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When Grevorr and Angelica were nine, she told him a secret. Hidden underneath a picnic table with their family above, she cupped her hands to her cousin’s ear and whispered.
“You’re my best friend.”
The apartment is dirty most days. Grevorr hasn’t had anyone besides Branch over in a long time, and he’s used to mess living with his mother, so Grevorr doesn’t bother cleaning up. The only corner he tries to keep looking decent is the one where they film the podcast, because Branch is obsessed with having video versions even though it’s fucking dumb. They film in the afternoon, brewskis in hand, and the evening is set aside for TV and more motherfucking brewskis.
It’s almost domestic in its familiarity. Branch has a copy of the apartment key, and he’s over more often than not, so he ‘pays rent’ with takeout and beer.
“You can sleep on the couch,” Grevorr always offers, even though they both know the night will end with the two of them side by side. Branch is warm, even through the impassable distance between them on the bed. If Grevorr asked, he knows Branch would leave. Leave the bed, the house, his life— Branch would do anything he asked. Grevorr stares at his sleeping form and doesn’t move any closer.
He's never been with a woman that made him happy. They’re all shallow, not smart enough for Grevorr to bother keeping around. Angelica is smart. She stayed in college even after he dropped out. Her face looks like Grevorr’s if he wore makeup. Cliff loves her face. Cliff is a pussy bitch.
Angelica is the only woman Grevorr has ever loved in any way. He loves her because they’re the same. They’re better. They’re different. She’s the one making the money, Cliff sucking her dry like a leech. It’s nothing like the movies, no heavy beating heart or ugly little butterflies, but what else could it be?
Branch is probably the closest thing Grevorr has ever had to a girlfriend. When they met in highschool, they latched on to each other and haven’t let go since. They had their first beer together, tried out for sports together, and got rejected for sports together. They were side by side until graduation, when Branch started working at his Mom’s store and Grevorr went to college. It wasn’t even two months before he dropped out. Branch’s mom hired him, too.
Grevorr’s phone buzzes, and he already knows who it is. Branch, who probably lost his fucking key again, outside with takeout and beer.
It’s not.
It’s Branch, of course, because no one else ever texts him. It’s just not what Grevorr expected. going 2 doms 2nite we can do dinner tmrw. Nine words.
Dominic Patron. He’d been on the podcast last month. Stupid motherfucker was ten times more famous than Grevorr or Branch combined. He has a chiseled face and sculpted abs and he dated Shayne Topp. He’d said it on camera, unwavering, as if it was the same as dating Courtney Miller. It seemed like it was to Branch.
Grevorr leaves his phone on the couch and goes to the bathroom to release the shame. It takes less than two minutes, and when it’s over and his hand is sticky he stands up and faces the mirror.
Branch follows him. Branch always followed him. They were fucking Branch and Grevorr. A matching set. What gave Dominic the right to have him? Being an alpha?
No. Grevorr knows he’s the one on top. He’s the fucking alpha, or sigma, or whatever the top is now. Wolves don’t care about sheep. Wolves eat.
Grevorr punches the mirror, but it doesn’t shatter. It doesn’t even crack. The only mark on the mirror is smeared white. His knuckles barely bruise.
Angelica shows up at his door, 2:32 PM, in February. She isn’t with Cliff.
“Holy shit, Grev. Your place is awful,” she says, ever-tactful.
“It’s manly,” Grevorr huffs as they find their way to the kitchen, “fuckin’ manly.”
“Devil’s advocate: It’s not.” Angelica sits on the tile floor, back against a cabinet. “Do you have any beer?”
“Obviously.”
It’s like a snapshot of highschool, the two of them on the kitchen floor drinking, facades put away. Back then, Grevorr would curl up beside his cousin and she’d run her fingers through his hair while they talked. They hadn’t done anything like it in so long that he’d almost forgotten it.
“I’m moving,” Angelica says. “Cliff and I are, I mean. To Canada.”
“Maple town?” Grevorr snorts, “seriously?”
“It’s not a good idea to stay here,” she shrugs, tracing her finger around the rim of her drink, “It’s fucking scary. You should get out, too.”
“It’s not scary.”
“Yeah, it is,” Angelica snaps, “It’s the end of the world, and you’re too dumb to see it.”
“I’m smart,” Grevorr huffs. “I’m a fucking alpha.”
“I’m not doing this— sigma— delta— thing tonight, so drop it.”
“Then why are you here? Makin’ fun of me again with Cliff?”
Angelica stills. “You know that’s never what we were doing.”
“Felt like it,” Grevorr grunts. “I’m better than him. You deserve better. You…”
He has the tirade prepared, like every time Angela picks up the phone. It dies on his tongue.
“You said we’d stick together,” he says instead.
“We still can. We could’ve before, even with Cliff.”
“You like him better,” Grevorr spits, “you replaced me with him.”
He looks up at Angelica, ready for the anger and disgust and hatred he’s grown accustomed to seeing in her. She doesn’t wear any of those feelings on her face. She just looks sad.
“I miss when we were friends,” she says.
Everything breaks open. Grevorr’s eyes are unfocused and he chokes on his own breath, but the routine is the same no matter how long a lapse in practice and Angelica‘a arms are around him in an instant.
“Devil’s advocate,” Grevorr hiccups, “We still are.”
“Devil’s advocate,” Angelica says back, voice wobbly, “you’ve been a huge bitch.”
“Yeah,” Grevorr nods against her shoulder, “I have.”
“Come with us. Cliff and me. We have friends in Toronto who own a duplex. You can— just bring Branch, and work things out.”
“Okay,” Grevorr says. “Okay.”
The world is ending, and Grevorr is Angelica’s best friend.