Work Text:
The sun was warm on Willie's back; The wind tickling the baby hairs on the back of their neck. He was sitting scrunched on a bench, hair tied up and brows furrowed as they sketched a figure haloed by the sunset behind him. Graphite smudged his fingers (and his cheekbone, where they had absentmindedly rubbed a hair out of his face, leaving a soft grey trail behind), and they stilled, tucking the pencil behind his ear to stretch and adjust his position.
"You having fun?" Alex came up behind them, draping his arms over them and settling his chin on their head. Willie relaxed into his touch.
"Yeah," They grinned, tilting his head up to look at Alex, "Waiting for practice to end."
Alex nodded. The band had taken longer than expected, since Luke had insisted on working entirely through a new song. Getting the rhythm to work with the vocals had been hell, and honestly? Alex was glad it was over.
"I've been sketching," Willie stated, swinging his legs down off of the bench and patting the seat beside them for Alex to sit. "Might even turn out to be you, Sunshine."
Alex blushed and took the notebook from their outstretched hand, studying the figure and the noticeable fannypack/jean jacket/sweatshirt combo.
"Might be?" He teased, raising an eyebrow and smiling as he handed it back. "That's my patented look, and if you're drawing anyone else with it... I might just have to consider breaking up."
Willie wrinkled their nose. "As if. You'd never find anyone as pretty as me."
Alex's eyes sparkled, and Willie admired the way their banter always managed to bring out the sunshine in them.
"Mm, I doubt it." But the way Alex drew Willie's hand up to kiss his knuckles showed otherwise. "Alright Rembrandt, let's go home."
The sun set painted the sky the colour of overripe cherries, and they walked back to the Molina household hand-in-hand.
When they arrived, the band was gathered on the couch in the studio arguing over which movie to play. (Julie had demoted the Movie-Room to the garage, after what had happened when they tried to watch all of the Indiana Jones movies in a row.)
Reggie sat pressed against Julie on one side, and the newly reacquainted Bobby on the other, Luke sprawled on Julie's other side like an overgrown puppy who hadn't learned that he was too big to be a lap-dog. Alex rolled his eyes at him, only for Luke to stick his tongue out in retaliation. Willie ignored them and settled himself beside Bobby, who he had gotten to know at the Hollywood Ghost Club; Caleb having also taken Bobby... "under his wing" for lack of a better term.
They had become friends, often talking about their theories on gender and sexuality, and once Willie made the connection between Alex, Reggie, Luke, and Bobby, they had quickly staged a jailbreak. Luckily, Bobby hadn't been bound to Caleb or the Club, and was free to come and go as he pleased - which often meant staying, as he didn't have anywhere he wanted to go.
The group had welcomed him with open arms (and a fair amount of relief from Alex who was “fucking tired of being the stand-in parent friend man”), but his appearance cleared nothing up about Trevor Wilson and the stolen music, and considering the fact the Bobby had memory loss surrounding his last few weeks of life, his death, and the first portion of his afterlife, it was unlikely that any of them would get answers to those questions anytime soon.
"So," Willie murmured to Bobby, "Are they still debating over 101 Dalmations and Aristocats?" Bobby snorted and nodded.
"Julie's trying to add The Princess and the Frog, but it's not working."
Willie shook their head sagely, "She's right though."
"I know."
The disagreement was eventually shut down when Alex got up and slid the DVD for Bolt in, and no one else wanted to get up and change it.
Bobby was the first up after the movie ended, yawning and stretching (and if he purposefully shoved his arms in everyone's faces... well, you couldn't prove anything). Julie and Reggie were next, having linked arms partway through the movie and decided that they were gonna cuddle anyways since they were both exhausted. Luke trailed after them, and Alex turned to Willie.
"Snuggle on the couch time?" Willie asked before Alex had a chance to say anything.
Alex nodded, slightly flustered, and opened his arms for Willie.
"I'm big spoon."
Willie laughed, "That's only if I don't push you off the couch in the middle of the night."
Except when the time came, Willie was the one on the floor, groaning and whimpering and clutching his head, and Alex was fearfully kneeling over them.
"Willie? It's a nightmare, you're okay. It's okay now, c'mon Wills-"
When Willie opened their eyes, they were filled with unshed tears, and his jaw was clenched.
"I'm okay," He muttered hoarsely, "I just have a wicked headache now."
That should have been the end of it. Alex and Willie both - and the rest of the group too, once they found out about it - wished it could've been the end of it. But night after night brought nightmares. Nightmares that left Willie breathing ragged, eyes unfocused and head in their hands, gritting their teeth from the ghostly remnants of pain.
Each night was the same; Willie would fall asleep, sleep soundly for an hour or so, and then his dreams would twist and warp into the night they died, and he'd wake up, in pain and panic. Drink a glass of water. Rinse, repeat. And each time whichever member of the band happened to be there (most of the time it was Alex, but Bobby insisted on "taking the shift" too, and the rest offered as well) could do nothing besides offer reassurances, some pain meds, and a comfortable body to hold them until they could fall asleep and suffer through it all over again.
Monday:
The skatepark is empty when they get there, probably because it's o-dark-thirty and he's the only one dumb enough or dedicated enough to try skateboarding at night. When he's supposed to be in bed. But eh, whatever. Willie got this board last week and they have to break it in. Plus he's never been one for rules.
He thinks he sees someone in... a purple trenchcoat? at the corner of the lot by the park, but when he reaches the gate there's no one there, and they head inside, slipping the gate closed behind them. It's a thrill every time he rides, and this night is no different. The cool night air is damp, but their blood is pumping and to Willie? it's the closest thing to flying they've ever experienced. Streetlamps shine a dull yellowy orange on the concrete, and the wheels of his board are smooth and making the "shhkshhkshhk" noise that Willie loves so much. This is what living feels like.
Maybe an hour later, Willie decides to head home. The road is silent, and Willie is hyper aware of the buzzing of the street lamps and their breathing. Without him noticing, the night has become unfamiliar and threatening, and they glance warily around as they made their way back. It seemed like the night became darker with each road he turned down, and when he spotted the bodega that marked the road to his house, they breathed a sigh of relief and gave another push on his skateboard.
An ungodly shriek filled the air and for a brief moment Willie discovered that skateboarding was barely a fraction of what flying was like, because their body was flying through the air, just as unnaturally as the shriek of tires trying desperately to stop. They landed on their back, head slamming hard against concrete creating a thunking smack that made him feel sick to his stomach.
He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t breathe, all they could do was stare dazed at the sky, at the few stars that shines blearily through the murky clouds.When did that happen? When did it get so dark?
Everything tasted like copper and burnt rubber and bile, and they tried to turn over, which sent a spike of pain up the base of his neck to his lower back that was so wracking that he gagged and choked, coughing pitifully as air struggled to re-enter their lungs. They waited, ears ringing and eyes frantically casting about, not really knowing what they were searching for, until he was breathing a little easier. And then they were bracing themself and slowly adjusting himself until he was laying on his stomach.
Fuck, it hurt. It hurt so bad and Willie whimpered and bit his lip hard, eyes burning with tears that stung the scrapes on their face. He pushed one last time and the pain made everything go grey, the ringing in their ears becoming an unbearable pounding pressure. They gasped and lay still. The burning rubber taste was overwhelmed by the sharp repulsive copper that filled his mouth and sinuses. Their hands were raw.
God, it hurt so bad.
It hurt so bad, but he had to get his board. He had to-
The ringing buzzed down to a hum, and they strained to hear what was going on around them, but he couldn’t make anything out. Similarly, their eyes were too disoriented and unfocused to see. He couldn’t find his skateboard. Shit.
Willie tried moving again, less caring this time about the pain. They had to find his board. Once again the pain made his vision go grey, but when they stilled this time it didn’t fade back. It didn't matter. It didn't matter they just had to find their board.
His breath started coming out in whimpers, the exhales becoming more shallow while their hand scrabbled aimlessly on the asphalt. Fuck. They couldn't breathe again. Except this time it wasn't from the impact of having the breath knocked out of him, it was his lungs unable to inhale, unable to pull any oxygen in.
God, they had to find their skateboard. Where was it??
His head started spinning, the pain intensifying, and they held back a groan.
There. His fingers closed loosely on the edge of his board. They tried dragging it closer.
Willie wanted to cry (he already was, the tears slipped down their cheeks like comets) (he wanted to scream, wanted their lungs to pull in enough air to let it out in a desperate and pain-filled howl).
There's a helplessness that aches in a way that pain does, but deeper. When your body refuses to listen, when you feel yourself give way to something you could not even begin to control. A helplessness that destroys you from the inside out with acidic hopelessness and despair as desperation gives way to resignation.
Willie felt that helplessness. Felt their lungs shudder one last time and give a rattling exhale. Felt their disoriented eyes stop wildly searching, and instead grew dim. Felt the pain set deep into their bones and stop their struggling, stop the tremors, stop the ringing in their ears.
Willie wanted to cry.
His fingers slipped from the board.
Willie's breaths were jagged and they dry-heaved even as they gasped and hiccuped with sobs, hands dragging through his hair and snot dribbling at the edge of his nose, and God. It damn near broke Bobby, who sat by his side that night, his arms an empty home waiting for Willie to find rest in. His eyebrows knit together and he bit the inside of his cheek to keep from crying himself as Willie sobbed into his shoulder. There was nothing he could do. Nothing to stop the nightmares of this kid that had saved Bobby's life at the HGC, even if they hadn't known it at the time.
It tore Bobby apart.
Tuesday:
Willie gave a whoop and grinned, grocery bag in hand as they skated home from running an errand for their mom. The sun was beginning to set, casting the roads with a golden-red light and causing Willie to thrum with energy, head buzzy with joy. The traffic light in front of him turned red, and he stumbled his board to a stop to check the intersection before pushing off the curb and going forward again.
The air fairly buzzed with the same energy that had gone to his head, leaving him dizzy in a warm, pleasant way. Willie didn't know what was special about today, but they drank in the feeling anyway, board steady under their feet, hands clutching the sack of vegetables and spices he'd gotten. He barely missed a man in a funny-looking cloak, and called out a "Woah dude, sorry!" over his shoulder as he sped on, wheels clicking on the cracks in the sidewalk.
The wind felt like a metaphor, the way it caught in their throat. The way they squinted against it, smile crooked on their lips. The way it was alive. The way he was alive with it.
The sun dipped lower, bright in Willie's eyes and he slowed imperceptibly for his turn. The light for oncoming traffic turned red -red as the sun, red as the lifeblood pumping through his veins, red as the valentine's card he gave his mom the year after their dad died- and the curb became a launchpad as they pushed forward again.
And then the light was not red.
The light was green as the patch of grass in the median across from his house, green as the sky when it is all too stormy with a yearning for tornadoes (all wrong, green in places it should not be green), green as the taste in his mouth as he spiraled through the air that was a metaphor in the same way he was a crumpled paper airplane, coming to rest on uncaring asphalt.
In the same way his skin was a metaphor for the way stars tear themselves apart, harsh against concrete meant for things more resilient than a teenager's body.
Willie's head thundered like a green sky, stomach twisting like the beginning of The Wizard of Oz, like this was the start of something and not him lying prone on a street, not him lying broken, not him feeling a pain that feels like an ending that comes too soon, when you open a book and realize it's missing chapters because the author forgot to write them.
Like their mouth was not filling with blood in the place of their choked whimpers.
And when he gave in to the pain, to the blood in his lungs, to the dizziness that clouded their brain, he was thinking "I'm not going home" they were thinking "I can't find my skateboard" they were thinking...
"I didn't tell my mom I loved her before I left."
Willie awoke already held in Alex's arms, their tears already softened against a light pink hoodie and a comforting hand. Willie's head hurt. Willie's head hurt and he just wanted it to be over. They buried their face into Alex's chest and sobbed, wishing the fear stayed in the nightmares instead of sticking to his skin like decayed cotton candy.
Willie just wanted it to be over.
Wednesday:
The rain felt like honey. Thick on his skin and cool like his friend's pool in the summer. Sweet like his mom's pancakes.
The rain felt like honey and Willie didn't mind that it was raining. It was nice, almost, the way the raindrops cradled their aching head, their leaden limbs.
Almost nice enough to forget that he couldn't move, that his fingers were going numb and that their lungs refused to breathe, his chest burning deep and low. Their vision was dimming and he couldn't tell if it was from the rain, or the fact that their consciousness was slipping from them, like the rain that slid from the bridge of his nose to solemnly drop onto the red-stained concrete. His cheek pressed carelessly against the gravelly road.
The rain thundered down harder, overwhelming their senses as they breathlessly wept, joints bent all wrong and head feeling all wrong and everything in the world wrong wrong wrong.
He didn't tell his mom they loved her before they left.
He was cold. He was so so cold.
They wanted his mom.
Willie jerked awake, gasping, and had to white knuckle the fabric wrapped around them in order to keep himself from freaking out. The panic from not being able to breathe slowly ebbed as they became more aware.
He was in Reggie's softest flannel, his arms holding them close.
"I'm so tired of this, Reg." Willie shivered into his friend, trying to steady his breathing.
Reggie's eyes filled with tears, and he tightened his grip on Willie, pressing a kiss to their forehead.
"Me too Wills, me too."
Thursday:
The darkness enveloped Willie, tugging them under the way a kid tugs at the string on a balloon, jerking it up and down. His brain felt scrambled. If eggs could feel pain, that would him, but as it was they wouldn't wish this pain on anything, even an egg.
The absurdity of it made them want to smile. Want to *crack* a grin. But God. It hurt to even think about puns because that made his ribs contract funny and normally that wouldn't be an issue except for the jagged pain that coursed through them and the thick, wet feeling in his chest that felt like what Willie would imagine drowning is like.
They could still hear the screaming wail of brakes in their ears. The burning rubber stinging his sinuses, even as the metallic coating of blood in his throat covered everything else.
Willie knew he was dying.
Willie knew this like they knew his mom wouldn't notice until the morning. Wouldn't know anything was off until she checked their room when they didn't come down for breakfast. Knew this like he knew his mother would call his aunt, who'd organize a search, who'd eventually find their body. Crumpled on the newly tarred asphalt, skateboard a few feet away, legs unnaturally tangled beneath him and arms spread out, the way Willie remembered the angels in his mom's books being.
Reaching out.
"Be not afraid."
Willie knew they were dying. He just didn't know how they felt about it.
On one hand (the left, knuckles scraped raw to the point of blood. Numb. At least one finger broken when it got jammed under them as they fell), it hurt like hell to die. Their head felt like it had been a hackey-sack in a past life, to be kicked and elbowed, their lungs too light and too sticky as he forced himself to inhale, ribs unkindly jabbing in ways they weren't made to do, and they hurt all over. All of it. Legs, arms, wrists and back. Willie once spent the day moving boxes and furniture for a neighbor who was moving, and had woken up the next day feeling like they'd gone through a washing machine set to "high spin".
This was a thousand times worse.
On the other hand (right side, wrist was oddly... crunchy when he tried moving it. So they stopped moving it), it was. Peaceful.
Not the impact. The impact had been glass and screeching, burning brakes. Had been the booming of their heart, the booming of metal on body, of body on road. The slam of skull to concrete and bitter nausea as bile made it's way unbidden into the back of their throat.
But after that. Once the pain dulled from "a million knives in his chest and back and legs and-" to a more manageable "hammer to his head and any and all joints" it calmed down. Calmed to a fog of charred smoke in their mind, fuzzing everything out until it was just Willie. Willie thinking about the angels in their mom's books.
And what didn’t hurt, felt like when Willie tried to fall asleep and stay conscious at the same time.
The trick was to stay still, relax their limbs, and let their mind float. Normally it ended when his legs, tired of staying still but not being asleep, became the flaming version of pins and needles, the restlessness eating them alive until they were forced to jerk their legs, moving them until the feeling subsided.
Holding still too long had always made Willie get anxious. Mind beginning to freak out as they imagined a thousand things crawling inside his skin.
But there was a moment before that. Before the paranoia and discomfort set in, rattling their bones and pricking at his flesh. A moment where everything was numb.
In that moment Willie couldn’t feel anything. His arms could be contorted in the strangest way, their legs at odds with their body, but he wouldn’t know. The fabric of his sheets, their pajamas. He couldn’t feel any of it.
And it felt like floating.
It felt like an empty body.
Willie liked that feeling. Before the panic. Set apart from the pain.
The pin pricks started at his spine, trickling like an angry current of electricity to their legs, twining into the soft place behind his knees and clutching at it the way a dog might. Tenacious and angry and hungry for blood.
Willie was scared of dogs. Was scared of the way they knew what was next, after the awful and overwhelming restlessness, the needles under his skin.
The panic set in.
Willie was up, running, fingertips dragging across his arms, feeling the sensation, stumbling into the bathroom, breath catching, cool tile underfoot, cool porcelain at their hands. The dream was seeping from their mind, but the pins and needles remained in their legs, and he shuddered one long, rolling shudder, bile curdling in his stomach as he willed themself not to throw up.
And then Bobby was there. Bobby with his hand on Willie's back, tucking their hair back just in case. Bobby kneeling by Willie, arms ready for when Willie was ready to be held, fingers tracing circles across Willie's temples and forehead, calming them down.
Bobby supported him as he leaned back from the toilet, legs shaking even though they weren't even holding all of Willie's weight. Willie cringed hard, jaw clenching as the pain from their headache fully encompassed him. They silently settled against Bobby, hand and jaw rhythmically tightening and relaxing. Bobby stroked his hair.
"Yeah sex is great," Willie tried, voice hoarse from what they assumed was screaming while he had slept, "but have you ever woke up with a migraine nine days in a row?"
Bobby snorted. "Willie, you're sex-averse and sex-neutral; Sex isn't great."
Willie shrugged loosely, eyes drooping as they exhaustedly turned to face Bobby.
"I'd say gender is great instead, but neither of us thinks that's great either, so I guess we're stuck, huh."
"Want some Ibuprofen? I left it on the side-table."
"You're such a mom, Bobbers." But their voice wobbled painfully, and Bobby just rolled his eyes, gaze affectionate and concerned.
He pushed Willie lightly, standing up and helping Willie up after him. "I'll go get a glass of water," He smiled. Willie hummed in thanks.
They were going to stop this. They couldn't take it anymore.
Friday:
Willie didn't sleep. Sometime during the evening they poured a five-hour-energy into a triple-shot caramel macchiato, and downed it before anyone saw. He was done falling asleep just to get trapped into another nightmare. He was done.
So they waited as the sun set, tucking a sketchbook and a pencil into the pocket of a hoodie (it may have been Bobby's, but Willie was pretty sure he'd seen Julie wearing it a few days before) and putting it close to the front door. They'd sneak down and poof out when no one could hear him.
Willie didn't have a plan after that. Walk for a bit, find a bench by a streetlight where they could sketch, skateboard for a few hours maybe. Anything as long as they didn't fall asleep. It would be okay, he promised themself. It would work.
So when Julie smiled at them when they walked into the room and slumped onto the bed, staring at the ceiling, he smiled back. And when she got a glass of water and put some pain meds on her dresser to be ready... they didn't blink. This would work. It had to.
"You don't mind me sleeping on your bed? I can go back down to the garage with the boys-" Willie started, but Julie waved them off.
"Please," she grinned, "The only reason we aren't ALL cuddling in my bed every night is because there's not enough space and I'd get tired of getting elbows to the ribs whenever someone shifts. Flynn and I share a bed all the time at sleepovers. Just a warning, I do cuddle."
Willie snorted. He knew that already. They had figured it out almost immediately; Julie was always touching one of the group, arm around Reggie's shoulder, holding hands with Luke, sprawling out on Alex's lap, etc. They were a touchy group, and for Willie, who had gone so long without any real physical affection (aside from Bobby's random bear hugs and hair ruffling) it was nice. New, but nice.
"I think I can handle that," Willie teased. Julie grinned.
Later, after a few hours of staring at Julie's ceiling, Willie stirred. Sat up. It had taken a lot of concentration to stay awake, even with the frankly scary level of caffeine they had consumed. He was exhausted.
And then they were up, pausing a moment to listen to Julie's steady breathing, letting the calm flow of inhale and exhale calm him. He didn't know how long they could go without sleeping, but that didn't matter because tonight at least would be free from the nightmares.
Silent as a shadow, Willie slipped from Julie's room and made their way downstairs, tugging the hoodie on over his head and poofing through the front door. They were out.
He didn't come back in the morning.
"Calm the FUCK down!" Julie shouted, like her heart wasn't pounding high in her throat. "We need to figure out where Willie is, and that doesn't mean freaking out. We'll split up and check places where they might have gone, because I'm pretty sure they left on his own, but we don't need to panic because that won't help him."
Julie looked around at the startled faces of her friends.
Alex was shattered, and Julie softened before tugging him into a hug, burying her face into him to hide how she was on the verge of tears. They would get Willie back. They had to.
They agreed to meet up at the Molina house every hour until Willie was found, and then headed out. They split up except for Julie and Alex, who stayed together since Julie couldn't just "poof" places like the rest could.
Also because she was the best at keeping Alex steady even while she felt like falling apart herself. Willie was Alex's boyfriend, but they mattered to every single one of them, and Julie wasn't about to let him go.
"Is there any specific place they would go?"
"I'm not sure. If he went on his board.... anywhere. If they went to sketch, maybe a cafe or something?" Alex shook his head and clutched the strap of his fannypack tighter. His stomach churned with worry.
"I'm scared, Jules. When they wake up they get disoriented and withdrawn. If he had a nightmare away from home-" His voice trailed off. He didn't want to think about that.
The first hour passed and they reconvened at the house. Nothing. Bobby's face was stone.
The second hour. Nothing. Reggie had chewed on his lip till it was cracked.
The third hour. Still nothing. Luke was bouncing from foot to foot, eyebrows furrowed, and Alex had to consciously slow his breathing to keep from having an anxiety attack. Julie texted Flynn to come help.
Forty-five minutes later Reggie poofed to where Alex and Julie were frantically searching the streets, his hands wringing.
"We found him," He whispered, eyes wide and voice shaking. "Come on, we found him."
The streets were odd. Winding in ways that made no sense to Willie. Their head hurt. He didn't like this.
They were looking for something. He wasn't sure what, but once they found it he knew he would be safe. He pushed his hands further into his hoodie pocket and walked faster. They were missing something. Their feet felt wrong.
He ducked to the left.
God, their head hurt. A sharp, jabbing pain struck behind their eyes, and he stumbled, barely keeping themself from buckling over. The pain made him nauseous.
What was he looking for?!
He side-stepped a fire hydrant and glanced both ways before jogging across a street. They felt footsteps behind him and he forced himself not to glance backwards. The pressure behind their eyes grew, and he grimaced. His headaches weren't normally this bad. But he was tired and stressed and it made sense that the headache was worsening.
Right?
They wondered if they slept last night. He didn't think so. He wouldn't have. Wouldn't have slept... why? They were at an intersection, and he peered up owlishly at the road sign, squinting against the pain. He didn't recognize the road.
Nightmares.
That's why they didn't sleep last night.
Footsteps behind him again. Pain jolting from his head all the way down their spine, lighting their legs with a fire-like pain. This time they couldn't keep himself up, and he tripped, hands flung out in front of them to catch their fall. He groaned.
"Willie!"
Someone behind him, someone chasing them, footsteps closer and he's up, twisting away from the voice, heartbeat quickening, legs pumping. Gotta get away. Gotta escape.
"Willie wait, please!" Voice desperate and low, almost as panicked as they felt and they hesitated around a corner, panting. Stay? Run.
"Willie please it's me!"
Run?
Pain. Pain all over, starting at their head and traveling in waves down their back, climbing like vines to crawl into his torso, split at their shoulders until it's tingling pain all the way to their fingers. His knees locked and sent him tumbling to the ground, already scraped hands slamming hard against the sidewalk. A sketchbook spilled out of their pocket and they grabbed at it, holding it like a lifeline to their chest as he struggled to roll over and face the person chasing him.
Dark brown hair in a bob. Red shirt. Breathing hard. Black ripped jeans. Red high-top Converse. Scared brown eyes.
"Willie?"
And he knew that voice but he didn't, and it sent a strange thrill through their chest that wasn't quite anxiety and wasn't quite relief.
"What do you want," Willie asked warily, and his voice surprised them by how gravelly and hurt it was. He was tired of being scared. He was tired of hurting.
"I'm Bobby. You know me Willie, I know you do. Just look at the first page of your sketchbook. You drew me first because I was the one that got it for you. C'mon Wills..." His eyes were so damn pleading.
Willie looked in the notebook.
Their mind fizzled and he fought back the urge to vomit. He knew Bobby. He knew him.
They just couldn't remember him properly.
Bobby kneeled down beside Willie and gathered them into his arms, gently murmuring and shushing them as they cried. "It'll be okay, Wills. I promise. We'll figure this out."
"I didn't sleep," Willie sobbed into Bobby's shoulder, "I didn't sleep I swear. But the- the nightmares came anyway and I can't. I can't find home and I can't- Bobby it hurts," he whimpered.
Bobby's heart clenched and his face contorted as he bit back his own tears.
"I think it's-" They hiccuped, "- It feels like dying all over again Bobby. I think it's from Caleb."
The living room was dead silent. Willie was in one of Julie's sweatshirts and Reggie's flannel, and Alex sat on one side of him, rubbing a thumb over their knuckles while Reggie pressed against the other side.
They all looked like shit.
"So how do we fix this?" Luke's eyes should've looked angry, but the tears threatening to fall and the way his voice quivered offset the tenseness of his jaw.
Willie slumped lower on the couch. "I don't know," they mumbled. "I don't know if we can."
"Bullshit!" Bobby didn't raise his voice, but it cracked at the end and he had to clear his throat. "Bullshit," he repeated. "We can figure it out. So the migraines aren't caused by the nightmares, that just means there's another reason. One that we'll find and then fix."
Willie's face grew more grim.
"Jolts."
"What?" They all faced Reggie.
"Jolts," he shrugged. "If Willie was getting jolts while he slept -and if the jolts hit you based on how you died- then that could be why they were getting nightmares and migraines. The pain caused the fear, which caused his sleeping brain to say 'oh hey, nightmare time' and made them wake up with a headache. And this time, the jolts gave him amnesia."
Bobby shook his head, "That can't be it-"
"No." Willie stared down at their palms. "I think Reggie's right but... but it wasn't just this last time that I've forgotten things," they admitted. He looked up.
"I can't remember the day I died. The date, I mean, I can still.... I remember that day, not the date. I can't remember meeting you, Bobby, and I can't... I don't remember leaving Caleb's club. I just know that you guys saved me."
"It makes sense," Julie admitted, hating the way her voice shook. "The pain triggers the fear. It makes sense."
Bobby grew more agitated.
"So how do we fix it? We can fix it. We can." He twisted his fingers together so tightly that both of his hands went white. It wasn't a question. They could fix it. They had to fix it. He wasn't going to lose Willie. Not after he had already gone through losing the only people he loved.
Except this time, he would know it was coming.
"We need to find out everything about how Caleb controls people, how the seals work, the Club... everything. If we figure out how it happened, we can figure out how to fix it."
"You'll need me to remember, won't you." Another statement. Bobby slowly dragged his eyes up from staring hollowly at his hands. He looked so empty.
Willie shook their head, "No," he replied, "Bobby don't. You don't need to remember, we can figure this out without needing you to remember. Julie did something that saved the boys, and that means I can be saved too. Without your memories."
Bobby looked at Willie. Looked at his friend, the person who had been the one to teach him how to act when Caleb got pissy, how to keep his head down on the bad days, how to heal from the grief of dying. He steadied himself and stood taller.
"Wait hold on," Luke interjected before Bobby could say anything, "Why wouldn't we need Bobby's memories? Why don't you-" he pointed at Willie, "-want him to remember, and why do you-" Bobby "-think you need to?"
Bobby and Willie exchanged looks. Bobby's jaw tightened.
"Because," Willie sighed, their mind pulling together all the facts from his dreams, the way Bobby had never felt safe around Caleb, even before it got bad, the sick, greedy look Caleb had gotten in his eyes whenever Willie displayed their powers, and a thousand other instances that had led him to this moment.
"Bobby always suspected his death wasn't an accident, especially since he never could remember anything about it. And if Caleb's past and my amnesia are anything to go by... Mine probably wasn't an accident either. And now Caleb's trying to cover it up."