamarine-instead of the faint glow he'd watched reflected off of every other car that passed by. The cheap plastic vines that hung over the entryway swayed with each passing patron and the heavy pulsing bass of dubstep thumped beyond that. He was still far enough away though that if he really wanted to see what was going on at the front (not that he particularly did) he'd have too crane his neck over about five other shoulders to do so. Clint on the other hand...

Ozzie blinked and rolled his eyes. "What the fuck are you doing?" Clint looked sort of ridiculous standing on the tips of his toes in a vain attempt to see what was going on. He often forgot just how short the older boy actually was.

"I'm bored, and James here," the brunette said, not bothering to turn around and slapped some poor stranger's arm out of his line of sight, "stopped being entertaining. Candy Crush: Soda is horrendously dull to watch." He reached out blindly and smacked the aforementioned boy on the chest, "move." James made a disgruntled noise but didn't look up, staying focused on the game on his phone. Ozzie had to give him props. The Anti-Clint shield was strong in this one.

Clint pouted at the lack of reaction and smacked James again. "Do you want me to die, Evans? I'll legitimately die of boredom if I stand in this-this-blasphemous line a minute longer unentertained! Do you want me underwhelmed? You don't want me underwhelmed. You know how impatient I get when I'm underwhelmed!"

"Attention span of a... gnat," James agreed off-handedly. Ozzie still couldn't decide if James was just naturally that awkward or if he really did need to think so hard about everything. Ozzie had a running theory that it was all a ruse and James was secretly smarter than them all. Granted, the droopy inky ringlets of curls that fell over James eyes didn't really help matters either. They constantly meshed together and made him look like a tall skinny overgrown sloth lost in the big city. The kind of thing that was sort of adorable but at the same time couldn't help but feel sorry for. Like baby mice. Or puppies. Or ducklings separated from their mothers.

James glanced up from his game. "Though if you'd made me lose I'd have broken your finger... Would that have been... whelming... enough for you?"

Clint glared. "Fuck you." He shot back, not missing a beat before smirking impishly in his direction, running his hand up James' chest. He half closed his eyes. "You've got a dirty mind movie-star," he drawled with faux seduction, "that a proposition then? Didn't think you'd be into the whole S&-"

"Clint!" James coughed and shoved his phone in his back pocket, batting Clint's hand away with his own, a crimson flush running down from his cheeks to his neck. "Please..." a pause, "Control your dick."

Ozzie snorted.

"Oh come on Jamie, no one gives a fuck, we're going clubbing remember? That's like-like-the epitome of like... not... controlling your dick! It's the whole point of the experience! Get as shit faced as possible and have a really questionably intimate encounter with a stranger in the bathroom," Clint took a breath, expression mock put upon, "and here I thought you were an actor. You should know these things, your livelihood depends on showing the social conglomerate exaggerated shows of reality."

"Be nice," Ozzie admonished with a flick to his friend's forehead. James grumbled something about acting being exaggerated for a reason.

"Ow," Clint glared, but it was sort of nulled by the grateful expression on James' face. Which Ozzie was pretty sure was fueled by care-bears and rainbows or some shit. It was that genuine.

Ozzie just looked at Clint, this "don't fuck with me I'm tired as shit" look and stuffed his hands in his pockets. It was getting chillier. Well chillier by Los Angeles standards at least. Which really meant anything under seventy.

Ozzie jerked his chin in the direction of the club. "Weren't you watching Legally Blonde and Pepper Potts draw blood over there?"

The darker skinned lad perked up at the mention of the girls, grin lighting up his face like Ozzie'd just given him the newest Playstation (or maybe in Clint's case more accurately a new pocket knife).

"That's right," Clint said patting Ozzie on the cheek, a contemplative look settling between his brows. "You my friend, are really good at redirecting," he paused, "though who's Pepper Potts again? I feel like Jamie dear mentioned her once. I just can't be assed to remember."

James groaned. "Seriously?! Dude, we've watched Iron Man like... a million times."

"Oh. Yeah. That," he tapped his chin and snapped his fingers, "yeah no, I always fall asleep in the first twenty minutes."

Ozzie sighed. "Ginger secretary chick?"

"I always thought she was more of a strawberry blonde to be honest," James interjected.

"Gwyneth Paltrow?" Ozzie said, running his thumb over his bottom lip, a crinkle wrinkling his brow, "uhm... she was Emma in Emma?"

"What does that have to-"

"Oh! Her! Why didn't you just say so?" Clint squinted at the two girls, "you know-I kinda see it. Though I think she looks a bit more like a younger red headed version of Emmy Rossum."

"Now that's just mean to Emmy," James said with a pout.

Clint grinned. "Shush James, I'm trying to listen. The bouncer looks ready to slap the shit out of her."

"You know that's kind of illegal right?"

"Real helpful Jamie," Clint deadpanned. "Does it look like he gives a shit?"

"Maybe," James said with a smirk, "he doesn't really look the slapping type."

Ozzie sighed. He really didn't know how James did it--willingly navigate the many intricacies of Clint's mind--the guy was seriously a saint or something in a past life. "Fuck man," Ozzie patted his pockets and grimaced when he realized his cigarettes weren't there. He looked back up at Clint, "he'll probably just call security or something."

"But Ozzie," Clint said with a mischievous glint in his eyes, "he is the security."

Great. That's right.

The line moved forward and Ozzie could feel his mood plummeting the closer they got to the vined entrance. It felt sort of like jumping off a cliff with a horde of cybernetic zombies at his heel. Death by brutal dismemberment or death by pseudo-intentional suicide. Neither prospect was particularly appealing but the odds looked better with the cliff than with the zombies.

(Jesus, he really needed to lay off the Killing Floor 2)

Ozzie frowned and rubbed the back of his neck, the cold steel of rings a cool balm against his skin. He was probably being a tad dramatic, but that's what you got for having a movie-star for a best friend.

And videogames.

The bass got deeper and the air got thicker, headier. The voices got louder. James let out a gasp beside him.

"Is that Ariana Grande?"

"Don't care, be quiet," Clint hissed, "I can hear them talking again," he slapped a hand over James' mouth.

"Fucking ridiculous!" The one with the blonde hair was saying.

"Hayley- "

"Seriously who does this self-imposed asshole think he is?!"

"Hayley maybe- "

Hayley stopped, her blonde hair looking almost white under the harsh glow of the streetlamp. "What Amanda?!" She yelled, "what the fuck do you want to say?!"

Amanda, gulped. Looking away from her friend and shifting her feet on the pavement, the ginger cautiously taking a step back. "Just that...maybe we should just...go?"

"You should listen to your friend girly. Before I have to call the police." The bouncer said with his arms crossed threateningly over his chest. His muscles stretched the tight black fabric to capacity. Ozzie was really inclined to agree with that statement. Please, he begged them silently, brow furrowed like if he stared hard enough his thoughts would transfer to them through osmosis.

Hayley whipped her head back around. Amanda looked decidedly more nervous, heck half the line was starting to look as uncomfortable as him about this situation. Oh fuck, Ozzie thought. A quick glance at Clint showed the weirdo was grinning from ear to ear like the Cheshire cat. Or maybe the Joker. He shivered. Either way it was creepy as fuck and in Ozzie's opinion decidedly too happy for the situation.

"Let it be known that this is not how I wanted to spend my birthday." Ozzie mumbled, wetting his lips.

Clint laughed loud and loose and full of glee as the Bouncer finally moved to take out his walkie. The ginger was pulling on her friend's arm. "Are you crazy?!" Clint exclaimed, practically vibrating in his spot, "this is better than pre-gaming!"

Ozzie shot James a plaintive look. He shrugged in response. Ozzie sighed, fisting a handful of hair between his fingers. There was a weird prickling feeling starting to crawl up the back of his neck. A bubble of anxious energy in his stomach. He brought his hands back down to his sides.

"Think you can just, I don't know, get us in? Or something?" Ozzie asked. Or maybe whined. He winced. He wasn't even sure which of them he was asking. He sounded desperate either way though.

Clint blinked up at him before rolling his eyes. "Oh fine. Since you did my makeup oh so well," he turned to James, batting his eyelashes with a flirtatious smirk curling the edge of his lips, "James be a doll and get us in would you? Use those movie star looks of yours."

James scoffed. "Glad to know why you keep me around." He deadpanned.

"Obviously it's not for your brain darling."

"I feel so loved, dude."

"As you should."

James shook his head, the black curls on it bouncing with the motion. "I'll see what I can do." He tapped the shoulder of the woman in front of them. "'Scuse me, but mind if I pop ahead of you for a moment?" She turned. Blinked. Opened her mouth. Closed it. Then nodded.

"Awesome," he grinned throwing out one of his famous Jamie Evans kilowatt grins. Complete with perfect teeth and dimples, "thanks."

The woman blinked again, looking from James to Clint and Ozzie and back again. "Yeah...No...Problem..."

"I think he broke her," Clint whispered, not at all subtly.

James rolled his eyes and stepped around the lady towards where the bouncer and teens were standing.

"This ought to be good." Clint said, standing with a hand on his hip. Ozzie just shook his head. Though, he had to admit the slightly gobsmacked expressions of the other patrons as the three walked through the vined entrance wasn't half as bad as he expected.

Clint bounded ahead, that same self satisfied smirk pasted to his lips as the other two caught up. "Without further ado," he began, dramatically spreading his arms in the lobby, "welcome to Limbo, motherfuckers!"

Chapter Text

"Isn't this great?!" Clint yelled, throwing one of his arms over each of James and Ozzie's shoulders. "Bitches, these be my fucking people!" He said, tossing his head back and laughing—his stocky body dangling between them like a marionette with its strings cut.

Ozzie shot him an incredulous look. "No," he said plainly. He didn't. He couldn't really say any of this was great. He couldn't even say any of this was good. Heck, Ozzie could barely say any of this was fine. The only thing he could say was that Limbo was intense. And even that'd be a gross understatement. He blew his bangs out of his face.

Clint pursed his lips. "Asshole," He intoned, his face contorting into something between a glare and a pout. Ozzie wasn't really sure which. It was kind of hard to tell what with the angle. And the lighting. And the fact that really, he didn't give two shits.

If I was half the asshole this dick thinks I am, he mused, as he shifted his grip on Clint's waist, he'd be on the floor already.

Ozzie raised an eyebrow instead. Because obviously, Ozzie was not an asshole. "Do'ya want me to drop you?" At least not that much of one.

Clint... blinked and... yeah that was definitely a glare. Ozzie smirked.

There were people everywhere. They milled about on the second floor between tropical looking palm-trees and exotic ferns. They packed the dance floor and the bars and the booths spread across the edges. Ozzie spotted a miraculously free one and inclined his head to James. Together they made their way over.

Clint's neon shirt glowed a hot pink in the psychedelic lights of the club. The white of his pants shined like a beacon. They were almost blinding under the attention of murky violet black lights, his feet barely touching the floor as a manic grin stretched across his lips. "Mush my noble steeds!" Clint yelled, decidedly too peppy for nine-thirty in the evening and Ozzie jerked his head to the side at the noise. "There is so much hype you don't understand!"

"This would be a helluva lot better if I wasn't about to make out with you," James grunted, their heads almost knocking together. James winced as Clint threw him off balance, his skin looking over-pale and washed out under the harsh attention of the lights strobing around them.

Ozzie frowned. "Dude, did he take something before we got here?"

"He's Clint," James said with an eye-roll, like that explained everything, which to be fair it kind of did. "Why do you think I drove?"

Clint pouted. "Aww Jamie, I'm hurt. Really! Where's your bloody sense of adventure?!"

With a grimace, Ozzie shrugged his shoulder, trying to shift the added weight of Clint a little more comfortably. "Probably lost it with your lame ass Tarzan impression." He gritted a breath out through his teeth. "You're heavy as shit, dude."

"Are you calling me fat?" Clint bounced to his feet, hands drumming against his hips and eyebrow raised. "Hashtag rude."

Ozzie sighed and cracked his neck before slumping down into the booth. "Course I wasn't Clint. You're very fit."

"Damn straight," he said with a nod. He turned to James, his expression slipping to one of dirty promise. Clearly whatever he'd taken was something that played a lot more openly with his slutty side. Ozzie leaned back in their booth and rapped his knuckles against the table. Ozzie couldn't say much about Limbo, but one thing was for sure and that was that Limbo, in the wise if not terribly inaccurate faux English accent Clint had just pronounced his enthusiasm in, was a bloody madhouse.

Clint trailed a slender finger down the movie-star's chest. "Let's dance, Jamie," he whined, batting his eyelashes and looking much too childish. "I wanna dance and make-out with total strangers!"

James flicked his gaze to Ozzie. "Uh, I don't—" he began.

"Take him." Please, Ozzie didn't say, cutting his friend off. He made himself comfortable in the booth, his arms resting across the back of its embroidered surface as he settled into the leather seats. "I'll be fine." He promised. Just gonna sit here and pray not to get an epileptic seizure.

"Are you sure?"

"Positive."

"Well if you're—"

"Jamie! The birthday boy gave his blessing! He'll be fine! He said so!" Clint interjected, tugging on James' arms and bouncing on his feet. "Come," he grunted, "on!" James stumbled to the side.

"Jesus!" He exclaimed "Fine! Fine!" James said, tugging his arm free. Sorry, he mouthed at Ozzie. The olive-skinned boy waved him off. Shaking his head, James turned back to Clint, probably leveling him with one of his more exasperated expressions. One that still probably looked more like a kicked puppy than anything.

"Have fun," Ozzie mumbled as they walked away.

The club was dark save for the lights shining overhead. It was dark. But then it was not. It was blue. Then red. Then green. Yellow. Pink. White. Then back. Dark. But not. Because everywhere Ozzie looked were people with their own little shocks of light. People gloving. People with bands of glow sticks wrapped around their necks. People with streaks of bright paint across their skin.

Music poured from the speakers, resonating with a mind-numbing bass in even the darkest corners of the club. It thrummed an energy all its own. A pulse of Ariana's soaring soprano and dubstep. A life-blood of alcohol and sweet adrenaline. Ozzie tilted his head back. Let the music run over him. Closed his eyes.

There was the melody, that, Ozzie knew, almost anyone could hear, a hard-obvious line that moved through the song like water. It carried the listener from beginning to end. But songs had subtleties, too. Harmonies that bolstered in the background. A strong beat. Synth and glitch. Vocoder and computer generated clap.

His lips moved to the lyrics. His foot kept time, while his finger danced to variation. In his mind, he saw lines. Blue for melody. Green for harmony. Yellow for vocalization. Red for instrumental. If he'd been the one to make this remix, he'd have put more of an emphasis on Ariana's strengths. Her range. Her flexibility. And then his own strengths. Finding new beats. Creating new melody. Editing. A collaboration of the finer things. But then again, who'd notice in a setting like this? He made music to listen to, to think about.

Places like this made music to feel.

A glass clinked beside him. "This seat taken?" Ozzie's knee jerked into the table and his eyes snapped open. "Fuck." He hissed, rubbing his leg with a wince.

A chuckle. "Sorry."

Ah, Ozzie blinked, stranger.

The guy grinned, cocky and over-confident like he was proud he'd gotten a reaction but known he'd get one the moment he'd walked over. Ass. "Hopefully without the danger, mate." He said, that cocky grin still in place. Ozzie was pretty sure that little ball of something growing in the pit of his stomach was annoyance. Either that or...gas. No. Yeah. Definitely gas.

"I..." Ozzie wet his lips, "said that aloud didn't I.... Stranger."

The corner of the guy's mouth twitched. He didn't look much older than Ozzie—twenty-two, twenty-three max—with pastel pink hair styled in a faux-hawk. The sides were buzzed and the top was pulled back into a tight bun. His face was littered with piercings. One through his nose, a couple through his left eyebrow, another on his lip, a row ranging from the top of his right ear down to the lobe.

"Dante," the guy said, "not stranger." Dante settled into the other side of the booth, pulling his drink closer to himself and stretching out languidly in the seat. "Cheers, yeah?" He took a swig of it, knocking his head back and placing the bottle back on the table. Some sort of crappy beer if Ozzie had to guess.

"Uh, cheers," Ozzie frowned, "dude. I... uh... you can't sit here. 'M waiting for my friends."

"The tall skinny bloke and really bouncy short guy, right?"

Ozzie inclined his head. "Yes?"

"Cool. Saw them piss off, figured you could use a bit of company."

Ozzie hummed in response.

"You gonna tell me your name, mate?"

Ozzie just looked at him. Then took out his phone. There was a weird buzzing in his ears—grating—like sub tonal static. He grimaced and eyed the speaker closest to him. That was annoying. Whoever made this remix fucking sucked.

Dante followed his gaze. "This beat is for shit innit?"

Ozzie nodded. Thought about stopping there. Sighed. "Too repetitive."

"Yeah, I can see what you mean."

They lapsed back into silence. Dante took another swig from his probably-beer and wiped his mouth the back of his hand. Ozzie pretended he could actually do something besides Tiles on his phone. Which he couldn't and sadly, that game was hard as fuck and he always got stuck on the fucking 512 square. Like right now. Presto. Game Over

Ozzie set his phone to the side and drew his attention back to Dante who'd finished about a quarter of his beer. He rose a brow, self-confident smirk teasing at the edge of his lips. Ass. Ozzie huffed out a breath. But fine, he'd bite. "So... you're Australian then?" There. An olive branch born of boredom.

"Yep, aussie lad 'ere, probably born, definitely raised in good ol' 'Straya."

"Probably?"

"Mum or the old man were Japanese. Don't know which," Dante grinned, setting his bottle back on the table. "Reckon I earned that name right 'bout now though, yeah?"

Ozzie rolled his eyes. "Ozzie." He offered.

Dante laughed. "Seriously?"

"Yeah?" Ozzie frowned, tugging at the sleeve of his jacket. "W'as so funny?"

"Nothing, mate, nothing. S'ironic is all," he chuckled again. "Reckon'll be calling you Oz."

"Confident."

Dante reached into his pocket, taking out a card. He scrawled something across the back of it before sliding it over to Ozzie. "The tall bloke, your mate, was Jamie Evans, yeah?"

"Yeah."

Dante grinned, the same shit-eating, asshole grin he'd been sporting since he arrived. "Then we'll be seeing heaps of each other." He knocked back the rest of his beer and stood. "Cheers then, Oz. I'll be seeing you."

Ozzie glanced down at the card. DJ Shade it read in big blocky letters.

"You have got to be kidding me."

A shrill whine came from speakers and Ozzie winced, rubbing his ear. The buzzing was getting worse, he realized. It vibrated in his bones and flipped nausea in his stomach. "Shit." He stood. Air, gotta get some fucking air. He didn't remember moving but he must have. He didn't remember leaving the booth but he must have. He stumbled through the crowd towards the closest door. Shoved through the club-goers with little regard to manners. Distantly someone shouted his name.

He kept moving. It wasn't just his stomach. Now it was his head, his vision swimming and throbbing with sudden jagged spikes of pain. Ozzie gasped, clutching at a wall and dry-heaving, shakes scouring his wiry frame.

The buzzing grew louder. Like bees. His skin crawled.

Ozzie.

Ozzie whipped his head up. He couldn't hear anything else. The noise of the club faded replaced only by deafening, roaring, buzzing. Angry and aggressive. It beckoned him forward. It screamed his name.

Ozzie.

He could barely see. Barely stand. But there was someone standing by the door. It looked at him. Pointed. Then walked out of it. The Buzz pulled at his skin, yanking at his hairs like tiny claws. A command.

Ozzie.

Ozzie followed.

Ozzie.

The door spit him out into an alleyway. The figure stood, hooded in all black at the mouth of it. It stood. Its cloak didn't move in the chilly L.A night air.

Ozzie.

His lips moved. What do you want?!

The Buzz seemed to focus around the figure. Condensing. The hood blew off—

Ozzie.

The figure pointed—

(It had no face. It was just a gleaming skull--)

Hayley  Matts .

His eyes widened. Copper hit his nose. Dripping. And red. And. Ozzie— The figure— He— It—They

Screamed.

Someone burst through the open door gasping for breath. "Oz, are you—holy shit!" It was James. Of course it had to be James.

Already, there were people gathering around the outskirts of the scene, filing out the club and trying to figure out what the hell was going on. Fuck. They'd probably heard Ozzie scream. This was a nightmare. Focusing on that teen girl's mangled corpse, he finally noticed just how messed up whoever murdered Hayley had made her--they took off her fucking head for crying out loud--and double fuck-- They all probably thought he did it.

Already, the whispers were starting. The hushed mumbles. The clicks of camera phones.  This was going to be trending and in a few hours the entire world would know. The entire world would be judging.

He heard the sound of retching and Ozzie turned, his body stiff and expression carefully blank as he tore his eyes away from the grisly scene in front of him. The Buzz was gone and in its place was barely controlled fear.

"You got a cellphone?" His gaze trailed back to the prone body in the middle of the alleyway. He couldn't bare to look at his friends ashen face. His hands began to tremble. His voice was flat. He needed a fucking cigarette. "I think we have a bit of a problem."

Happy fucking birthday to him.

Hayley Matts was dead.

Chapter Text

"Isn't this great?!" Clint yelled, throwing one of his arms over each of James and Ozzie's shoulders. "Bitches, these be my fucking people!" He said, tossing his head back and laughing—his stocky body dangling between them like a marionette with its strings cut.

Ozzie shot him an incredulous look. "No," he said plainly. He didn't. He couldn't really say any of this was great. He couldn't even say any of this was good. Heck, Ozzie could barely say any of this was fine. The only thing he could say was that Limbo was intense. And even that'd be a gross understatement. He blew his bangs out of his face.

Clint pursed his lips. "Asshole," He intoned, his face contorting into something between a glare and a pout. Ozzie wasn't really sure which. It was kind of hard to tell what with the angle. And the lighting. And the fact that really, he didn't give two shits.

If I was half the asshole this dick thinks I am, he mused, as he shifted his grip on Clint's waist, he'd be on the floor already.

Ozzie raised an eyebrow instead. Because obviously, Ozzie was not an asshole. "Do'ya want me to drop you?" At least not that much of one.

Clint... blinked and... yeah that was definitely a glare. Ozzie smirked.

There were people everywhere. They milled about on the second floor between tropical looking palm-trees and exotic ferns. They packed the dance floor and the bars and the booths spread across the edges. Ozzie spotted a miraculously free one and inclined his head to James. Together they made their way over.

Clint's neon shirt glowed a hot pink in the psychedelic lights of the club. The white of his pants shined like a beacon. They were almost blinding under the attention of murky violet black lights, his feet barely touching the floor as a manic grin stretched across his lips. "Mush my noble steads!" Clint yelled, decidedly too peppy for nine-thirty in the evening and Ozzie jerked his head to the side at the noise. "There is so much hype you don't understand!"

"This would be a helluva lot better if I wasn't about to make out with you," James grunted, their heads almost knocking together. James winced as Clint threw him off balance, his skin looking over-pale and washed out under the harsh attention of the lights strobing around them.

Ozzie frowned. "Dude, did he take something before we got here?"

"He's Clint," James said with an eye-roll, like that explained everything, which to be fair it kind of did. "Why do you think I drove?"

Clint pouted. "Aww Jamie, I'm hurt. Really! Where's your bloody sense of adventure?!"

With a grimace, Ozzie shrugged his shoulder, trying to shift the added weight of Clint a little more comfortably. "Probably lost it with your lame ass Tarzan impression." He gritted a breath out through his teeth. "You're heavy as shit, dude."

"Are you calling me fat?" Clint bounced to his feet, hands drumming against his hips and eyebrow raised. "Hashtag rude."

Ozzie sighed and cracked his neck before slumping down into the booth. "Course I wasn't Clint. You're very fit."

"Damn straight," he said with a nod. He turned to James, his expression slipping to one of dirty promise. Clearly whatever he'd taken was something that played a lot more openly with his slutty side. Ozzie leaned back in their booth and rapped his knuckles against the table. Ozzie couldn't say much about Limbo, but one thing was for sure and that was that Limbo, in the wise if not terribly inaccurate faux English accent Clint had just pronounced his enthusiasm in, was a bloody madhouse.

Clint trailed a slender finger down the movie-star's chest. "Let's dance, Jamie," he whined, batting his eyelashes and looking much too childish. "I wanna dance and make-out with total strangers!"

James flicked his gaze to Ozzie. "Uh, I don't—" he began.

"Take him." Please, Ozzie didn't say, cutting his friend off. He made himself comfortable in the booth, his arms resting across the back of its embroidered surface as he settled into the leather seats. "I'll be fine." He promised. Just gonna sit here and pray not to get an epileptic seizure.

"Are you sure?"

"Positive."

"Well if you're—"

"Jamie! The birthday boy gave his blessing! He'll be fine! He said so!" Clint interjected, tugging on James' arms and bouncing on his feet. "Come," he grunted, "on!" James stumbled to the side.

"Jesus!" He exclaimed "Fine! Fine!" James said, tugging his arm free. Sorry, he mouthed at Ozzie. The olive-skinned boy waved him off. Shaking his head, James turned back to Clint, probably leveling him with one of his more exasperated expressions. One that still probably looked more like a kicked puppy than anything.

"Have fun," Ozzie mumbled as they walked away.

The club was dark save for the lights shining overhead. It was dark. But then it was not. It was blue. Then red. Then green. Yellow. Pink. White. Then back. Dark. But not. Because everywhere Ozzie looked were people with their own little shocks of light. People gloving. People with bands of glow sticks wrapped around their necks. People with streaks of bright paint across their skin.

Music poured from the speakers, resonating with a mind-numbing bass in even the darkest corners of the club. It thrummed an energy all its own. A pulse of Ariana's soaring soprano and dubstep. A life-blood of alcohol and sweet adrenaline. Ozzie tilted his head back. Let the music run over him. Closed his eyes.

There was the melody, that, Ozzie knew, almost anyone could hear, a hard-obvious line that moved through the song like water. It carried the listener from beginning to end. But songs had subtleties, too. Harmonies that bolstered in the background. A strong beat. Synth and glitch. Vocoder and computer generated clap.

His lips moved to the lyrics. His foot kept time, while his finger danced to variation. In his mind, he saw lines. Blue for melody. Green for harmony. Yellow for vocalization. Red for instrumental. If he'd been the one to make this remix, he'd have put more of an emphasis on Ariana's strengths. Her range. Her flexibility. And then his own strengths. Finding new beats. Creating new melody. Editing. A collaboration of the finer things. But then again, who'd notice in a setting like this? He made music to listen to, to think about.

Places like this made music to feel.

A glass clinked beside him. "This seat taken?" Ozzie's knee jerked into the table and his eyes snapped open. "Fuck." He hissed, rubbing his leg with a wince.

A chuckle. "Sorry."

Ah, Ozzie blinked, stranger.

The guy grinned, cocky and over-confident like he was proud he'd gotten a reaction but known he'd get one the moment he'd walked over. Ass. "Hopefully without the danger, mate." He said, that cocky grin still in place. Ozzie was pretty sure that little ball of something growing in the pit of his stomach was annoyance. Either that or...gas. No. Yeah. Definitely gas.

"I..." Ozzie wet his lips, "said that aloud didn't I.... Stranger."

The corner of the guy's mouth twitched. He didn't look much older than Ozzie—twenty-two, twenty-three max—with pastel pink hair styled in a faux-hawk. The sides were buzzed and the top was pulled back into a tight bun. His face was littered with piercings. One through his nose, a couple through his left eyebrow, another on his lip, a row ranging from the top of his right ear down to the lobe.

"Dante," the guy said, "not stranger." Dante settled into the other side of the booth, pulling his drink closer to himself and stretching out languidly in the seat. "Cheers, yeah?" He took a swig of it, knocking his head back and placing the bottle back on the table. Some sort of crappy beer if Ozzie had to guess.

"Uh, cheers," Ozzie frowned, "dude. I... uh... you can't sit here. 'M waiting for my friends."

"The tall skinny bloke and really bouncy short guy, right?"

Ozzie inclined his head. "Yes?"

"Cool. Saw them piss off, figured you could use a bit of company."

Ozzie hummed in response.

"You gonna tell me your name, mate?"

Ozzie just looked at him. Then took out his phone. There was a weird buzzing in his ears—grating—like sub tonal static. He grimaced and eyed the speaker closest to him. That was annoying. Whoever made this remix fucking sucked.

Dante followed his gaze. "This beat is for shit innit?"

Ozzie nodded. Thought about stopping there. Sighed. "Too repetitive."

"Yeah, I can see what you mean."

They lapsed back into silence. Dante took another swig from his probably-beer and wiped his mouth the back of his hand. Ozzie pretended he could actually do something besides Tiles on his phone. Which he couldn't and sadly, that game was hard as fuck and he always got stuck on the fucking 512 square. Like right now. Presto. Game Over

Ozzie set his phone to the side and drew his attention back to Dante who'd finished about a quarter of his beer. He rose a brow, self-confident smirk teasing at the edge of his lips. Ass. Ozzie huffed out a breath. But fine, he'd bite. "So... you're Australian then?" There. An olive branch born of boredom.

"Yep, aussie lad 'ere, probably born, definitely raised in good ol' 'Straya."

"Probably?"

"Mum or the old man were Japanese. Don't know which," Dante grinned, setting his bottle back on the table. "Reckon I earned that name right 'bout now though, yeah?"

Ozzie rolled his eyes. "Ozzie." He offered.

Dante laughed. "Seriously?"

"Yeah?" Ozzie frowned, tugging at the sleeve of his jacket. "W'as so funny?"

"Nothing, mate, nothing. S'ironic is all," he chuckled again. "Reckon'll be calling you Oz."

"Confident."

Dante reached into his pocket, taking out a card. He scrawled something across the back of it before sliding it over to Ozzie. "The tall bloke, your mate, was Jamie Evans, yeah?"

"Yeah."

Dante grinned, the same shit-eating, asshole grin he'd been sporting since he arrived. "Then we'll be seeing heaps of each other." He knocked back the rest of his beer and stood. "Cheers then, Oz. I'll be seeing you."

Ozzie glanced down at the card. DJ Shade it read in big blocky letters.

"You have got to be kidding me."

A shrill whine came from speakers and Ozzie winced, rubbing his ear. The buzzing was getting worse, he realized. It vibrated in his bones and flipped nausea in his stomach. "Shit." He stood. Air, gotta get some fucking air. He didn't remember moving but he must have. He didn't remember leaving the booth but he must have. He stumbled through the crowd towards the closest door. Shoved through the club-goers with little regard to manners. Distantly someone shouted his name.

He kept moving. It wasn't just his stomach. Now it was his head, his vision swimming and throbbing with sudden jagged spikes of pain. Ozzie gasped, clutching at a wall and dry-heaving, shakes scouring his wiry frame.

The buzzing grew louder. Like bees. His skin crawled.

Ozzie.

Ozzie whipped his head up. He couldn't hear anything else. The noise of the club faded replaced only by deafening, roaring, buzzing. Angry and aggressive. It beckoned him forward. It screamed his name.

Ozzie.

He could barely see. Barely stand. But there was someone standing by the door. It looked at him. Pointed. Then walked out of it. The Buzz pulled at his skin, yanking at his hairs like tiny claws. A command.

Ozzie.

Ozzie followed.

Ozzie.

The door spit him out into an alleyway. The figure stood, hooded in all black at the mouth of it. It stood. Its cloak didn't move in the chilly L.A night air.

Ozzie.

His lips moved. What do you want?!

The Buzz seemed to focus around the figure. Condensing. The hood blew off—

Ozzie.

The figure pointed—

Hayley Matts.

His eyes widened. Copper hit his nose. Dripping. And red. And. Ozzie— The figure— He— It—They

Screamed.

Someone burst through the open door gasping for breath. "Oz, are you—holy shit!" It was James. Of course it had to be James.

Already, there were people gathering around the outskirts of the scene, filing out the club and trying to figure out what the hell was going on. Fuck. They'd probably heard Ozzie scream. This was a nightmare. Focusing on that teen girl's mangled corpse, he finally noticed just how messed up whoever murdered Hayley had made her--they took off her fucking head for crying out loud--and double fuck-- They all probably thought he did it.

Ozzie couldn't deal. Already, the whispers were starting. The hushed mumbles. The clicks of camera phones.  This was going to be trending and in a few hours the entire world would know. The entire world would be judging.

He heard the sound of retching and Ozzie turned, his body stiff and expression carefully blank as he tore his eyes away from the grisly scene in front of him. The Buzz was gone and in its place was barely controlled fear.

"You got a cellphone?" His gaze trailed back to the prone body in the middle of the alleyway. He couldn't bare to look at his friends ashen face. His hands began to tremble. His voice was flat. "I think we have a bit of a problem."

Happy fucking birthday to him.

Chapter Text

Dear Nobody,

Fuck, I don't know how this thing is supposed to work. I figured it'd be easy. At least people make it look easy. The concept is pretty straight forward. Pen. Paper. Blank page. Hand moves pen over paper. Magical emotions and awe inspiring introspection occurs. Wow. I feel like a more complete human being already.

In movies, it's always the girl with the little pink notebook on her desk with the flowery print and sparkles and butterflies; her high reedy voice, voicing over the words she scribbles down on the page. She'll make it look so simple, too. Like her message just...flows or something. A simple...stream? Yeah. Stream. Whatever.

It'll be a simple stream of consonants and vowels strung together to make sounds that are translated onto a page to make shapes that make up words that make sentences and boom. You have your angsty teenage drama story right there on a scrap of too flowery paper written by a girl whose life really isn't all that bad but fuck if she doesn't think that Boy A dating her best friend Cindy is the end of the god damned world. It's not. It won't be. And it never fucking will be. Too much free time I say.

Fuck. That's sort of telling isn't it.

Chapter Text

James kept touching him. Little touches. Grounding touches. Touches that kept him from spiraling. James was a steady hovering presence beside him. A faint nudge against his side. A tap against the back of his hand. An arm around his shoulder. I'm here for you. I've got you. You're not alone, dude. Ozzie needed it. He knew without James his mind would've been a million miles away—stuck remembering a night that was eerily similar to this one—thinking about his parents and—

There was a pinch against his elbow, sudden and hard and the faint scent of jasmine left his nostrils. Now all that remained was the smell of pennies and iron. Blood. Somehow that was better. Ozzie blew out a breath, his body sagging with the motion and he blinked, bringing his focus back to his surroundings.

They were sitting on the cracked edge of a sidewalk—one that was just outside of Limbo—and red and blue lights flashed over their faces. Ozzie bit his lip, worrying the chapped skin between his teeth. He felt James shift beside him, bleeding warmth past the leather of Ozzie's jacket. Knee to knee. Shoulder to shoulder. Ozzie breathed.

Don't cycle out, he pleaded. Don't. Just focus on the now. He closed his eyes. Focus on what's in front of you, he commanded. Ozzie opened them. He was in L.A. Hollywood. He knew that. He was a couple blocks away from the Kodak theatre and Ripley's. Or...was it the wax museum? Nah. It was definitely Ripley's. He knew that too. Just like he knew his name. Knew his age. Knew that he was surrounded by caution tape and streetlamps. Chewing gum and stop signs. Knew that the brick wall Ozzie had leaned against earlier bracketed his left and the police cars that'd answered the 911 call bracketed his right. The scent of blood still lingered. It made him hardly want to open his mouth. He saw a gurney, one with a large black (body) bag attached to it. Ozzie winced. (A flash of gleaming bone in moonlight. A thought he tried to erase. Ozzie. Ozzie. Ozzie. Ozzie.) Fuck his breathing was all fucked again and his hands were trembling, his heart was racing, can't breathe, can't breathe, can't—

James squeezed his thigh.

"—saw him come out here," He was saying, his breathing slow and deliberate. His chest heaved with it. Focus on me. It said. Another squeeze. Copy me. Ozzie tried to match it best he could. It was probably an odd sight, James taking these long deliberate breaths in the middle of a sentence and Ozzie barely hanging on... At least the officer talking to them had the tact not to comment. Well...on that.

"And what exactly did you see Ozzie?" They asked, turning their attention onto him. He felt James tense and Ozzie slowly brought his eyes up towards the officer's face. He'd zoned out, not even realizing he'd started trying to count how many creases had formed in the officer's leather boots. He'd gotten up to about thirty on the left one.

Ozzie blinked. "What'd I see," he probably looked dazed. He certainly felt it. Unfocused. Unhinged. A rope hanging on by a thread. His mouth twitched, "when I got outside?"

The officer nodded. "Yes."

"I saw," (Hayley. Bone. White. Viscera. Muscle that looked like ground beef. No head. No neck. Chest cavity broken open like the maw of a rotting clamshell. Blood oozing around her like the yolk of a cracked egg.) Ozzie dropped his gaze. Leaned more obviously against James. Shivered. "A fuckin' dead girl."

"Ozzie!" James hissed.

"Now, sir," the Officer began placatingly, "we're just trying to understand what happened here."

Ozzie looked back up at the officer. He jerked his chin over in the direction of the rest of his force milling about the scene. "Ask one of 'em. They already got my statement."

"Ozzie!" James nudged his side with an elbow before addressing the officer standing in front of them. "Sir, sorry, uh, he's usually...not...uh, anyway," he licked his lips nervously and cleared his throat. "I don't understand why you're asking for his statement again. Like he said, he gave it already."

"Well you see—"

Ozzie cut him off. "They're at a loss James," he mumbled, "don't have any leads 'sides me so they wanna see if my story changes by—," he shot the officer a level look before flicking his gaze back down, "—asking me the same question over and over again," he spoke deliberately, voice scratchy and low, hardly louder than a whisper, "'what did you see?'" He scoffed, the noise bitter and dark, "isn't that, right?"

The officer blinked. Then coughed into the back of his hand. "Now, I wouldn't say that. We understand that this has been a...traumatic experience. We uh...just... want to know if you've remembered anything more in the time that's passed."

(A figure in all black at the end of the alley. Pointing. The Buzz that yanked at his skin like tiny fish hooks telling him were to go. Ozzie. Ozzie. Ozzie. Ozzie. The skull that gleamed white and soulless back at him—a bonafide reaper from hell. Hayley Matts. Hayley Matts. Hayley Matts. Words that thrummed through his very being like the echo of death itself.)

Ozzie shakily rose to his feet. James was quick to follow. Ozzie wobbled for a moment, listless and looking somewhat precarious, but he stabilized. He smacked James' helping hands away.

"Got nothing more to say," he said, after a moment, "so I'd like to go."

The officer opened his mouth, then clicked it closed, finally flicking his gaze between the two of them. They probably looked gaunt and weary. The officer sighed, scratching the hair on the back of his neck and apparently thinking better of saying whatever it was he was about to. "Go on then," He said. "Do you need a ride?"

Den/Den

"No," Ozzie mumbled, "we got it covered, right James?"

James threw an arm over Ozzie's shoulders. "Yeah, lemme just text Clint. See if he got home okay." It took all of Ozzie's willpower not to roll his eyes. He hummed in response though and James took out his phone, unlocking it one-handed.

Ozzie wrung his hands together. Counted his fingers. Ten. Nine. Eight... Down to one and back. Back and forth. Breathed. If it weren't for the fact that he knew he'd fall flat on his face if he took a single step by himself, he'd have shoved James off him. As it was though, Ozzie was tired. It was after midnight, and he just wanted to go home, crash in bed and hopefully not have nightmares involving dismembered teens. If James wanted to help with that, then... Fuck it. Also...he suddenly had this weird ass craving for a Big Mac and fries.... He probably shouldn't think too hard about that one.

"Okay," James said.

"We good?"

"Yeah."

"Cool," Ozzie flashed the officer a drowsy two-fingered salute as they started walking down the street. "Peace, love and happiness, dude," he called over his shoulder, "get yourself a Big Mac when you're done here 'kay? You totally deserve it."

"Jesus!" James coughed, his sides shaking with barely contained mirth, "you're awful," He cleared his throat. "What the fuck, dude?"

Ozzie shrugged. "'M craving McDonalds."

"Seriously?"

"Yeah," Ozzie nodded, rubbing his thumb against his bottom lip, "think it's a weird coping mechanism? Like I know it's weird but..."

"Some fries sound nice right about now," James squeezed his shoulder. "I think the one by Hollywood and Highland's still open."

"Cool," Ozzie said.

"Cool," James echoed.

That was all they needed to say.

Chapter Text

James' Maserati rolled to a stop, the lights flickering off as the smooth purr of the engine rumbled down to nothing. They were a few blocks away from the bookstore and Ozzie eyed James curiously as he fiddled with the key still in the ignition. James had on his 'thinking-face' and Ozzie waited, saying nothing, merely popping one of the last few fries left in his red and gold container into his mouth, chewing quietly in the sudden silence that engulfed the vehicle. A frown marred his face, the light from the streetlamps that lined the block casting it in sharp relief. His expression seemed even more severe like that Ozzie noted. His friend's grip was iron on the steering wheel. A minute passed. Two. Three.

Finally, James sighed, letting go of the wheel and leaning back in his Maserati's leather seat. "So," he began, "what are you going to tell Toni?"

Ozzie swallowed, the fry in his mouth suddenly tasting like plastic. "About the fact, I spent the night playing 'Where's Waldo?' with a decapitated head?" He shrugged. "Nothing if I can help it." He grabbed the last two fries out of the container and shoved them in his mouth. Cold and a little limp, they weren't the best things on the planet but they also weren't the worst either. At the very least they were enough of an excuse to not keep talking. That was something he was in desperate need of right now.

James' frown though deepened and he turned to face him. "You should tell her something, though."

Ozzie shook his head. "I don't want her to worry," he said and looked away, putting the now empty fry container back in the white bag it came in.

"She worries anyway," James pointed out, rather unhelpfully.

"I know," Ozzie bit his lip, wringing his hands together in his lap. "S'why I don't want to make it worse."

"Fine."

James' finger tapped nonsensically against the dash and Ozzie let out a harsh breath, rubbing a hand over his face. James clearly hadn't liked that response. Ozzie crinkled the paper bag between his fists as much as he could before tossing it to the floor. He rubbed his thumb against his lips, needing something to do with his hands.

"Fuck," Ozzie groaned, "don't you have any cigarettes in here?"

James rolled his eyes. "Check the console."

Ozzie blinked. "Since when did you keep anything useful there?" He scoffed.

"Dude, have you seen my backseat?"

Ozzie looked over his shoulder. Took in the stacks of papers, probably scripts, piled haphazardly over the black seats like confetti. There were even a few old and empty Starbucks cups littered over the floor. Ozzie wrinkled his nose.

"Gross dude."

"Yeah, yeah man," James popped open the console and pulled out a pack of Marlboros. He opened the car door. "Come on, you're not smoking in my baby. She's sensitive."

"She's a car."

"She's sensitive dude."

Ozzie got out the car.

He shut the door behind him, the sound over-loud in the near darkness and stepped onto the sidewalk beside him. He heard the faint click of the car locking and then James was there-on his left-holding out a cigarette between the thumb and pointer finger of his left hand.

"Thanks," Ozzie mumbled, sticking the butt of it in the corner of his mouth while James lit the tip, his free hand cupping the flame away from the wind.

"No problem," he said lighting one for himself. He inhaled deeply, stuffing the cigarettes in his back pocket before exhaling in three quick 'o' shaped puffs. He started walking down the street. Towards the bookstore. Towards Toni. "Coming?"

Ozzie took another steadying puff of his cigarette before letting out in a stream of smoke from his nose. "Yeah."

It was a nice night out, Ozzie mused, what with the clouds finally clearing and letting the light of the moon illuminate the land below. He could finally make out the ocean, not its waves, he was too far away for that, but he could make out the inky black expanse of it. Stars speckled the sky and the water both, the sea a living breathing mirror, constantly in motion. Constantly in flux. That was the beauty of Santa Monica. Sadly, he was a bit too preoccupied to fully enjoy it. Perks of finding murder victims in alley ways and all.

Ozzie inhaled sharply. This time he held the smoke in until his lungs burned with it. Until he couldn't distinguish whether it was the lack of oxygen or not. Then he exhaled.

The two of them crossed the street, view of the ocean lost behind two-story brick and meticulously trimmed trees. Ozzie could feel James watching him. Or at least he kept glancing at him. It was the look of someone who had something to say but didn't know how to say it.

Ozzie sighed. "What?"

James shook his head, tapping the ash off the mouth of his cigarette before taking a final drag of it and stubbing it out on the ground at his feet. "Nothing."

"You keep looking at me."

"I look at you a lot Oz."

Ozzie shot him an unimpressed look. "You're deflecting."

"Well we've already been over it so," James shrugged.

"Seriously?" Ozzie huffed, stubbing out his cigarette and kicking it in the gutter as they passed. "Still worrying about Toni?"

James shook his head. "I just think you should tell her. You can't expect to keep her in the dark about this. I mean you found a body, that's gonna make the news dude."

"I know," Ozzie said, brushing his bangs out of his eyes, "I don't plan to, I- Just- Not tonight. Okay?" The bookstore was only a few buildings down.

"What if she already knows?"

"I'll worry about that when-if-it happens." They were in front of the bookstore now and Ozzie unclipped his keyring, cycling through the few on it to the one for the front door. "Scooch," he said, nudging James with his hip. He unlocked the door and the two of them stepped inside.

"You staying the night?" Ozzie asked as they maneuvered through the stacks towards the door labeled 'employees only'.

"Yeah," James clapped him on the back, "not gonna leave you alone tonight dude."

"Thanks." Ozzie bit his lip and used another key from the ring to unlock the door in front of them. It led to the apartment. There was a light on at the top of the staircase.

"Guess Toni's awake then." James said.

Ozzie sighed. "Guess so."

They went up the stairs. Toni was in the kitchen. She sat at the table, book in hand and steaming cup of what smelled like coffee beside her. She set the book down as they entered.

"Evening boys," She greeted in the same precise and borderline clipped tone she always used, "have fun?" She took a sip from her coffee and raised a brow.

"Uh," James glanced at Ozzie, eyes looking a bit wide.

"It was great," Ozzie cut in, shooting James a glare. What good was being an actor if he couldn't even come up with a decent lie? "we danced, had fun, did dude things," Ozzie shrugged casually, "oh and I met that DJ you liked," Ozzie took out Dante's-DJ Shade's-card. "He was playing at Limbo tonight."

"Wait," James blinked as Toni picked up the card, "you met Dante?"

Well the guy had said he knew James.

"Yeah," Ozzie said, "you were dancing with Clint, I was uh, back in the booth, taking a break. He came over and uh...yeah." Ozzie rubbed the back of his neck and unzipped his jacket.

"Huh, small world. He's doing some of the soundtrack for this Indie flick I'm in."

"He'd mentioned something like that."

"Really? Makes sense I guess-"

Toni asked. "Anything else happen?"

"No," Ozzie said, shaking his head. "Don't think so. What about you James?"

"Nope."

"What are you reading, Tones?"

"Dante's Inferno," she lifted it to show them the cover. She eyed them both.

James gulped. "Interesting choice?"

"And why is that?"

"No reason! Just. So. Classic?"

Jesus.

"Dude," Ozzie hissed. Way to look totally guilty of something, man. He sighed. "What are you trying to get at Toni?"

"Nothing," she said, taking another sip from her mug, then set it down with all the grace of the debutante she had been. "I'm just waiting to hear why the police called me at midnight saying my nephew was a key witness to the murder of a sixteen-year-old girl," he nails drummed against the table, "care to explain?"

Ozzie rolled his eyes, arms crossing his chest. "I found a dead girl. Happy?"

"No," She didn't raise her voice, but the threat was still there, resting in her eyes. "Not 'happy'. I want to know why you weren't going to tell me."

Ozzie narrowed his eyes. "I'm going to bed."

"No, you're not, Ozzie, not until you tell me-"

James put a hand on his wrist, "uh. Ozzie?"

"I'm. Going. To. Bed." Ozzie shook him off.

"Ozzie," she warned.

Ozzie turned to go, James was quick to follow.

"We're going to Dr. Nelson's first thing in the morning, Ozzie!"

"Fine."

He heard her chair scrape out from the table. Jostling in the kitchen as she set her dishes in the sink. The click of the telephone as it was picked up from the receiver. Her voice murmuring the words:

'I need you to come to L.A'

Ozzie stopped and almost turned around, but James was looking at him funny and honestly he was tired. Maybe he'd misheard. It was almost three a.m after all. Maybe he was looking for something where there was nothing? Maybe. But what if he wasn't? He thought about the woman in black and her warning. Of the figure leading him to Haley. Of the buzzing just underneath his skin. Instinct. Instinct that he should have trusted. That didn't sound like something she'd say to Dr. Nelson. If he had heard right then just who was she talking too?

His gut was telling him yes and his mind was telling him no and his body was telling him sleep so--

He climbed the steps and went to bed. Whatever the case, it could wait until the morning.

Chapter Text

It was a quiet evening, the setting California sun dripping down towards the sea. The limo weaved through the Malibu hills with the curving cadence of the road. To the right was harsh cliffside, high and sharp and rocky, sections of it ground into mounds of fine clay. To the left was nothing but miles of roiling Pacific waves.

It was pretty, Ozzie supposed, despite the fact that the observation seemed slightly off, like a figment born in the corner of his eye--there and gone in a blink--he couldn't quite match the thought with the feeling--or perhaps it was wiser to say there were no feelings associated with the thought. He blinked numbly out the window. That seemed more accurate. The view didn't feel pretty. It didn't feel like anything at all. It was simply...there; a static entity that garnered no emotional response.

Empty.

Ozzie's gaze was drawn back to the waves, their foamy crests smashing against the cliff face below. It wasn't calm, but that didn't make him feel anything either. It was neither invigorating or soothing. Terrifying or calming. In fact the only thing that came to mind was an image of himself flying off the side of the road, the limo suddenly spinning out of control and dragging him down to a watery grave.

Was it bad if there was a small voice in his head that sort of wished it would happen?

He continued to stare out the window, wondering if the fall would make a sound. Would there be an explosion? Would the limo crunch against the rocks? Would it simply sink into the deep? He wondered if anyone would see. He wondered if it would hurt. He wondered if anyone would care. He wondered if anyone would look. He hoped not.

Across from him, James cleared his throat, breaking the silence that seemed to seep out of every stitch, nook and cranny of the vehicle. "You, uh, look good, dude." He said.

Honestly, it was a pretty cringe worthy attempt at conversation, obviously forced and awkward, but Ozzie could appreciate the effort. Abstractly at least. Enough to maybe think about replying.

Ozzie slowly dragged his eyes away from the cliff's edge and back towards himself. He was dressed up tonight. Properly dressed up - like in a suit and tie and all that fancy stuff that Ozzie never really liked to wear no matter how well it fit. Armani. A half black and half white blazer over a dark gray button up and a matching black and white bow tie. His hair was even styled for the occasion, brushed and gelled up out of his face in a way that he knew people found flattering.

Ozzie stared at his hands, nails unpainted for the first time in... What felt like a real long time, but he knew it couldn't have been more than a few days. Or was it weeks? Months? Maybe it had been awhile. He couldn't really remember. Time had been a fuzzy, ephemeral thing lately but he was doing better now. After his episode with the good doctor. It was all in his head. Everything he thought he saw. He couldn't trust his mind anymore. The Beast wasn't real and things were a lot better. He had to believe that. For the first time since his parents death he could function.

Sort of.

But sort of was better than nothing.

Movement out of the corner of his eye drew Ozzie's attention back to James. James licked his lips, nervously wringing his hands together in his lap. Ozzie wondered why. Why, in the sort of fleeting way one wondered why the sky was blue or the ocean was salty. "Are you ready?" Belatedly Ozzie realized he never answered his friend's first question.

"Oh," Ozzie said, slow and kind of tired, "thanks."

James frowned. "What?"

"You look good too."

He gave Ozzie this...look when he said that, one of those furrowed brow, pouty lipped concerned looks that James could pull off so well. It usually made Ozzie feel like he'd done something wrong, a little guilty, a little like he'd just kicked a puppy. In this case though he wasn't really sure why James was giving it to him.

So, Ozzie cocked his head to the side. Blinked at James like he was a particularly interesting puzzle. One he couldn't quite figure out. "You look worried," He said, monotone. Soft. Stated. Detached. "Why?"

James huffed, hands stopping jerkily above his hair like he'd been about to run his fingers through the gelled locks. It was pulled into a slick looking man-bun, one that kept his curls manageable and out of his face. "I shouldn't have brought you along," he said. His lips twisted into a pained smile, "this was a mistake."

"Mmm," Ozzie grunted, rolling his shoulders, "hindsight," he murmured, "it's a bitch." He pointed out the window. "Doesn't matter though," the limo began to slow, rounding a corner and passing through a large wrought iron gate, gravel crunching beneath its wheels. "We're here."

James eyes widened, "crap."

"Language."

"We could still leave," James said, twisting back around in his seat. His voice was sharp with nerves. "Not like anyone's seen us yet. I could just fake sick or something--"

"It's fine James," Ozzie mumbled.

"I mean I am supposed to be an actor now right?" James rambled on, "I can totally get us out of this. Easy-peasy, dude, like--."

"James," Ozzie managed, raising his voice, finally cutting his friend's tirade off, "I'll be fine," he stressed. Or well he at least emphasized the 'fine' in the sentence which had to count for something... even if the tonality was completely off.

Oh well.

With that Ozzie gripped the door handle and swung it open. He shifted himself out as he did so, moving before James could stop him. "Let's go." He said, shooting a glance over his shoulder and smoothing out the wrinkles on his suit.

"Jeez, okay, fine, let's do it bro," James grumbled in that low, slow, way of his as he crawled out of the backseat. "Fuck, like why even care anymore amirite? Goodness is never appreciated."

"Obviously," Ozzie said, cooly, while straightening his tie, "why else do people have a hard-on for vampires and shit?"

"Pretty sure that has more to do with the sensuality and innate sexuality of Vampires in conjunction with the appeal that comes from romantisizing a potentially lethal force and, you know, less to do with the fact that people are dicks," James shrugged, closing the limo door behind him and waving the driver off. The guy was probably going to go park. Then get high. Cause why not? Ozzie totally would do that if he was stuck chauffeuring for a couple of rich dudes. Where? He had no idea. He didn't really care either.

James stretched, turning his attention back to Ozzie. "Whatever, chicks dig them. Don't know why. Masochists, all of 'em."

Ozzie blinked. "I wasn't actually asking."

He grinned. "I know." James casually threw an arm over Ozzie's shoulder, bringing him close enough to catch a whiff of the other's cologne. Something earthy and fresh. "At least the digs are nice, huh, Oz?"

Ozzie hummed.

They began to climb the steps, glistening marble things decorated with garish handrails and reliefs. Honestly, most of what Ozzie saw of the place seemed over the top, like whoever lived there had something to prove. From the large wrought-iron gate in the front, to the seeming miles of pruned hedges and the little fountain that ran from the front door down to a bigger one that took up half of the immediate walk way. Unnecessary is what it was.

"Oz?"

Though, now that he thought about it...who's house was this again? Obviously, Ozzie was a guest of a guest, the plus one, but he should probably at least know the name of their host. That was good manners. His parents taught him better than that.

"Oz."

Judging by the exterior it had to be someone with major bank. But youngish. Cause these choices were debatable at best. Not refined. Screamed new money, like Gatsby. And the lady or gent had to somehow be tied to Hollywood, cause duh, James, so probably a co-star or like director or producer or the like--

"Oz!" James hissed.

Ozzie flinched, blinking furiously as the fog cleared from his head. "Huh?"

"I was just telling our host how much we're digging the digs," James said, nudging his side, gently but there, free arm still wrapped around his shoulders, "real, like, nouveau meets man cave." They probably looked like a couple, Ozzie mused shifting closer to James. Something close to embarrassment swelled in his chest at the thought.

"Host...?" Ozzie blinked again, slower this time, and took in the new surroundings. When had they gotten inside? At some point he--they--had exchanged the over decorated exterior of the mansion for the just as, if not more, decorated interior, complete with fruit art and ice sculptures.

James frowned. "Yeah dude, Sergio, my co-star, remember?" He nodded in front of him where a fairly attractive male, probably in the tail end of his teens, stood. He wore a suit like the rest of them, his a deep burgundy with matching accents highlighting strips of his hair.

Ah, Sergio Rossi. Up and coming actor from Spain. Born in Italy though.

He smiled, holding out his hand, "Sergio Rossi, though many call me Sergiy, it is apparently easier for Americans." James scoffed, at that, the sound rumbling down Ozzie's spine. A quick glance towards his friend revealed the other fighting a smirk. Inside joke then.

Cool.

Ozzie took a moment, cataloging the man in front of him before nodding in hello. James gave his side another nudge. Ozzie rolled his eyes.

"You never told me you had such pretty friends, Jamie," Sergio said in his lightly accented English, clearing his throat and bringing his hand awkwardly back down to his side, "it is such a shame this is our first meeting."

"Una tragedia sono sicuro, Sergiy."

Sergio raised a brow. "Cheeky."

James laughed nervously, "you have no idea," he huffed out a breath, "So, how, uh, is the new shoot going?"

Sergio brought his gaze back James, smile returning, "Ah! I am glad you asked Jamie, you see--"

Ozzie checked out, let that numbness run over him some more. He breathed a sigh of relief. Like a stone in the sea, he ran on autopilot, letting the waves of his apathy push him through conversation after conversation, offering a word here and there, but mostly being no more engaging than a porcelain doll.

"You're so pretty," one actress giggled, hand hiding her mouth, "How about we get out of here," she bit her pointer finger coyly and tossed her dark hair over her shoulder. She, whoever she was, was pretty herself, drop dead gorgeous, with makeup that only accentuated that beauty in a strapless emerald green dress. Most importantly though, she wanted him. And she was nothing like Cynthia. Her eyes flickered over to James, "you and your friend."

Well, maybe not.

Ozzie chanced a glance at his 'friend'. James had a grin on his face and a flute of what was probably champagne in his hand. Judging by the light flush on his cheeks and the way his arm had slipped from Ozzie's shoulders to his waist it was probably not his first either. Ozzie shrugged. "If he's okay with it." They looked at James.

A slow smile crawled across his face and he drained the rest of his champagne glass. "Sure," James nuzzled the side of Ozzie's neck affectionately, giving it a little nip at the end, "let's do it."

Ozzie didn't really remember the drive over. He didn't know if they took her limo or theirs. He didn't even know who's house they were in or if it was even a house to begin with. He just remembered hot steamy kisses in a moving vehicle and chests, planes hard and soft, under his hands.

"Oh my God," she gasped, "you two are so hot!"

Currently, Ozzie was busy sucking a mark onto the actress' collar, quietly efficient as James moved his head between her thighs, a fact he was only aware of because of how wet it sounded. Obscene. That and the hand he had in James' hair.

Together, they ripped another moan from her and she gripped them both, Ozzie on the wrist and James by the hold Ozzie had in his hair. "Up, up," she breathed, chest heaving and glistening in the moonlight, "I want to see you two kiss." She lifted James head, cupped Ozzie's jaw between surprisingly firm fingers, and guided their faces together. James looked...well drunk, but not just in the alcoholic sense. He looked blissed out too, gelled hair curling out of his measured do, eyes blown to hell and lips a deep swollen shade of their usual pink.

Ozzie gulped.

They hovered there, staring at each other, hanging in limbo for what felt like eternity before James finally leaned in, eyes still wide open...

And kissed him.

It was slow at first, their lips barely moving, barely touching. Ozzie could taste the actress on James' tongue, something not wholly unpleasant, but a reminder that she was there, that this kiss wasn't for them.

So, Ozzie groaned into it, burying his other hand in James' hair and tugging it completely free of the bun it was in. He dove into the kiss, hands dancing across his friends cheekbones as he sucked and bit and tore noises he never dreamed of hearing James make from his mouth. James gave back just as hard. His hands roamed up and down Ozzie's sides and they rubbed their groins together, Ozzie trembling with need as he tossed his head back, eyes blinking back open, coming face to face with--

A corpse.

Where the actress had sat mere moments before was a corpse, her jaw unhinged and voice creaking through the disfigured jaw like sandpaper over wood.

"So beautiful you both are," her hands reached out to Ozzie, bits of flesh falling off as her bony sinew lined fingers reached for him, "come to mommy, show me a good time."

Ozzie yelled, the sound ripped from his lungs as he scrambled back, but suddenly there was another pair of arms behind him holding him in place. James.

"Come on dude," came James' distorted voice, whispering in his ear, hands around his waist like some sick promise, "mummy knows best."

"No," Ozzie whimpered.

The corpse actress kept crawling to him.

"No!" Ozzie yelled again.

She moved closer, movements jerky as a mannequin. He could feel her now, draping herself on his lap, warm and sticky with a coppery scent that was much too cloying. A hand dragged itself up his naked torso to rest on his cheek. A scarlet path was left in its wake.

"Give, mummy a kiss." She breathed, baring herself over him. Her other arm jerkily began making its way up to grasp the other side of his face.

Ozzie stared wide eyed and shook his head. He kept his mouth closed.

"No?" The corpse actress cocked her head to the side, her scalp sliding off in the process. She paused, her hands stopping their gentle circling motion across his cheeks, "help your brother out James."

"With pleasure mummy," James' hands began to splay lower, traveling down, past the trail of hair there, down to--

No.

Ozzie jerked. Neck tensing. Tears running down his face. Slick warmth covering him. He trembled between the two corpses. Shaking his head. Screaming: no, no, no. His eyes were glued in front of him. To that horrid scalp-less thing.

No.

James twisted his wrist and Ozzie gasped, caught, and the corpse actress surged forward, humming in delight, nails digging into his face, Ozzie screamed.

NO!

Convulsed in their grasp as something began to spew into his mouth--

NO!

Bitter and vile and the corpses trembled with him groaning in ecstasy as they expelled their toxic essence down his throat--

Ozzie bolted out of bed. He blindly stumbled down the hall, knocking into photos and tripping down stairs. He banged his elbow against the wall-- hands covered his mouth. His eyes were wild and untamed and he threw open the bathroom door. The toilet. He had to get to the toilet--

("What's going on?!" Someone, it sounded like Toni, said frantically in the background.

"I don't know! He just flipped out! Ran down here!" That was James, sounding just as panicked.

"Panic attack?"

"I don't know! Maybe!?" Oh God. James.)

Bile spewed out his mouth and he crumbled to his knees, heaving into the porcelain bowl. Shaking. Shivering. Crying. He gasped.

"Just a dream," he mumbled, "Just a dream. Just a dream. Just a--"

He puked again.

"--dream," he choked out, knuckles white against the rim, "fuck," he hissed, "just a mother fucking dream." He squeezed his legs together. Almost threw up again when he felt the stickiness in his boxers run down his thighs.

"Just a dream."

Chapter Text

"Uh-huh," Toni was saying, her voice sounding strangely muffled to Ozzie's ears, "that's right," she said.

There was an almost dream-like quality to the words, more like echoes, and as they bounced around aimlessly in his skull that was the one thing he could really latch onto. Not their meaning or who she was talking to but the eerie way in which they vibrated into the blank spaces his mind had dug into itself.

It was almost jarring. If only he could say why.

So he laid there, wherever there was, strangely detached from the conversation taking place and waited, though for what he wasn't sure. Probably for either the talking to stop or for something more interesting to come along, whichever came first he guessed.

"James'll bring him now," Toni said, continuing in that oh so steady tone of hers. She was like a rock; always solid. Unshakable. It was soothing, "He had a bad attack this morning...passed out right after."

What? He thought, curious as what she said finally struck home a few moments later. The fuck. Well that piqued his interest. He found himself fighting against the strange darkness around him, wanting to find out more. Who passed out?

"No, I don't know what triggered it-- Oz was-- Well--" Toni took a breath, gathering her thoughts, "It was a nightmare but I don't know what it was about."

Oz--? Wha-- he thought a little groggily. He felt like he was missing something, something important, something that his sluggish brain should be getting or remembering, but like a dumbass wasn't. Me? She's talking about me. I passed out. Why would I--

The moment Ozzie realised what he was hearing was real and not a figment of his imagination he whined, low in this throat, and awkwardly rolled onto his side. His vision swam, eyes blinking almost drunkenly in and out as his consciousness finally forced the last dredges of sleep away.

He winced, slowly opening his eyes against the light he could feel leaving warm patterns against his lids. A softly uttered "fuck" parted his lips on a shaky exhale as he did so.

Dragging a hand across his face, Ozzie took a breath and tried to figure out just where in the house he was. Ignoring the fact his head hurt like a mother and his mouth tasted like something died in it; there was the tell-tale crink in his neck from sleeping on the couch that he swore was spawned by Satan himself and the light - filtered through diaphanous drapes - cut through the gaps left between his fingers like tiny obnoxious needles. The living room then. Someone (James) must've moved him from the bathroom after passing out. Great. His lips thinned at the thought.

"Yes, James will...I'll pick him up...no...," there was a pause in the conversation, one in which Ozzie could just make out the sound of faint footfalls coming closer, "uh-huh...yes... I know but I have some things to take care of first." The footsteps stopped just behind him, settling by the arm of the lumpy couch from hell, and Ozzie got the distinct prickling feeling he got whenever someone was staring at him. "If that's all..." Toni trailed off, voice noticeably louder; Ozzie shifted the hand over his face to peek up at his aunt, "uh-huh... Goodbye, see you soon." She ended the call and set the cordless phone to the side, but that was a detail that barely flickered on Ozzie's radar. No. He was too busy staring at the icy calm plastered over his aunt's face.

Ozzie groaned, moving the crook of his arm over his eyes. He didn't feel like dealing with this.

"Dr. Nelson?" he asked after a moment.

"Yes and you're going. Now," her tone brokered no room for argument.

"Figured."

She huffed. Another moment passed. "James is taking you," she said. A lazy hum crawled its way from the back of Ozzie's throat.

"Great," he drawled.

"Well," Toni let out a frustrated breath and Ozzie could hear her fingers drumming impatiently against the faded leather of the couch as she tried to decide what to say next. It was petty and no small amount of childish but Ozzie lay there, letting the quiet stretch. He was more than happy to let it fade from tense to awkward. Toni clicked her tongue.

"Get ready then." There was a sudden rush of air as she turned around and then a, "and stop acting like such a teenager. It ain't cute, Ozzie and it ain't gonna win any points with me either." Silence. She was gone.

Ozzie scoffed and dropped his arm down to his side. "Whatever," he grumbled. His arm hung loosely over the edge of the couch, fingers brushing against the wooly carpet almost idly. He stared blankly at the ceiling, smooth and white. A hand tugged at his hair.

She's right you know, you're being childish.

So what? She's not the one who keeps finding dead people.

Suck it up Ozzie, whining about it isn't gonna change anything.

But it'll make me feel better. I feel like shit.

You always feel like shit.

Yeah well, wonder why.

You didn't take your meds last night.

I was tired.

Not an excuse.

Then what is?

You shouldn't do this to them.

You're a burden. (No I'm not)

A fuck up. (I know I'm not)

Dead weight. (Shut-up)

If only you told James and Clint to fuck off with their clubbing plans. (There was no way for me to know. Stop it)

Dumb. (Stop it)

Pathetic. (Stop it)

If only you took your meds. (I just wanted to sleep.)

Waste of space. (Stop it)

If only you didn't go outside. (Couldn't have known. Couldn't have known.)

Why do you exist? (I don't know, dude I'm not fucking Descartes.)

If only- If only- If only- If only- Sucks dick doesn't it--

(I just want to be a kid. I never got to be one. I want to be child. Let me be child just for ONCE--)

YOU. ARE. NOT. A. CHILD.

"Fuuuuck!" He tasted copper on his lips, his free hand digging sharp little halfmoons into his palm and he squeezed his eyes shut, hard enough to leave spots in his vision. He inhaled deeply through his nose. Opened his eyes.

Wearily Ozzie got up and trekked back to his room.

Chapter Text

12.

James was face down on Ozzie's bed when he walked into the bedroom, his ebony curls fluffed out at random angles like he'd been running a hand through them right before falling asleep. Ozzie couldn't help rolling his eyes at the sight. Fucking cat, he thought.

As he watched, James' head shifted so that it was pillowed against his arm, his left leg sticking off the edge of the mattress while his body curled into the one streak of sunlight that reached him, like - well - the cat Ozzie thought he was. All he was missing was a pair of whiskers and a tail.

A light snore whistled past the older boy's lips and Ozzie snorted. It had almost sounded like a purr. He shook his head. Such a fucking cat. He took off his shirt, balling it up before chucking it at his napping friend. "Get up," he mumbled. He wasn't too sure his voice would carry but he probably didn't need it to, not when the shirt carried well enough on its own.

It sailed through the air, unfurling completely just before it draped itself across his friend's face. The other boy jerked awake, spluttering and cursing as the fabric got stuck between his lips. "Huh?! Wha-? Shit- Fuck! Gross dude!" James pulled the shirt away from his mouth, his nose wrinkled in disgust, "man, didn't you puke in this?!"

Ah. Yeah. That's right. Probably why it'd reeked so much. Whoops.

Ozzie shrugged, padding lightly towards his chest of drawers, and pulled his bottom lip idly between his teeth."Turn around a sec," he said, free hand playing with the hem of the shorts he was wearing, "gonna put my pants on."

"Yeah, yeah," James grumped, turning to face the wall, "god you're a shit."

"Sorry." James just grunted in response.

For a few moments the only sound was that of rustling fabric and faint breathing. Ozzie quickly shimmied out of his shorts, tossing them aside and grabbing the first pair of briefs he saw (they had Captain America's shield in a repeating motif across them) before slipping on a loose fitting pair of sweats.

James shot a glance over his shoulder. "You good?"

"Peachy," Ozzie deadpanned, looking for a new shirt or something to wear. His chest was getting cold. "Pass me that hoodie." He nodded to the mound of white sitting between his bed and his window.

James stretched to look over the edge. "Which one?" he asked.

"I only have one."

"The Marvel one?"

"No shit, Sherlock."

"Ouch," James frowned and tossed Ozzie the hoodie, "no need to be so testy Romanoff."

"Sorry," Ozzie sighed and tugged the hoodie over his head, "Tired."

"No problem, bro," James rolled his shoulder and pushed himself off the bed. He twisted his back, letting out a satisfied groan when it cracked, "you had a rough night."

"Yeah," we both did. Ozzie opened and closed his fists. He could still see it when he closed his eyes. Her body. Haley's body. The body of a teenage girl he didn't even know.

It made him sick.

Shaking his head, Ozzie joined James by the window where the other boy already had a cigarette dangling between his lips. He offered one to Ozzie who gratefully accepted it with a soft "thanks dude".

"Fuck," he said after his first puff. The nicotene did a little for the trembling in his hands but not much else, "wish this was weed."

James hummed in agreement, blowing a long stream of smoke from his mouth. "I'll sneak some past Toni for you later."

"Thanks man."

James waved his hand noncommittally. "No problem."

The two of them lapsed into a comfortable silence, letting the noon day sounds of traffic and typical city bluster wash over them. Ozzie tilted his head up, sunlight brushing gentle fingers over his face and he felt something in him settle just a bit more.

"You ready to see old Nelly then?" James asked stubbing out his cigarette on the windowsill and flicking it down into the alley way below. He cleared his throat, spitting out the window, "we really should be heading out soon if I'm gonna be taking you, y'know."

He let the words wash over him while Ozzie took a few more silent puffs of his cigarette, head tilted so the sun could warm his face a little longer. Everything seemed a little more vibrant with the rain gone. Ozzie couldn't help but notice. It was as if LA got some of its mojo back, smells a little crisper, colours a little bolder, laughs a little louder. The gray that had stuck to everything for the past three days finally seemed to be bleeding away. It was...a relief in a way.

Nothing had changed in his life, Ozzie knew - well actually in the past twenty-four hours it had gotten even worse - but seeing that the rest of the world kept spinning with or without him was strangely cathartic. No matter how shit his life was, in the end he was nothing but a tiny blip on the Earth's six billion year old timeline. A subatomic nineteen years. Hardly a sneeze.

Insignificant.

He liked it that way.

Ozzie ground out his cigarette in much the same way James had and nodded. "As I'll ever be," he sighed.

James squeezed his shoulder."Okay then," he closed the window, bathing the room in the kaleidoscopic light of the stained glass window that the Archangel Raphael stared impassively out of and Ozzie blinked, cocking his head to the side as if just realizing James was beside him.

He grinned, a little sheepish and a bit sad, the smile nothing like the one James gave to the cameras. But that was okay because this one wasn't for them. It was for Ozzie, small and tired and wrenchingly honest in a way no photo-op or paparazzi could ever capture.

It tugged at something in Ozzie, something that felt uncomfortably like guilt. He could see the dark circles standing out like faint violet bruises underneath his eyes. The way that even if James' smile was real there was still an edge of pain that kept it from really being happy and that. That was his fault.

Cuffing Ozzie lightly on the back of the head, James brought their foreheads together, smile just a little bit wider at Ozzie's disgruntled expression. "Let's go yeah?" He said, pulling away. Don't worry about me.

"Idiot," Ozzie grumbled, smoothing out his hair with not so amused glare. He sighed, pulling his hood over his head and swiping his glasses off the bedside table. "Come on then."

He skulked out the door, hands shoved in his hoodie's pockets and it was only when he heard James laugh, a sound less pained then the haunted look in his eyes, that Ozzie allowed himself the ghost of a smile.

Chapter Text

13.

Dr. Nelson's office was as artificially welcoming as it always was. Everything had its place, from the couch with it's ill-structured patterns to the quietly humming speakers in the corners of the walls still spouting idyllic whale noises almost a year later. It was calculated - painstakingly so - like a model home or an IKEA ad, so precise and deliberate in its positioning that it could never truly be hospitable.

(Funnily enough, it was that realization that finally let Ozzie relax against the firm leather he was sitting on, not that it gave much under his weight even then.)

There were a couple new additions to the room that he could spot though. One was more obvious than the other. First was the decidedly childish 'feelings' poster mounted on what used to be a blank space on the right wall. On it was a cartoonish seascape with different fish and aquatic creatures - a seahorse, a couple sea urchins, a baby octopus - all with exaggerated expressions ranging from sadness to joy. 'How are you feeling today?' it read in bubbly yellow letters at the top.

He scoffed inwardly, pulling the hem of his hoodie up to cover his mouth. Like the luckiest guy alive, Ozzie thought sarcastically.

His eyes traveled to his left, landing on the second change - and this was the obvious one - the one he'd noticed the moment he had walked through the door. It was a sandbox, small and seemingly inoffensive where it was sitting in the middle of the coffee table he now sat behind. It was a little thing, no larger than a sheet of paper and a couple inches in height but to Ozzie it was as damning as a noose.

You see, nothing good ever came with the sandbox.

There was a faint squeaking sound and Ozzie jerked his head up as Dr. Nelson rolled himself into the room. "Apologies for the delay, Ozzie," he said, "the last patient ran a little over." The doctor pushed himself down a small beige ramp, his trusty pen and memo-pad already resting in his lap. The yellow paper was studiously turned to a blank page. He came to a stop on the other side of the coffee table, directly across from Ozzie, a placating smile on his lips while he ran a hand through the few sweaty gray hairs he had left on his head, "you know how these things go," the doctor flipped the brakes on the side of his wheelchair, "emotions are truly unpredictable things."

Ozzie nodded, legs pulled up to his nose so only the amber of his eyes showed. He did know how these things went, just as he knew how incredibly fickle feelings could be.

Dr. Nelson clicked his pen. "Are you ready to begin?"

"Sure doc," Ozzie mumbled, voice as raspy and raw as it always was. He winced.

"Excellent," the doctor said, smiling again and Ozzie couldn't help but think about how the curl of his lips looked fake as fuck... not that he could judge, "so tell me Ozzie--" here we go, "how are you feeling?"

Sick of that question.

Raising his head just enough to uncover his mouth, Ozzie rested his chin on his knees, "I feel," he began, clearing his throat when his words cracked off his cords. He looked out the window, watching foamy waves crash against the seashore below, "well--" he opened his mouth. Closed it. Bit his lip. Took a breath. Settled on saying, "bad." He cringed.

That was eloquent.

"Uh-huh," Dr. Nelson hummed, scribbling a few words down on his pad, no doubt noting his reaction, "care to elaborate? Why are you feeling 'bad'?"

"How much do y'know?" He countered, head cocked to the side. Fuck. Ozzie grimaced, watching the doctor write something else down. Stop it. He told himself. This isn't an interrogation. Your trust issues with authority are showing.

"Just the bare bones of the situation," Nelson stated, looking up from his notes, "I know you had an... eventful morning triggered by something that happened last night. And a nightmare. Is that correct?"

Ozzie nodded slowly, "yeah," a pause, "you could say that."

"Okay," the doctor set his pen to the side, eying Ozzie critically, "you're tense Ozzie," he said suddenly, "am I making you uncomfortable?"

No. Ozzie blinked. Shit. Yes. He hadn't even really noticed but--

Everything makes me uncomfortable.

"A little, yeah," Ozzie took a shuddering breath and loosened the death grip he had on his shins. Calm down. Calm down, man. This is why people think you're crazy. His shoulders were still coiled and it did nothing for the bees buzzing in his stomach, but it was a start.

"Should we talk about something else for the moment, then?"

Ozzie scoffed. "Like what," he mumbled, dry as the sand on the beach, "the weather?"

"If you'd like," the doctor shrugged, "it was raining the past few days. I know you didn't like that."

"Pass."

"Okay. How about your birthday? You're nineteen now, it's been two years since your parent's death correct?"

Ozzie narrowed his eyes, hands tightening around the fabric against his shins. So much for calming down. "Hard-pass. Rather talk about the nightmare."

Dr. Nelson clicked his pen and smiled, straightening in his chair, "then let's talk about that."

Shit.

Ozzie regarded the doctor cooly and shook his head. "You're a sneaky fuck. I jus' want you to know that."

"I haven't the vaguest," Nelson said, "now this nightmare."

Ozzie sighed. His eyes flickered back to the poster on the wall. 'How are you feeling Haley?'

Dead, probably.

That was a sobering thought.

"I guess," he took a breath, "you should probably - uh - know... I - uh - sorta found a body," he mumbled, "at a club," he glanced back up at Dr.Nelson, "last night." The doctor was doing a fairly admirable job at looking unphased by this revelation, only a faint twitch of a salt and pepper brow showing he'd heard, "S'was in a alley. I--I needed air and so I--I--uh--stepped outside? I don't know. You might have heard about this already?"

Dr. Nelson nodded. "It was on the news this morning. Club Limbo I believe? Tragedy."

"Yeah, that's the one," Ozzie's fingers bunched themselves around his knees. He took another trembling breath and bit his lip, "so I found her. Haley. And shit, it was a fuckin' mess. Like. She didn't have her - uh - her - her head? Christ," his voice cracked and Ozzie had the most bizarre desire to slap himself, "shit," his voice wobbled, "sorry," he swiped at his eyes with his sleeve, "sorry. Just... Just give me a sec."

"Deep breaths Ozzie," the doctor nudged the sandbox towards him, "feel free to draw if it will help calm you down."

Fuck that sandbox.

"I don't draw, you know that," nevertheless, Ozzie dragged the sandbox into his lap and began idly trailing a finger through it.

"Whenever you're ready, continue."

"Okay," Ozzie sniffed, "okay, yeah."

Clearing his throat, he continued.

"So...she had no head. But she also didn't like really have a...like - uhm - chest either? It was sorta cracked open like...I don't know...a weird...lotus maybe? It...like...really, really sucked. Like so bad..." he trailed off, swirling his finger in the sand, "but James's the one who found me and that was kinda almost worse."

"Why?"

Ozzie tensed. "Because he's my friend."

"And?" Dr. Nelson questioned.

"And-and nothing," he jerked his head up glaring, glasses going askew across his nose, "he's my friend. He shouldn't hafta see that. Not again," he whispered.

"Ah."

"Ah, what?" Ozzie said, voice drenched with thinly veiled suspicion.

"Ah, nothing," Dr. Nelson said, bringing his hands to the middle of his lap. He gave Ozzie a reassuring smile. Ozzie glared back.

"Stop saying, 'ah'," Ozzie mumbled after a few tense moments, gaze dropping back down to the sandbox resting on his thighs, "s'weird."

"Got you to calm down though."

"Whatever," he grumbled.

"Yes, back to the matter at hand," the doctor said. Ozzie couldn't help but frown at the sudden shift. Nelson was always so quick to change the subject. At least when it suited him, "the nightmare?"

Well...

"I had a threesome with James and an actress and they turned into zombies," Ozzie deadpanned, "and they still tried to get me off."

You did ask.

Dr. Nelson blinked. "...Ah."

Not what you expected?

Sugar-coating things was never his forte anyway. That was more James' thing. Probably why people liked him so much.

"I said to stop saying that."

Dr. Nelson cleared his throat, "yes of course. Apologies. Terribly rude of me," he smoothed a hand down the front of his shirt and composed himself once more, "so you had a sex dream with your best friend that went rather...sour...is that correct."

"Yeah," Ozzie nodded, "though...I-I guess really the only part that was a dream was...the - uh - zombie bit," he worried his lip between his teeth, shoulders hunched and fingers tightly grasping the wooden edges of the sandbox like it could somehow shield him from what he was about to say, "the threesome bit...that - uh - actually happened..." he winced, blush creeping up his neck at the admission.

"And this all happened last night," Dr. Nelson asked, an air of disbelief coloring his words.

"Yes," Ozzie nodded jerkily, "wait no. No. The threesome happened like a year ago."

"I see."

"I - uh - hardly remember it," if that helps, "they had me on so many drugs," a pause, "the doctors - not - uh - James....He wouldn't do that."

I sound like an idiot.

"That's good to know, Ozzie," the doctor said soothingly, "he's a, ah, good friend."

"Yeah..." Ozzie mumbled. He looked back down, resolutely staring at the whirls and lines he made in the sand. A minute passed. Two. Three. Finally Dr. Nelson broke the silence.

"Are you ashamed of the nightmare?" He asked softly.

Ozzie shook his head, a crease marring the smoothness of his brow. "No, s'was just a dream," his grip on the sandbox tightened once more. "Everyone has them." He didn't look up.

"You threw up when you woke up, Ozzie."

He tensed. "I know, I was there."

"Then fainted"

"And?" Ozzie bit out.

"It's not abnormal to find pleasure in pain."

"'m not a masochist."

"I didn't say you were," Dr. Nelson said, "sometimes that happens though. You certainly wouldn't be the first person to have had a disturbing sex dream. Besides you're a teenager," he chuckled, "a strong breeze is enough for you at this point. It doesn't make you a freak, Ozzie."

"I - I know that," Ozzie said, running a hand through his hair, slightly damp at the root with sweat, and stared down at his shoes, "I do," he said, "I just," he rubbed his thumb against his lip. Bit the tip of it, "I feel guilty."

"And that's a completely normal response Ozzie, but," the doctor waited for him to look up, "remember none of this is your fault. Okay?" Ozzie looked away. "Ozzie, look at me, please," it took a moment but eventually he acquiesced. "Good. Now say it with me."

"Say what?" He mumbled.

"'It's not my fault'."

"I--," Ozzie shook his head, "I can't. James--"

"You can make sure he's okay after this, alright? We'll end here. Just say it with me."

"I--," Ozzie bit his thumb, eyes nervously bouncing between the doctor, the window and the sandbox in his lap, "I--"

"Just once, Ozzie."

He takes a breath.

"Okay."

"Excellent," Dr. Nelson beamed at him, "on the count of three. One--"

Ozzie gulped.

"--two--"

He set the sandbox back on the coffee table.

"--three--"

"It's--" Ozzie took a fortifying breath, "s'not my fault..."

It wasn't a very convincing exclaimation, even Ozzie could hear that, how wavery and slurred towards the end the words were, but it seemed to do the trick for Dr. Nelson who promptly clapped his hands like a parent at their kids graduation, looking pleased as could be.

"Thank-you, Ozzie," he said brightly while making a few last minute notes on his memo-pad, "your Aunt should be waiting in the lobby by now, so I won't keep you waiting, but do me a favour will you?"

"What?"

"Two things. One I'd like you to do this affirmation every morning and evening for the foreseeable future. Just say it in the mirror, when you wake up and get ready for bed, okay?"

Ozzie rolled his eyes, "fine."

"Secondly," and Dr. Nelson looked him straight on for this one, "I want you to start your feelings journal again. At least until this blows over."

Ugh.

"... Fine," he repeated bitterly.

"Wonderful," Dr. Nelson popped the brakes on his chair and rolled himself out of Ozzie's way, "I'll see you on Wednesday then," he gestured towards the door, "Have a good week and feel free to call if anything comes up."

Ozzie shoved his hands in the pocket of his hoodie, jaw set and lips pursed in a thin line, "'Course, doc, say the same thing every week," he waved over his shoulder, halfway to the door 'Caio' on the tip of his tongue when--

"Wonderful drawing by the way," Dr. Nelson called, "you really should consider art school."

Ozzie froze.

"What?"

Turning, Ozzie could see that Dr. Nelson had dragged the sandbox over to his side of the table, a small frown creeping over his brow as he peered down at it's contents. Like a witch and a tea-cup Ozzie mused. It wasn't particularly off to see, really it made sense. Obviously the doctor would make note of whatever he was drawing. No. The odd thing was that Ozzie hadn't drawn anything. At least nothing to warrant a reaction like that. He would know.

Right?

Slowly, he leaned forward to take a look himself.

"The likeness truly is striking, even with just the sand," Dr. Nelson marveled, hands hovering around the edges of the box.

"Thanks," Ozzie managed, taking a step back. He wished he hadn't seen.

Staring back at him was the face of Haley Matts.

Chapter Text

14.

Ozzie kept seeing her face--Haley's face--staring back up at him through that fucking sand, frozen in a relief of silky fine grains. It haunted him as much as the thought of her corpse did--a memory on constant loop. He couldn't get her out of his head. It wasn't enough to have found her body. It wasn't enough that his own betrayed him in his sleep. Even now, even awake, she was stalking him, her ghost clinging to his subconscious and whispering in his ear, moving his hands and drawing with his fingers...

Angry. Pleading. Desperate.

You can't forget. I won't let you forget. Remember. Remember. Remember.

Ozzie stared at the hands in his lap, Toni's Prius bumping along the shitty city road, the radio on low. They were the hands of an artist, slightly calloused but fine, elegant and slender with golden-tanned, sun-kissed digits. They were his hands, hands that he'd been born with, hands that he'd trained to work in tandem with his eyes and his mind and now, now--

They are mine. Just like your thoughts and dreams. They belong to me. Another ghost to keep you company.

You'll remember me. You'll remember me, just like your parents and that bloody Beast. You'll remember me. You'll remember me or I'll prove to everyone that you're completely insane.

You'll remember me because you must. You've lost too much of yourself to remember anything else.

So remember me, remember me, another ghost to make you weep.

He clenched them into fists, his hands--his--watching the fingers twitch and respond to the command. He felt the burn and stretch of muscle underneath his skin, pulling taut over bone. He felt the sharp bite of nails digging into supple flesh. These are mine. This is me. He shut his eyes, the drawn image of Haley's face in the sandbox filtering back to the forefront of his mind. Taunting him. Remember. He just wanted to be left alone. He just wanted to forget.

He remembered what she'd looked like standing haughtily at the front of the line, though. She had been drawing attention to herself like some sort of self-righteous queen, proud and angry and sure of her place in the world. Her dress was too short, her make-up intense and almost violent looking, her voice shrill and entitled and gosh how many minutes had that been? Before. Before she'd died?

Before she'd been murdered.

She'd been a bit of a bitch he remembered, yelling at her friend and causing a scene, but--

Ozzie ran a trembling hand through his hair, pulling at the roots and letting out a slow tortured breath. It was rude to think ill of the dead. They were dead for fuck's sake. It wasn't his place to judge. It wasn't a joke. Ozzie pulled on the string of his hoodie, twirling it around his fingers, brow furrowed and feet pressed up against the dash. His shoes were off like they always were and they knocked together under the seat while the late afternoon sun streamed through the cracked windows.

Beside him, Toni cleared her throat, a sudden, quiet sound that honestly wouldn't have caught his attention if not for the fact that she turned the radio off the moment she did. Ozzie jerked in his seat, twisting up to look at her in confusion. He raised a brow.

"So," she said, flicking a glance over to him. They turned a corner, Toni waving a pedestrian past before slowly putting the car back in motion, "how are you feeling?" She clicked her blinker off, eyes glued to the road.

"Peachy," Ozzie scoffed, scooting up a little more in his seat, "just great," he said and placed his feet on the floor. He sighed, hands shoved into the pockets of his hoodie and Ozzie rolled a ball of lint twixt his thumb and pointer finger, "feel like I need a cigarette," he mumbled, letting his head loll back against the headrest. His eyes slid shut.

A pause. "What happened to the one's I got you?"

Crap.

"Uh," Ozzie licked his lips, "used them?"

"Already?" She sounded exasperated, "Ozzie, that was like three, four packs."

Ozzie winced. "And...s'been three, four days, yeah?"

Toni groaned, the sound of her fingers drumming on the steering wheel filtering over that of the engine. Ozzie cracked an eye open. She was frowning, lips pinched into a line, burgundy lip-stick staining her lips like a bruise.

"I'm not getting you anymore," she said, matter-of-fact.

He nodded, hunched in his seat. "Not gonna ask you to."

"Good." The two lapsed back into silence.

Ozzie let it sit for a minute--the quiet--or at least the wordlessness of it. He grasped at the moment, a ceasefire to arms while they collected their thoughts. Toni's nails rapped against the wheel. Tension ran from the pit of his stomach and up and out his mouth. A breath. Then another. His shoulders loosened and he rolled his neck. Okay.

"I have to start the feelings journal shit again," he said dully.

It was Toni's turn to be surprised, "oh?" One of her perfectly arched brows lifted, making the lines across her forehead all the more prominent. "And you're going to actually do it this time? Not half ass it with insults and ramblings?"

Ozzie huffed. He stared down at his lap. "They weren't 'ramblings'," he picked at a hole in his sweats, working a finger through the gap. "Not really."

"Well they certainly weren't anything that made sense."

"I was angry," he mumbled, "I think that was clear 'nough."

Toni hummed in response. She pulled up to a red light. The coast was in front of them, buildings no longer tall enough to block it out. Ozzie pulled down the sun visor and angled it to keep the worst of the light out of his face. At least it wasn't raining.

"'M gonna do it Toni," he said, voice sounding small, "don't worry about it."

"I always worry about you."

"I know," Ozzie said, "just don't worry about this." Then he turned the radio back on.

"Ha," a mirthless smile teased the corner of Toni's mouth. He could see it in the reflection of the rearview mirror, "okay then Ozzie, I won't."

A few minutes later they pulled up to their home, the tall steepled roof standing out like a beckon amongst all the flat ones around it. Toni put the car in idle while Ozzie got out and opened the garage. She drove in and Ozzie closed it behind her.

"There's a box of books by the door in the back room," Toni said when she finally stepped out of her vehicle, the noise of the engine fading to nothing, "can you bring it out to the front for me?"

Ozzie nodded and rolled his shoulders. "Sure," he replied, "what's in 'em?"

"Some used books someone donated," Toni shrugged and rolled her eyes, her heels clicking against the cement floor as she walked, "didn't get a chance to look through them, but you can just put them on the bargain shelf. Not like we aren't going to make a profit either way."

Placing her sunglasses in the low-lying neck of her cardigan she adjusted the scarf on her head and waved a hand noncommittally through the air, "apparently they didn't realize we weren't the Goodwill but hey, who am I to look a gift horse in the mouth?" she droned.

Ozzie smirked. "You tellin' me we ain't a library then, Toni?" he deadpanned, "I've been lied to."

"Funny," she drawled, "I'm going to unlock the front, you," she pointed at Ozzie, "get that box."

"Yes ma'am," he jerked his head in the affirmative.

The two of them stepped amicably into the house. Toni was quick to stride through the backroom, moving through rows of industrial shelving and boxes with a fluidity that came from familiarity. Ozzie took a more sedate pace, slinking across the hardwood floor with his hands in the pockets of his hoodie. The late afternoon sun cast little dust ridden veins of light onto the ceiling and walls, giving enough illumination to see by.

He liked the backroom; the sounds weren't as jarring here, nor were there any people to deal with. If he couldn't be in his little attic room, this was his sanctuary: a place full of books and silence. It was a place to lose himself--not in his head--but in the minds of others.

He didn't linger long though, he didn't have the time for it, he stayed just long enough to drag his fingers across a few metal frames before sticking his free hand back in his hoodie and making his way to the threshold Toni had disappeared through moments before. Once there he found the box Toni had mentioned and hoisted it up between his wiry arms, letting out a faint huff of air as he did so.

"Toni?!" He called, staggering into the front of the bookstore, "where'd you want these again?!"

No response.

"Toni?!" he repeated through clenched teeth, "seriously?!" Still nothing. "This shit's fucking heavy!" he growled as he stumbled over to the register, nearly collapsing against the countertop beneath it. He placed the cumbersome box down on the island and looked around.

No Toni.

Ozzie blinked. "Where the fuck--" he began, nudging his skewed glasses back up against the bridge of his nose. She wasn't in the store.

"Fantastic," he grumbled, wiping his sweaty hands on his sweats and catching his breath. "Toni?!" He yelled again.

Pushing himself up from his slouched position against the counter he straightened, grabbing his worn copy of The Perks of Being a Wallflower and checking the aisles for a shock of kinky brown hair. It was probably a bit of a futile effort. In all honesty he knew he wasn't going to find her in the store, considering she hadn't responded to all his yelling, but the door to their living quarters was locked which meant she hadn't headed upstairs either.

So where the hell did she go? And for that matter...was she okay?

Fuck.

"Toni?" He called again, a strained bit of panic beginning to creep into his voice and he started to walk faster, "Toni?! Come on, this isn't funny!"

Still nothing.

Fuck. What if she really had hurt herself? What then? Did she suddenly collapse? Double fuck. His mind was going a mile a minute. Her heel'd totally just broke. And it would have been that wobbly fucker on her left  foot. And yes it would totally have been her heel because that's an entirely plausible fear with how tall she wears those fucking death traps on her feet. Dammit! And now she has gone and snapped her neck against a book case and is no doubt lying paralyzed on the floor in pain and unable to call for help and any second now he's going to see her sprawled on the floor of one of these aisles and freak the fuck out and she's going to die because he was too busy freaking the fuck out to call nine one one like a fucking retard and Toni's going to end up just like Haley sad and broken and alone only it would be worse because this time it would really be all his fault and then he'd have another ghost in his head telling him to remember remember remember and--

"Ozzie?"

Ozzie very well almost slammed into the bookcase he was next to he startled so bad.

"Toni," he said, shakily, heart in his throat and hand on his chest. He licked his lips, "there you are," he said, trying to appear as casual as possible and not at all like he just lost a good ten years off his life, "I was--uh--looking for you. Couldn't remember where you'd wanted that box."

"Uh-huh," Toni said, giving him a look that very much said how little she believed that story, but she let it slide, merely pursing her lips in a disbelieving line. "I want you to meet someone," she said instead of forcing the issue, something she'd no doubt do later, ugh, "well two someone's actually." She turned, waving to the two figures behind her, the people who Ozzie'd just noticed loitering awkwardly by the entrance of the store. He cocked his head to the side.

There was a male and a female--man and woman--hovering by the door. The former was astronomically tall and slouching where he stood in the doorway to fit beneath it, his biceps like medium sized melons where they bulged in his crossed arms. Jesus, Ozzie thought, dude could give Captain America a run for his money. The latter was tiny in comparison, barely coming up to the middle of Cap's chest with skin like cinnamon and curly chestnut brown hair that  she'd pulled into a messy bun. Both of them, despite their somewhat nervous demeanor, seemed nothing but professional.... Of course they also didn't look anything like the on-call shrinks or family friends Toni usually introduced him to so really Ozzie had no clue as to why he was meeting them in the first place.

"Uh, yo," he said after a moment, giving a two fingered salute to the mystery pair. He was confused but at least attempting to be polite. His mother would be proud.

The two gave him a nod in response though the female managed to crack a smile to make her expression a little less severe. The man, on the other hand, simply stared (or glared)--Ozzie wasn't really sure what to call the serious look on the man's face--at him, not even blinking, something which Ozzie would willingly admit to finding just the tiniest bit unnerving. He turned to Toni and raised a questioning brow.

"Dodge," Toni said, pointing to the blond male, "Newt," she gestured towards the darker skinned woman. She looked back at Ozzie. "Now you've all been acquainted."

There was a beat of silence.

"Uh," Ozzie frowned, "cool?...I guess...?" He licked his lips and pointed jerkily at the ceiling, "but 'm gonna go to my room. Not really up for uh...conversation or...talking...or, you know, people at the moment. Been a long day." He took a step back. "Nice to meet you both. Or whatever," he mumbled.

"Ozzie, this is important--" Toni began.

"And 'm sure it'll still be important in the morning," he said, cutting her off, "'m just going to bed," Toni frowned, looking like she was about to say something else and Ozzie was quick to continue, holding his hands up in a placating manner, "I promise I'll do everything Nelson said to okay? I'll get you if I need, write in the journal, everything, but..." Ozzie shook his head, "I need a break, okay?"

It was quiet for a moment, Ozzie standing like he was three seconds away from bolting and Toni like she was debating something particularly unpleasant while sucking a lemon, but finally Toni sighed, the tension leaving her body in one long breath.

"Fine, Ozzie," she said expression softening, "but in the morning--"

"You can tell me whatever is so important."

She nodded, "Okay," she paused, then waved her hand towards the staircase, "go on then."

Ozzie blinked, eyes shifting back to the floor and rubbed the skin of his elbow. "Thanks, Toni." And with that, he turned, shifting a little awkwardly and walked up the stairs, a relieved sigh leaving his lips as he did so. He could really use a nap.

Remember me. Remember me.

He just really hoped it wouldn't end up a nightmare.

Another ghost to make you weep.

Chapter Text

Dear Nobody,

Haley Matts is dead and I'm the lucky S.O.B. that found her. There. I said it. That's what all of this is about isn't it? Why I'm even more fucked in the head than usual. Why all the shit I thought I'd gotten over ie buried, is popping up, mutating like a virus in my mind. Haley's in me. It's like I'm possessed. She's in my hands forcing me to draw her face, she's  in my eyes every time I turn on the t.v, she's in my ears because she's all anyone is talking about, she's in my mouth, in all the things I do and don't say. It's only been a day, less than really, and I know I won't be going to sleep tonight. (Even if that is what I told Toni I'd be doing. Sorry.) Whether because of the cycling in my head going 'why me, why me, why me' or the guilt that follows for being so damn selfish, I know if I close my eyes all I'll have are nightmares. Me finding her on my birthday, all torn up and waiting in the moonlight like a twisted gift from Freddy Kruger or that fuckboi Jigsaw.

And that's terrifying.

Realistically I know no one is actually going to think I killed her. Like I know that. I have to. Or at least pretend I believe it. But at the same time they don't have any leads on the person who did either. And I'm like sort of anonymous now. But like really? I'm not. Just because the news isn't saying my name, blowing up my picture across every magazine and newspaper on the globe that doesn't do anything against the fucking pathogen that is social media. Eventually people are going to find out it was me who found her and inevitably, if no one else is found as a suspect they're going to paint me as a martyr, because someone will dig and someone will see the cold case that was my parents and say.

"Look, that Blue boy's  at  it again"

I won't survive it. I. I won't be able to handle it. I barely did last time. I know I can't go through that again. Maybe i'm paranoid, but I remember the stares I remember the fear and I remember just how little I do remember.

And that. That scares me more than anything.

Chapter Text

15.

At first it was dark.

Nebulous and dark.

Static.

"Hello?" He called.

He was in a hallway, the corridor seeming to stretch on for miles. He brought his arms around himself--mouth suddenly dry--and looked around. The walls were the first thing he took note of, carved out of some sort of subtly shimmering black stone. It was sheered smooth, the circular veins on its face blinking back at him like repeating sets of eyes. The next thing he noticed were the doors. Each one of them was an over-vibrant red, made even brighter with the contrast they held with the walls they were placed against. Still, what was truly noteworthy wasn't their colour, but their shape. Instead of the typical rectangular frames he'd have expected, they were all giant circles inlaid with repeating striations of gold paint. Beside every one of them was a room number like in an apartment complex or a hotel, yet...

Not a single one of them had a handle.

Creepy.

He licked his lips. "Hello?" He tried again, his voice echoing strangely down the hall, warping up and down the farther it went, "is...uh...anyone here? Like...uhm...at...uh...all?"

Static.

"That's great...this is...great, okay," he rubbed his hands against his elbows, trying to ward off the chill, "hello?!" he called for a third time.

Static.

"Nothing?... Cool..." He eyed one of the doors, a frown lining his brow. He sighed, "fuck it," he mumbled.

Placing one bare foot in front of the other, he turned to his left and, with a deep breath, began padding towards the 'door' closest to him. The ground underfoot was lukewarm, surprisingly not as icy as he had thought it would have been. There was a gentle pulsing in the atmosphere, like the thrumming beat of a bass a couple blocks away from a club.

This close to the door he could finally make out that the gold paint on it was actually more than a few haphazardly placed lines. It wasn't random. He paused, taking in the image with a certain amount of morbid curiosity. Painted--no--carved in sharp negative relief with some sort of fluid living gold to fill in the outline was an image of a car, some old 90's model perhaps, running off the side of a bridge.

It was chilling. The amount of detail put into it lent itself to an almost photo-real quality. Especially to the figure in the vehicle itself, her expression locked in a horrified grimace, frown lines creasing her forehead, eyes wide while her mouth gaped open in shock. He felt like he was intruding just looking at it and  suppressed a shiver, lifting a hand to knock all the same--

Static.

My girlfriend's  bitchin ' cause I always sleep in

She's always  screamin ' when she's  callin ' her friends

She's kinda hot though

Yeah she's kinda hot though

He paused, fist raised in an aborted knock and--

Static.

Turned towards the sound and--

             Static

There was another door at the end of the hall--

                            Static

Pink--

                                            Static

Not red--

          Red--
                 
                 Red--
                                                           Static

Illuminated by a pale yellow light and--

                                                                           Static...

He was in a room. White. With a gently buzzing T.V in the background and--

Static

He wasn't alone.

Static.

There was a girl. She was scowling. Which was.

Pleasant.

Not.

Static.

Flicking her blonde hair over her shoulder she eyed him where he stood, sitting crossed legged, her arms placed angrily across her chest. The expression she wore was fixed with a rather striking combination of makeup and R.B.F, enough to put even the Heathers to shame. "Who are you?" She demanded from her spot on the floor.

It was surprisingly intimidating.

Well at least she isn't naked, he thought.

Clearing his throat, he blinked and rubbed the back of his neck with a suddenly sweaty palm. He grimaced. "I could ask you the same thing," he coughed.

"Well," The girl huffed, rolling her eyes and curling her lip, "I asked first." She glared down at one of her chipped nails.

"Mature."

"Uh," She brushed her bangs out of her face, "whatever." Teens.

He couldn't really argue with that.

He opened his mouth. Closed it. Frowned in her general direction, the T.V still murmuring faintly in the background; that same song he'd heard out in the hallway droning only a little louder now than before.

My friend left college cause it felt like a job

His mum and dad think both think he's a slob

He's got a shot though

Yeah he's got a shot though

"I don't know who I am," he said finally instead.

The girl pursed her lips and fixed him with an unimpressed look, "yes you do." And. Well.

He guessed he kinda did.

"Ozzie," Ozzie said. He paused, awkwardly shifting his (still) bare feet against the floor, "...and...who're you?"

She hummed. "A dead girl." She pointed at the T.V., the one that, now that he was paying attention, Ozzie saw was playing a single clip from the Fox 11 ten-o'clock news on loop, "you know me," she said, "you found me."

The breath hitched in Ozzie's throat. "Haley," he whispered, eyes wide.

She stood. "Ding-ding-ding!" Haley said, walking over to the radio and turning it off, "Give the idiot a prize!" Ozzie bit his lip.

"I...'m....I..." Ozzie bunched his fists in the ratty ends of his sweater, "'m sorry, Haley. I...I should have done more."

Haley laughed. "Oh that's sweet, but honestly," she spun on her heel, "don't kid yourself. Don't you know? Guilt is the greatest form of narcissism. You don't matter that much. What would you have done anyway? What could you have done besides ending up just as dead as me pretty boy?"

Ozzie dropped his head. "I...I don't know...but--"

"Ugh, whatever, apology accepted or whatever it is you need to feel better about yourself," she fiddled with the T.V in front of her, turning the knob on it, "Can we move on to like what's important around here? Like the fact I can't get anything besides Fox 11 ten-o'clock news? It's low-key driving me insane." She groaned throwing her hands up in defeat and rounding on Ozzie again. "What're you even doing here huh? How did you get here? Like, I've been alone for like...weeks or days or..." Haley bit her lip. Inhaled deeply through her nose, "I don't know. But, I can't get out. So. If you can just tell me how you got here. I'd. I'd really like to get a move on with this death thing."

Ozzie rubbed his lower lip, a crease forming between his brow. "I...don't know either. I'm... dreaming? I think. I just...am here?" He took a breath, "I want to help. But. Uhm. There was a hallway though. Before. Before I got put here."

"Great. You're about as helpful as you look," Haley droned, "which is like...not at all. Why'd I get stuck with you?"

"Because...I'm like traumatized and manifesting my guilt in the form of a dream to cope?"

Haley pursed her lips, almost like she didn't agree. "But why you? You ever think about that?" She cocked her head to the side, "you're not exactly the picture of a hero. So why?"

"I don't know." He mumbled. "Why'd you die?"

"Probably cause I'm a cold hearted bitch," she said flippantly, "and I was at the wrong place at the wrong time.  Being stuck in limbo really gives you the strangest sense of hindsight."

Ozzie winced. "You...aren't that bad...?"

"You're a horrible liar, Ozzie." She shook her head, "you can't even get yourself to believe that and we just met." She sighed, "but I do believe you would help me if you could," she twirled a strand of hair around a finger, "I don't know. You just...there's a light to you. I suppose it makes me want to believe. Or maybe I'm just desperate enough to hope." She pushed herself off from the wall she was leaning against. "Here," she said digging something out of her pocket and pressing it into his hand, "take that okay? Don't look now."

Ozzie gulped and wet his lips. "What...is it.?"

Haley smiled. "I don't know. I think it will help though."

"With what?"

"I don't know." She shrugged, "but I think it'll make you believe."

"What?"

She clasped his hand tighter expression turning hard. "That I'm not a dream."

Static

Ozzie blinked awake, his bedroom slowly coming into focus. Raphael stared in kaliedoscopic technicolor from his window, the moon making soft blues dance across the walls. L.A was quiet but not asleep. Ozzie buried his face in the crook of his arm. He breathed in. Then out. There was a weight in his closed fist. He frowned, blurrily raising it to his face and opening it.

In his hand was a crystal as dark as night and red as blood.

I am not a dream.

"Shit," he ran a hand through his bed-rumpled hair. "Fucking shit."

Chapter Text

This is for shit, Ozzie thought with a sigh, fingers curling around the latch as he tried plying the stained-glass window open. It stuck halfway. "Dammit." What the fuck am I even doing? He almost felt like he was having an out of body experience, like everything had been dusted over with a loose brush, blurring out the edges. He pushed again, holding one of the panes at the base, closer to where the glass met the hinges. "Open," he grunted. With a rusty screech it jerked, the pane finally coming unstuck and he pushed it the rest of the way out. I'm way too strung out for this. Too tired. Too unstable. Too guilty. He sniffed— Then did the same thing with the other pane. I need a fucking cigarette. It gave a truly pathetic squeal—the world's saddest violin—before opening. Back bent, he crawled outside.

It was probably not as hard for Ozzie to decide to sneak out his attic-bedroom window as it should have been all things considered. Not that it was sneaking. It was all pretty shit though. He had no idea where he was going or even why he was so inclined to leave in the first place. He just knew that he had to. Go, that is. There was this constant pull at his heartstrings, almost like a physical thing, telling him to go, go, go. Of course, that didn't really explain why he was using the window to do it but whatever. Don't use the door Ozzie! There's a perfectly good window you can use to practice your nonexistent parkour skills with!

Tired Oz was nothing if not impulsive, he supposed. Should've brought that damned feeling journal. He had a mountain of feelings to go off of right now.

If James was here, (and thank God he wasn't) he would be so disappointed. And probably get Ozzie to use the door, which would be the prudent thing to do. He'd give Ozzie that kicked puppy look, his pouty bottom lip jutting out almost petulantly while his brow creased. He'd shake his head with a sigh and go 'Dammit, Oz' before offering him a hug even though he was incredibly done with him. Fiercely protective and exasperated all at once.

Ozzie should probably stop thinking about James though, before the whole climbing out a slippery window onto an even more slippery roof started really sounding like a bad idea.

Shutting his window behind him, mystery rock in the breast pocket of his flannel and Raphael's brittle disapproving frown boring holes in the back of his neck, he carefully began to make his way down from the roof. There were three parts to it. The first and most dangerous was the one that he was currently on. It was shaped like a pyramid, one face truncated inward and flattened vertically. There was a rickety service ladder that connected it to the middle portion. That was the longest. It had a bit of a walkway, another flattened portion—horizontal this time—that ran the length of it. From there it was a quick hop, skip and jump down to the lowest roof and onto the sidewalk below.

Easy.

Let him just make sure he still had his honorary anime ninja hero license on him.

What was the worst that could happen?

You die, his mind supplied oh so helpfully, you slip, it continued, slam into about three different types of tile before faceplanting permanently onto the concrete. He peeked over the edge. At least you won't be the worst thing down there, said his mind, they haven't emptied out the trash yet.

Haha.

Wasn't he such a lucky guy.

Ozzie shivered. Already the back of his sweats was becoming damp, soaking the last dredges of rain that clung to the roof. It was bitingly cold, at least by L.A standards, hovering just above sixty degrees. Ozzie pulled his flannel tighter around himself, wiping his hands dry against the cotton fabric and pushing his hair out of his face.

"Okay," he mumbled, absently thumbing his bottom lip. "Stop. Stalling. Don't be a bitch." He eyed the ladder a few feet away. It really wouldn't be that far of a slide (because there was no way he was going to try this standing on his own two feet). He'd have to scoot himself, at most, five times before he'd reach it but— Well. Reality was often outweighed by perception.

This would be a lot easier if I was being chased by zombies, he thought. At least then I'd be motivated.

With a sigh he placed his hands back against the tile—now or never, man—and pushed.

His sneakers gave a pitifully pitchy squeal at the motion, his fingers grappling for a hold as they slipped. His pants bunched, creasing around his knees and pelvis, dragging wet into places he'd rather stayed dry, but he slowed, head colliding soundly against the window behind him with a resounding thud as his center of gravity was altered.

"Ah, fu-," he hissed. "Fuckin' hell, ow!" He straightened, pushing himself back onto his hands. He'd moved maybe five inches total. Cool. He rubbed the back of his head with a wince. He just had to do that like four more times. Hopefully without any more impromptu headbanging.

Shifting, Ozzie began pushing himself the rest of the way down. The back of his left leg from glutes to calf rose with goosebumps as water continued seeping through his sweats. He pulled the fabric back over his ankle with the toe of his shoe, his glasses going crooked on his nose.Just a little further, he thought. His feet scraped against the ceramic tiles, tinkling like stars in the brisk night sky, and then, nothing. He bent his knee over the edge. Ozzie's foot caught on the top-most wrung of the ladder beneath. Bingo.

He twisted his body around, clothed ass braced against the breeze of the Pacific, flannel billowing gently around his sides. He tentatively put both feet on the wood below. Ozzie held his breath. Lightly dragged his vans over the aged surface. Placed a bit more weight on the step below. It held. So far so good. Ozzie exhaled in relief. Then, he stepped onto the next wrung.

Crack!

With a surprised yelp, Ozzie flailed backwards, the wood splintering under his feet and dropping him a solid six feet to the roof top below with a resounding thud. The back of his head clocked against cement. Splintered wood and flakes of dried paint rained around his feet and dusted around his hips. The palms of his hands stung where they'd dragged against the roof top and while his shoulders and elbows throbbed, it was more of a dull ache than anything major. Thank God for flannel.

Ozzie pushed himself onto his elbows with a groan. There was no way that didn't wake Toni up. "Shit," he grumbled and shakily got to his feet. He worried his bottom lip, straightening his clear frames against his nose. He looked down at where he'd picked himself up from.

Probably over the kitchen or thereabouts. He guessed. Got five minutes. More like three for Toni to make it outside. She won't get fully dressed which'll save her some time. The doors will slow her down. And the lights. Either she turns them all on which'll tell me where she's going, or she won't, and she'll have to walk a little bit more carefully. And the stairs. There's that one—fourth down. Always creaks like a bitch and feels like it's gonna give out. She'd slow down there. Then... He narrowed his eyes in thought. Two options. Unlock the front of the store, which would be a huge pain and be really, really, loud. So probably not gonna do that. More likely she goes through the back, and out the garage. Takes longer but less hassle. Okay.

He needed to get down there fast.

There was that incessant pull in his chest again.

Cause fuck.

He needed his bike.

You still don't know where you're going.

Which was, of course, conveniently in the garage.

He sighed.

Problem for future Oz.

He dusted himself off—brushing bits of wood and paint and grit off his pants—and lightly padded across the length of the mid-tier roof. It didn't take much to jump onto the lowest tier from there, no pesky ladders, just old-fashioned gravity and muscle, and to the sidewalk below. He ducked behind a bench.

So. Plan.

· Get bike

That... was in progress. Sort of. But all progress was progress so...progress.

· Avoid Toni

Probably should be before 'get bike' but whatever. That was...a continuous objective or something.

· Figure out where the fuck I'm going

He patted his chest, half to make sure the mystery crystal thing was still there and half because he was almost positive it would've vanished by now. The Blue boy's crazy, man. He took it out of his pocket with a frown.

· Figure out what the fuck this thing is

That seemed pretty important. What was he even holding? What was it made of? Plus, if he could figure that out then he'd be able to--

· Make sure I'm not actually crazy

This whole situation was crazy enough as it was. His life was one giant fucking crazy cosmic joke at this point. Ozzie really shouldn't be so surprised by these things at this point.

· Okay...crazier

And assuming his dream actually had some merit and he really had somehow managed to speak to Haley through some bull shit astral projection or something then...

· Find out what weird crystal thing has to do with Haley's murder

Cause there was no way the two weren't connected. That much was obvious. If a dead girl is giving you things that must mean something right? Something big.

So that left one more thing.

· Find someone who can help

Who did he know that had ample resources (if not dubiously legal), lowkey owed him the biggest of favors, and didn't ask a lot (if any) questions?

Clint.

Ozzie pulled a face. Top lip curling slightly.

Guess he was paying the meme king a visit.

Well right after he got his bike.

Chapter Text

17.

Clint lived in Beverly Hills. The building was a ritzy, sleek, modern thing erected in a plot just north of Sunset out of sharp stainless-steel edges and various shades of opaque glasses. It transcended the thin lines between the 'commercial' Hills everyone saw sprawling across television screens in shows like 90210 and into what true Angelinos knew as 'The Hills', sequestered behind rows of carefully maintained hedges and private security firms. It was a distinction that, while not overly important to Ozzie (probably in part because he was not actually a born and bred Angelino and just didn't get it) was important to those native to the climate, where a few tacked-on zeros to mommy and daddy's paycheck made all the difference to the validity of one's chronic mental illness. An ironic dichotomy considering the defense of 'I'm south of Sunset' was supposed to somehow encompass 'I'm like rich-poor but still have millions and because I'm rich-poor and you guys are like Rich it's suddenly okay for me to have these issues when it wasn't before since I'm obviously totting my little ToTo dog in my new Givenchy purse'.

L.A was one gilded bitch. A pretty face of make-up to mask that ever-present rotting stench of an empty soul.

Clint's house was kind of like that, aesthetically appealing to the eye if not counter to every Feng Shui or other pseudo-scientific belief out there. It was exceptionally jarring in places in the way purely abstracted geometric form purposely played opposite the particularly well-maintained garden of turf and other synthetic (if not exotic) plants that led to the front door. Clint's home was a palace of iron, harsh its angles, cold in its beauty, and second to none in function; Look but do not touch. Look but do stay away. Fitting for a character so far removed from the everyday workings of society like Clint was.

Ozzie knocked on the door. His hair was plastered to his forehead from the ride, damp with no small amount of sweat and echoes of mist from where the air had chilled and coalesced into small whispers on the wind. He'd left his bike at the gate. Clint was a very peculiar person and this peculiarity translated to the most peculiar idiosyncrasies and bike tracks up the gravel pathway was one of them. They add a symmetry I truly detest Ozzie! Can't you see the lengths I've gone to remove the Apollonian shackles of order from my life?! Fuck Feng Shui, Ozzie! Fuck! It! The world could use a little less structure to it! Clint was weird and honestly Ozzie found it easier just to go with it than fight it. Especially when he needed something. Like now.

The door opened. Ozzie's eyes widened. He was suddenly very thankful for the flush his ride had given him. Clint hummed in recognition. Or maybe disappointment. It was hard to tell.

"Well this is a," he paused, sifting through the air for his words, a study in apathy, "surprise," Clint drawled, leaning loose and long limbed across the threshold of his abode, "and not," one surprisingly well arched eyebrow went up, "an entirely pleasant one, I might add." He crossed his arms over his chest.

"Uhm," Ozzie said eloquently.

No shit, Ozzie wanted to say as he took in Clint's appearance. It was miles and miles of tanned skin covered in nothing more than a semi-sheer silk bathrobe and a pair of lace panties. And no, they didn't cover nearly enough. No one should ever have to see all that outside of a bedroom. Just...No, man.

Clint smirked, looking faintly amused as he cocked his head to the side, "Cat got your tongue?" He purred, eyes going half lidded as he trailed the muzzle of a gun down the line of his neck and— Wait. The fuck? A Gun?! "Taco will be so pleased to know she's got a playmate."

Ozzie blinked. "That's... That's a gun." He frowned as the rest of what Clint said finally caught up to the 'WTF this skinny ass dude in a bathrobe is holding a gun to his neck and I don't know if I should be calling the cops or a suicide prevention hotline' part of his brain. "And fuck your cat." Taco was a menace.

He clicked his tongue. "How...observant of you," Clint said with a put-upon sigh and dropped the gun back to his side. Ozzie eyed him warily. How had he not noticed the weapon in the first place? Probably the panties. They...seriously left little to the imagination. "It's not real you know," Clint said when he caught Ozzie still staring thirty seconds later, "the gun?" He elaborated. "It's fake. I was on set with Jamie-boy earlier and was thoroughly unimpressed with their props. Like the models were so inaccurate and don't even get me started on the 'blood'. Like could they get anymore 90's? Shit looked like fucking watered down ketchup! Smelled about as nice too," He rolled his eyes, "Anyway I decided I'd make my own. A few hours of tinkering later and—" he took a breath, "Courtney!" Clint bellowed.

It took a moment, but Ozzie heard a door deeper in the house open and close, followed by the muffled sound of footsteps as a sharply dressed, what he assumed was a woman, if the slight breasts were anything to go by, walked around a corner and down the hall. She stopped a few inches behind Clint. A mask adorned her face, featureless but for the eyes which stared piercingly at him. Ozzie shivered.

"Yes, Clint?"

"Be a dear and stand still for me, would you?"

"Of course, Clint."

Bang! Bang! Bang!

Three deep burgundy swashes of colour bloomed across Courtney's chest. Once over the stomach and two over the heart. And holy fuck. Holy fucking fuck! This is not okay. This is the opposite of okay. Clint just fucking shot someone. Holy shit. Holy shit! Point fucking blank. Holy fucking shit!

Courtney was still just standing there and there were words being spoken. Clint's mouth was moving. He was running a finger through the mess on her jacket, smearing it around his fingers. The. The blood. It had to be blood. And he. He brought it to his lips, with a lackadaisical smile and fuck Ozzie was going to be sick—

The stone in the breast pocket of his flannel burned where it beat against the rapid bird wing thump of his chest—

Ears ringing—

Buzzing—

Buzzing—

Buzzing like bees—

Haley's body—

P-Please, don't do this. Please. Please. Please. Please. Please—

Her face. How come he never remembers her face—

A knife, no-a dagger-long and serrated slipping from beneath the billowy fabric of hi—I—a r-robe. A robe. The hilt in the palm of a—his—no not his. Not Ozzie's. He wouldn't. He would never. Someone else. Someone else. Free hand and brandished the tip over the lower left side of her abdomen. Her eyes widened in fear—

He was going to be sick—

He was going to be fucking sick—

He tilted his head to the side as if considering a particularly daunting puzzle. He plunged the knife down. She screamed. She'd never sounded more beautiful. Like a symphony. It felt like ecstasy. Better than sex. Better than the high of adrenaline. Better than the ambrosia of his favorite foods and drinks and smells. Better than anything—

One Mississippi. Two Mississippi. Three Mississippi. Four—

Not him. Not him. Not him—

Not—

Him—

Not—

Ozzie. Ozzie. Ozzie. Ozzie—

Clint snapped a finger in Ozzie's face, and Ozzie jerked, gasping as if coming up for air. His fists unclenched at his sides, and he hissed as his nails pulled free from the tiny little crescents that'd dug into his palms. "Ayo, you still with me? Oz? Ah hell. That...was dumb. I'ma idiot. Course this would make you flip out. You found a fucking dead chick yesterday. Fuck! James is gonna kill me. Fucking, fuck. Toni's gonna kill me," Clint said, something approaching concern creeping into his voice. "It...was all fake, dude, like I said, Courtney's fine, right Cort? Totally peachy. Definitely not in danger of like dying or anything. Wait. Should I like stop talking about dying? Should I not use the 'D' word? Should—"

"I am unharmed," Courtney said, clipped and businesslike and effectively cutting Clint off mid tirade. She unbuttoned her blazer and draped it over her arm. Ozzie breathed just a little bit easier at the sight of the pristine white blouse underneath, "this jacket may be a lost cause though."

Clint let out a brittle sounding laugh. "Ha. Yes. Ha. Ha. Ha. You're a riot, Cort. Hilarious! Lost cause. Too funny."

"I don't see how anything in this situation is amusing, Clint."

"It's not. I'm laughing because if I wasn't I'd be crying and that's not 'the mood', Cort."

Ozzie was pretty sure Courtney was rolling her eyes at Clint. The pounding in his chest lessened a bit more. The ringing faded to the point where he no longer felt like he'd shoved his head in a hive of bees. And that sick. Wrong. Out of body feeling. Sick. Feeling. That was fading too. (Also, let it be known that he was ridiculously happy that someone besides himself was just as unimpressed with Clint's mannerisms as he was. Because—)

"Fuck you," Ozzie said when he'd finally found his voice. It rasped like cigarettes up his throat, billowing up like smoke from his lungs. There was only the faintest of shivers in it which he'd take as the win it was. "'m not even gonna apologize for freezing up like that you fucking dick."

Clint nodded. "I...probably deserve that."

Ozzie leveled him with a look, glasses crooked but effective. Clint winced.

"I...definitely deserve that?"

Ozzie crossed his arms. "Whatever," he mumbled. He turned his gaze to a spot just behind Clint and Courtney's head. The adrenaline was fading leaving him just...

Tired.

A beat passed. Then another. And one more. Clint clapped his hands together, taking in a deep breath. He was never one for long silences. Or indecisiveness.

"Well then," he said, turning on his heel and holding out the prop-gun to Courtney. She didn't take it. "I'm assuming you're here at ass-o-clock—no Courtney don't you dare actually tell me the time—in the morning for more than my pretty face," he gestured flippantly at his body. Ozzie curled his lip in disgust. Clint, surprise of all surprises, ignored him, waving him off with a click of his tongue, "you're lucky I'm awake as it is, pretty boy, count your fucking blessings." He straightened his posture, bracketing the area just beyond the threshold with his body. Courtney took up the other side, leaving just enough room for Ozzie to slip past, should he so choose.

"Well?" Clint said, with a dramatic bow, "Entre-vous, mi casa es su casa and all that jazz, just hurry up—"

"It's beginning to smell a lot like poverty out here."

Chapter Text

18.

Ozzie remembered the first time he had met Clint—it was just over a year ago; James had been so happy, like a puppy bringing its owner a bone or a cat leaving a trail of entrails on the front porch as his two favorite people finally agreed to meet—stepping through the very same set of gleaming metal doors he was now. To be accurate, 'remembered' was a touch more diplomatic a verb than the reality warranted. The memory was more...snapshots. Blurred, still Polaroids of meticulous details; moments of lucid clarity tied to even more intense flares of overwhelming emotion. They'd snapped shut like jaws back then, the doors, and even through the haze of too-much too-strong medication Ozzie'd been under he'd flinched, the sudden definitive click of the lock the harrowing snck! of a guillotine blade against his bared neck.

James had been with him though, a loose arm around his shoulder to keep him grounded, keeping him present, Ozzie's rock then, now and 'til the end of the line'. The Stark to his Romanoff. The Bucky to his Steve.

Even when James wasn't physically beside him.

So, it was with that thought Ozzie stepped in between the Clint (and Courtney) in the now and into the esoteric abode. And this time—this time—Ozzie wouldn't, couldn't, didn't flinch, not even when the door slid shut behind him with that whisper thin—

Snck!

Not even a twitch.

Ozzie took a moment to breathe, still coming down from the—not a flashback, not a panic attack, something else, something different, something not him, wasn't him, couldn't be him—whatever it was he'd felt a minute ago and looked around. The décor hadn't changed a lot since the last time Ozzie had visited (which thinking back on it had probably been that meeting a year ago). The entry hall was still floor to ceiling marble and granite, probably real considering just where Clint lived. Of course, there was always the chance it wasn't, and it was another one of Clint's...peculiarities like the garden full of artificial flowers outside, but Ozzie thought that unlikely. Clint may have been decidedly eccentric, but he was also someone exceedingly vain and being able to say 'Yes of course this is real marble! I imported it straight from Greece!', was just the sort of proud showmanship Ozzie'd come to expect from him.

The Greco-Roman busts lining the hall on freshly polished pedestals, from Socrates to Augustus Caesar, those, though, those had to be replicas. Even Clint couldn't be that dirty filthy rich, right? At least Ozzie didn't think so.

On the walls, tacked between each marble head were large paintings wrapped in ornamental frames of gold and ivory. Ozzie recognized a few of them, The Nightmare by Henry Fuseli, Goya's Saturn Devouring His Son, the Baroque Judith Slaying Halofernes by Artemisia. It was deeply impersonal, like walking through a particularly morbid museum. Ozzie almost felt like he should be taking off his shoes, padding across the entryway in socks and trying not make a sound—look but do not touch, look, don't touch, don't touch, look— It was a truly exuberant show of wealth.

Clint cleared his throat, "well, come on then. We can walk and talk. Tell Mama Clint what's up so I can bippity-boppity-boop your ass back out of my house."

Ozzie nodded, and satisfied Clint turned again, drumming a hand against his hip and gesturing for Courtney's attention with a distracted flick of a limp gun wielding wrist. He began walking down the hall with quick even steps, hips sashaying like a runway model. It was implicit they would follow.

"Yes, Clint?" Courtney asked as she caught up. She stayed a respectful distance behind him, her posture eerily machinelike in its precision and her tone mild as always.

He held out the gun. "Be a dear and put this in my thinker-tinker-chamber. Then find Alexios and bring my 'You Wish You Could Fuck Me But I'm Ace AF' pants from the study." Courtney took the offered prop this time, tucking it in the back of her slacks. "We'll be in the sitting room having a fucking three a.m kiki, I guess," Clint finished by saying.

"Of course, Clint." She bowed stiffly and took her leave, Ozzie figured it was to do just as Clint had requested. It was chilling to watch. Having that much control over a situation. Over a person. And being so blasé about it.

They passed into what Ozzie could only describe as a main foyer. From there the home broke off into four directions, north, right, left, and up a spiraling metal staircase. The lights were dimmer here. Or maybe Clint had done something to make them so without Ozzie noticing, but it was much more ambient, full of hidden intimacies and whispered secrets. Clint would probably say he was just being conscious of his carbon footprint though. Very L.A. of him.

Clint led the two of them straight through the atrium, hardly pausing to make sure Ozzie was still following. He took them down the north passageway. Ozzie instantly became aware of the lowered ceiling. It was cramped, at least in comparison to how incredibly open the entry was. The atrium had seemed to spill into the sky, unobstructed by walls or floors or ceilings, just a dome of glass at the very top letting the light of the moon shine dozens of feet below.

Here was almost claustrophobic, the flooring had shifted to carpet, devouring the little sound Ozzie's shoes had been making on the stone of the foyer behind him. Even the hallway was physically smaller, only about half the size of the one up front. They traveled in silence, the fabric of Clint's robe dancing at his sides in tandem with his movements, Ozzie's flannel sticking to his body like glue. They rounded a couple corners like this, before the hall opened again into what had to be the sitting room.

"Well," Clint said, clearing his throat and magnanimously spreading his arms, "have a seat wherever, I guess. I'm gonna get a drink. Lord knows I need one if I'm going to deal with this," he grumbled, "fucking three a.m. Could be changing the world of prop guns but nah, I gotta play fairy godqueen to an insomniac teen who has no idea how to use a fucking phone all while still in my underwear."

Ozzie took a tentative seat on...the couch? He really wasn't sure if that was the right word for the thing he was sitting on. The back did something swoopy, making it hard to get comfortable and he was pretty sure he wasn't sitting on it right. Which was ridiculous. How could someone not sit right? It was pretty straightforward. Babies did it. Ozzie bit his lip, eyes resting on a spot on the carpet that was whorlier than the rest and tried to get comfortable.

"You didn't have to open the door, y'know," Ozzie mumbled, squirming on the stiff cushion beneath him, "besides," he tilted his chin up to look at Clint from beneath his lashes, "aren't you an insomniac for answering?" Clint fumbled with the tumblers he'd been handling by the mini-bar.

"I was putting off sleep, not actively searching for it and failing," Clint sniffed, defensive, after muttering a curse under his breath, "I was changing the world, Ozzie. You don't understand. Genius waits for no man."

"The world of prop guns," Ozzie nodded. "Riiiight."

Clint fixed him with a look, supremely unimpressed and filled to the brim with an air of 'do not test me bitch', as he began putting the bottles he had used away. Some went back on a decorative mahogany shelf a bit above him and the rest were hidden away in a sleek fridge that had been built discreetly into the wall by his feet. "I could always call Toni," he warned.

"But you won't."

Clint barked out a laugh. "Hell no I won't," he took a gulp from one of the glasses, made a face, then shrugged, "that woman terrifies me. She isn't an insomniac like us."

"That the only reason?"

"Nah, she hates my guts too."

Ozzie rubbed the back of his neck. "I mean—"

Clint raised an eyebrow.

"I- I don't think—" Ozzie winced and scratched at the stubble on his jaw. "I wouldn't go that far."

"Fine," Clint said with a condescending pout, "she tolerates me because you only have like two friends and if she properly told me to fuck off you'd truly become the youngest hermit in existence."

"Ouch," Ozzie deadpanned.

Clint tossed back one of the drinks, pinching his face against the burn of whatever he'd concocted. "Deal with it," he gasped, all but throwing himself down on the seat across from Ozzie. He placed the drinks on the 'table' between them. It was actually a couple varnished crates that had been stacked asymmetrically and guerilla glued together: a rustic centerpiece to contrast the otherwise burlesque style of the room. Ozzie honestly hoped Clint had built the thing. He didn't know how he could justify buying something so tacky. Clint sighed, long and put upon, through his nose and pinched his brow between too slender fingers. Ozzie instinctively straightened his posture.

"So," Clint drawled, "talk," he lolled his head to the side, "why are you here?"

Ozzie took a deep breath, fingers in a white knuckled grip in his lap. He dragged his eyes from the trail of condensation against the empty glass in front of him and to Clint's mildly curious if not put-upon gaze.

"Haley Matts," Ozzie began in a rough voice, "if you can get whatever you want—and I know you can—" he wet his lips. His heart beat rapidly in his chest. The strange crystal seemed to warm where it sat in his pocket, like a steadying hand against his breast. Thank you. Thank you. Yes. Help me. He took it out and placed it on top of the crates. Clint leaned forward in his chair. "I...found this," Ozzie continued, "and I need...I just...I need something. Anything you can find connected to her..." Ozzie looked away, the thread trailing off into empty air. He was grasping for straws. His voice, his request, all of it sounded so shaky. So illogical. Desperate. It didn't make sense, not even to himself. There was no obvious connection to some pretty hunk of rock and a dead girl that he could make. And there was no way he could tell the truth. Look, so dude I talked to Haley in my dream and she gave me this rock—crystal—whatever, so I think I'm supposed to like—to tell her parents she loved them or like give her like ghost closure or something and that sounds totally crazy but it's like true even though it's like totally fucking crazy. Please believe me. That would go over so well.

Still, there was something in the human condition intrinsically linked to the power of desire. It was in movies; how sometimes you'd just...have to do something. Leave everything behind—the cushy job, the fancy car and house—and travel the world; find meaning. The Greeks had understood that what with ethos and pathos, Apollo and Dionysus, order and destructive creativity. But beyond that balance there had been Aphrodite Urania, and the Eros born of Chaos all the way back in the beginning of Hesoid's Theogony. It wasn't any feeling stemmed in messy human lusts, but something more transcendent. A longing in the soul. A tug that felt like it would rip Ozzie in two if ignored.

It was happening again. It's not. It was his fault. That's the survivor's guilt talking. He can't move. He couldn't stop anything. His parents—

A thought even stronger than that, terrifying in its sudden molten clarity. You fucking owe me--

Clint cleared his throat, almost like he'd heard that last vehement thought aloud. "I'll help you," he said with the air of someone unaffected and lounged back in his seat. A concession. I know. "It's three a.m and despite the frankly inhuman hour, you've caught me in a good mood. You can thank the 'world-changing prop gun' for that. Anyhow," he nudged the table with his foot and Ozzie finally looked back up, "pass me that drink. This bitch don't work for free."

Ozzie scoffed and sniffed, running the back of his hand along his nose. "'Course, Clint," he said wetly, "wouldn't dream of it."

Chapter Text

19.

"If I'm going to be helping you somehow," Clint mused aloud as he began pacing across the plush carpet with shorter and faster strides. There was a tumbler of alcohol in the loose handed grip of his right hand, "I suppose I should get a better idea of what exactly it is you're looking for," he tapped the glass against his forehead before bringing it back down to his lips and letting out a resigned sigh as the dredges drained from it, "but you don't know what that is in the first place do you?" He stopped mid-step, raising a brow in Ozzie's direction.

Ozzie jerked in his seat and slowly shook his head, "not really," he said with a wince.

As embarrassing as it was, he hadn't really come up with a plan. Well, he had his list, the mental one he'd put together earlier, but that hadn't gone so far as to lay out the specifics and subtexts of what to do in the event of Clint agreeing to help him. It had been a shot in the dark and now that it was all sort of paying off he was traveling blind. The fact he was stumped really wasn't all that surprising. The entire night had been one long impulsive streak of debatably bad decisions paved in the wake of debatably good intentions. Ozzie tried leaning back on the couch in yet another attempt at getting comfortable. It didn't work, almost like even the furniture wanted him to know what a dumbass he was, "I...don't really know what 'm doing," he mumbled.

Clint rolled his eyes. "Clearly," he drawled. Ozzie flinched in his seat and Clint rolled his eyes again. He ran his pointer finger against the rim of the now empty tumbler with a frown. "Why did I agree to this? Maybe I should get some sleep. I'm clearly losing my mind—Or developing a conscience. Ugh." He shivered, gagging like he'd tasted something foul.

In that moment, Ozzie couldn't help but think that Clint was like a lion in its den stalking an unsuspecting sheep, lean, calculating and always calling the shots. Ozzie kept his expression carefully blank. Dry and unaffected. Everything's normal. Nothing to see here. I'm not regretting this at all. This all hinged on Clint's continued benevolence and they both knew it. Maybe it would amount to something. Maybe nothing. Hopefully it wouldn't be a mistake.

Ozzie said nothing. He watched. He waited.

Even if he does give you something useful, the vindictive voice in the back of his head whispered, you know the moment you leave he'll just call James. And that's only if you get lucky.

Shut up, he shot back. 'S'not like I have a choice. Not like 'm gonna be 'Most Popular Teen of the Year'.

Fuck that. You're just making excuses. Ignore it like a normal person would, throw away that fucking rock and. Move. The. Fuck. On. Haley's not your problem. A dream doesn't mean anything but that you're going fucking crazy.

Ozzie shoved that thought aside. Caged it. Buried it in a grave in the darkest corner of his mind and threw away the key.

Instead, he brought his attention back to Clint. It was better to focus on the currently pacing short-stack than be stuck in his own mutinous thoughts. At worst, Ozzie knew he'd get nothing at all out of the other man and Clint would get over his (rational) fear of Toni and call her anyway. And that was still assuming she hadn't realized he'd up and disappeared yet. Which was—well—saying 'unlikely' would be an understatement.

Ozzie needed this to work if for no other reason than to make sure the ensuing shitstorm was worth it.

"Ugh," Clint groaned from his place by the window. There were two in the room, large and opening out into a view of the pool that took up most of the backyard. It glowed a faint blue, reflecting the light of the moon and the lights that illuminated it from under the surface, "what is taking Courtney so long? And you," he snapped his fingers at Ozzie, "think of what you want. And try to keep it at least mostly legal. I'd prefer this...favor...not costing me any more."

"Mostly?" Ozzie furrowed his brow.

Clint spared him half a glance, and scoffed, "Oh don't act so surprised, Ozzie! You've seen me pop Adderall's like they're fucking candy and snort enough coke to down a damn elephant. You're not so innocent in this either, you fucking helped." And you liked it. He hissed. "You can't fucking say shit."

That wasn't even the fucking point! Ozzie wanted to yell. He glared instead. Was this what all of this was about? The reason why Clint hadn't stopped pacing around Ozzie since he'd asked for his help? Why he was even bitchier than normal? Because once upon a time Ozzie had been fucked in the head—well more fucked in the head—and they'd gotten shitfaced together a few times? Well, fuck you. "I didn't come here to talk about drugs, Clint," he grit out, I'm not gonna say shit! "what the fuck do'ya think I'd want that'd be illegal?!"

"Aye, there's the rub," Clint spread his arms. "I don't know, Einstein. But you came to me," he growled, "You didn't call James. You didn't tell Toni. You didn't ask fucking Siri. You came to me and you know exactly what I can get away with."

E-ver-y-thing.

"I'm not an idiot, Oz," Clint continued, spitting Ozzie's name back like an insult. "You came to me for one of two reasons," He prowled into Ozzie's space and jabbed a finger into Ozzie's chest, wrinkling the fabric of his shirt. "Either what you want is something you can't get without pulling some strings or it's something you think you'll have to," he laughed without humor, "I don't fucking care which, but drop the fucking act and stop acting coy. It's not cute," he jabbed Ozzie's chest again, "it's not cuddly," and again, "and it sure as hell's not going to do you any favors so. Just," he went to jab Ozzie a fourth time, "admit—"

"I didn't tell James," Ozzie said, the 'despite everything' went unsaid. But like an anvil it weighed down his words. His breathing came out harsh through his nose. His tone was deceptively even, but his fists shook where they sat in his lap. He pushed Clint's finger aside with as much deliberation as he could, "but I will." Clint's eyes widened, his jaw snapping shut, and Ozzie met his surprised gaze head on, honey gold meeting hazel, for once unafraid. There was a phantom echo, beating counter to the rhythm in his chest B-bmp-b-bmp-bmp! B-bmp-b-bmp! B-bmp-b-bmp-bmp! It gave him the courage to finish, "don't make me."

Clint reared back like he'd been struck, stumbling back a step. He whirled around, jittery steps taking him back to the minibar. "I need a fucking drink," he intoned shakily.

"This's 'bout Haley, Clint," Ozzie sighed, resting his head in the palm of his hand. He ran his fingers through his grimy locks, "'M not trying to blackmail you." I'm not trying to hurt you. Stop worrying about you and me. Stop worrying about James. Just...stop.

And yet.

You can't say you're not using him, Ozzie, that dark voice teased, the little devil on his shoulder, an insidious thought that curled through his mind like poison, Clint's right to be wary, you know. Acting coy doesn't stop you from being a fucking snake.

"'M not," he brought his other hand up to rub over his face.

Clint tossed back a shot. "Uh-huh," he made a face then pushed the glass aside, drinking straight from the bottle instead, "so I'm just being paranoid? Is that it?" He scoffed and took another swing, "Sure."

"Clint."

He slammed the bottle back on the counter. He shook his head and looked over his shoulder, fixing Ozzie with a tired gaze. Clint's face seemed drawn in, the circles under his eyes standing out like bruises. "Just tell me what you want."

What do you want?

Ozzie took another breath. In through the nose. Out through the mouth. Rinse. Repeat. Once. Twice. Thrice. "Can you get an address?"

Clint blinked. "That's it?"

"I mean—"

"Jesus, a fucking address," Clint braced both hands on the counter, "yeah, I can get a fucking address," he waved a hand dismissively, "that's child's play. I could just use google. Why didn't you?"

I woke up from a seance a dead girl and decided to almost kill myself by climbing out my bedroom window. This hasn't been a night of good decisions.

"Didn't come to mind," Ozzie said mildly.

"Uh-huh, well—" At that moment Courtney arrived, sporting a fresh new white blazer free of 'blood' stains, a pair of folded pants under the crook of her arm and another masked servant behind her. "Perfect," Clint droned, "how kind of you both to join us. You're just in time to take Ozzie to one of the guest rooms."

Wait. What?

"I didn't—" Ozzie began.

"Apologies, Clint. Alexios was..." Courtney's face titled towards Ozzie and though he couldn't be 100% sure what with the mask, he was almost positive she was giving him a look, "indisposed of when I came to retrieve him."

Clint pursed his lips, "well that couldn't be helped," he clicked his tongue, curling a finger towards himself, "come here and help me into those pants, Courtney."

"Wish You Could Fuck Me But I'm Ace AF as requested."

He hummed in appreciation. "You're always on task. It's refreshing."

"I was born this way."

"Uhm," Ozzie interjected, "'M spending the night?"

Clint rolled his eyes, "Yes—thank you Courtney—because I can't be bothered to google anything right now. You'll have to wait for the sun to rise just like any normal person would and I'm going to get some sleep," He groaned and rubbed his temples, "God, I'm gonna have such a fucking hangover."

He snapped his fingers, "Alexios," Clint said, and the man in question straightened to attention. He was dressed similarly to Courtney, a pure white suit, black mask over the face, black gloves and black shoes, "show Ozzie to his room, if you'd please."

Alexios cleared his throat. "Which one," he asked. His voice was gruff and lightly tinged with an accent Ozzie couldn't place.

"Any of them, I don't care, just get him out of my sight."

"Of course, Clint," He turned to Ozzie and bowed slightly, "if you'd follow me, sir."

Ozzie bit his lip, but stood with a nod, "yeah. Right. Sure," he mumbled.

Alexios turned crisply on his heel and began striding out of the room. He moved quickly, crossing the length of it in what felt like half the time it should. Ozzie blinked and ran a hand through his hair, the bracelet on his wrist dropping to the middle of his forearm. He guessed he could use a bed right now. Heck maybe this time he'd even get some sleep. Ozzie scoffed. Even in his head that sounded like sarcasm. He followed.

Alexios didn't make much in the way of conversation, Ozzie noted as they left Clint and Courtney to their own devices. It was appreciated, but he didn't know if that was because the other man was generally inclined towards silence or because he felt that Ozzie himself wasn't up for talking. It didn't really matter, he supposed. For all he knew it might even have been a propriety thing. Neither Courtney nor Alexios had seemed to talk much unless Clint had been directly addressing them, or in Courtney's case to subtly reign him in.

The two walked for a few minutes, retracing the steps Ozzie had made earlier until they reached the main atrium once again. From there, Alexios led him up, climbing the winding staircase up to the second floor and taking him straight down the hall. The floors were wood up here, with evenly separated doors of carved oak. 

"This will be your room," Alexios said, stopping in front of one with an interlocking design of vines. He pushed it open with a gloved hand. Ozzie peeked from around his broad shoulders. The room was simple and very square with a few square mirrors on the adjacent wall and a couple of those weird cube shaped things Ozzie could never decide between being  a very low seats or foot rests. It was tastefully modern, though, full of monochromatic colors of black, whites and grays. Not as decadent as he'd expected. He wondered how Alexios had picked it, "there is a restroom behind the door over there," Alexios pointed to the sole one in the right hand corner, "it is stocked with basic amenities: soap, toothbrush, paste, towels," he continued, "and the one perpendicular to it is a basic walk in closet. You'll find a bathrobe hanging there." He moved out the way and Ozzie took a few tentative steps inside the room.

"If you leave your clothes out I'll have them washed for you before you leave."

Ozzie nodded, fiddling with the hem of his still damp sweats. "Thanks."

"Of course," came the diplomatic reply, "now, if that is all...?"

Ozzie nodded again. He was doing a lot of that tonight. It was making him feel like a bobble-head. 

"Very good then," Alexios gave a stiff bow, "I will leave you to your rest." He shut the door.

"So," Ozzie mumbled with a sigh, "bed." He scratched the back of his head and stripped down to his briefs. He didn't know where to put his clothes so he just put them in a pile by the foot of the bed. He figured that'd be good enough for a night. A yawn crawled out of his throat and he stretched, cracking his back as he padded around towards the head of the mattress.

Sleep.

He collapsed onto the bed and closed his eyes.