Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The auditorium was chaos. Not the kind of chaos that made teachers sweat and principals pace, but the kind of chaos that made high school theatre magic. Power drills screeched from backstage, someone was singing I’m a Believer in the wrong key down the hall, and paint fumes hung so thick in the air you could taste them. It was beautiful.

Freshman year, and Skizz and Impulse were finally part of it.

“Dude. We’re in,” Impulse whispered, clutching the freshly posted cast list like it was sacred scripture. “It’s real. We’re villagers in Shrek the Musical. This is our Broadway debut.”

Skizz pumped a fist in the air, dramatically spinning in the middle of the hallway outside the black box. “And thus begins our meteoric rise to stardom! Today the swamp, tomorrow... Tony Awards!”

Impulse gave him a look. “You have four lines.”

“Four lines and a really expressive face,” Skizz replied proudly. “I’ve already started developing my character. I think he’s got a bad knee. Maybe some generational trauma.”

They wandered into the theater together, already weaving through the half-built set pieces strewn across the stage like an abandoned fairy tale. The giant papier-mâché dragon head leaned against the back wall, its tongue lolling out. A crude outline of Duloc had been sketched in chalk on the stage floor. Someone had started painting a tree on one of the flats but gave up halfway through and left a brush suspended mid-stroke.

Joel was up in the fly loft, swinging his legs over the side and casually dropping fake moss down onto unsuspecting cast members.

“Yo, Joel!” Impulse shouted. “Trying to take us out before tech even starts?”

“Gravity’s a law, not a choice,” Joel called back, dropping another clump on Skizz’s head.

“Dude, why,” Skizz deadpanned, picking leaves out of his hair. “Is this a hazing ritual?”

“You’re freshmen. Everything’s a hazing ritual,” Joel said, smirking and disappearing into the rafters again.

Up in the booth, Cleo stood surrounded by gel frames and lighting plans. Her hair was tied back in a messy bun, and she had a sharpie between her teeth as she adjusted a cue sheet with military precision. One of the juniors tried to ask her a question, but she just flipped a switch and flooded them with light until they staggered away in defeat.

Stage left, Etho crouched behind a flat, clipboard in one hand, a roll of spike tape in the other. He was muttering something about how no one could find the donkey ears and that if one more actor walked off with a prop, he was replacing all their costumes with trash bags. No one argued. Etho, though quiet, had a reputation. When things went wrong, he fixed them—and sometimes you didn’t want to know how.

“Okay, everyone, bring it in!” came the voice of calm amid the storm.

Xisuma stood at the front of the stage, wearing his signature purple hoodie and a lanyard so loaded with keys, ID cards, and mystery trinkets it jangled like armor. He didn’t yell—he didn’t need to. Something about his tone always made people listen.

“We’ve got a lot to get through before we even touch blocking today. Full cast meeting. Ensemble, too. That means you, Swamp Squad.”

Skizz and Impulse perked up. “That’s us!” they said in unison, scrambling to the center of the stage.

A few older students were already gathered in a loose circle: Tango stretching, Zedaph adjusting the nose on his Big Bad Wolf costume, and Jevin fiddling with his fairy wings. A few lead cast members filtered in—Grian, who was playing Lord Farquaad and already strutting like he owned the place, and Scar, who’d won the role of Donkey and was practically bouncing in his seat with excitement.

Skizz leaned close to Impulse as they sat.

“This is it. Our first rehearsal. First cast meeting. First time the dream becomes real.”

Impulse grinned, heart pounding. “Dude, we’re gonna rock this.”

Xisuma looked around the group, flipping open a binder thicker than some textbooks. “Alright, team. We’ve got six weeks to build a swamp, tame a dragon, and get everyone singing on key. Let’s make some magic.”

Skizz raised his hand. “Question.”

Xisuma arched an eyebrow. “Yes?”

“Do we get to build the outhouse set piece from scratch? Because I have blueprints.”

Impulse smacked a hand to his forehead. “We’re gonna get banned from tech before we even start.”

But Xisuma just chuckled, shaking his head. “We’ll talk. For now—warm-ups. Everyone on your feet!”

As the cast scrambled into place for vocal drills, Skizz and Impulse fell in step beside each other, laughing as they tried to match pitch and flailed through stretches like baby giraffes.

They didn’t know yet how things were going to go wrong. How pride and jealousy and silence would wedge themselves between them like a wall of plywood flats. For now, they were Swamp Squad—loud, ridiculous, and completely inseparable.

Chapter Text

The thing about freshmen theatre kids is they feel everything at 300%. And the thing about Skizz and Impulse was—they were both freshmen theatre kids.

It started with a cast change.

The rehearsal room was packed. Half the ensemble was sitting crisscross on the floor, the other half were lying on their backs from exhaustion. Costumes were starting to arrive, and someone had brought in an entire bin of rubber noses that now littered the room like a Muppet crime scene.

“Okay, okay, settle down,” Xisuma called from his spot in the front of the room, flipping through his binder with one hand and sipping something very caffeinated with the other. “We’re making a few small changes today before we get into Act 2 blocking.”

Skizz sat next to Impulse, humming the Duloc theme song off-key while trying to balance a foam pig snout on his face without using his hands.

“Impulse?” Xisuma called.

Impulse blinked. “Yeah?”

“You’re moving up. We need a new Pied Piper. Can you handle the part?”

Skizz sat up so fast the pig snout bounced off his forehead and hit the floor. “Wait. What?”

Impulse’s mouth dropped open. “Uh—I mean—yeah? Sure! Cool!”

“Great,” Xisuma said, already moving on to a lighting note. “You’ll keep your villager tracks, but we’ll carve out the Pied Piper scenes for you. Check with Etho after rehearsal for new sides.”

Skizz laughed—loud and sudden and way too fake. “Awesome! Dude! You’re gonna play the guy with the rats! That’s, like, iconic. So iconic.”

Impulse gave him a weird look. “You okay?”

“Me? Oh yeah. Totally chill. Love rats. Love pipes. Love being left behind like a side salad at a burger joint. Everything’s fine.”

Impulse blinked, unsure whether to laugh or apologize. He chose neither.

Rehearsal moved on, but something had shifted. Skizz’s usual jokes were sharper, his laugh more forced. When Impulse tried to show him the choreography for his new number, Skizz suddenly got “super busy” helping Cleo with gel frames. Cleo did not ask for help.

Later that day, Skizz grabbed his backpack, slung it over one shoulder, and muttered, “See you, Pied Piper,” before heading out of the auditorium without waiting for a response.

Impulse stood alone near the props table, holding his new scene notes and wondering what had just happened.

Meanwhile, Etho watched from the wings with a frown and scribbled something on his clipboard.

Joel, up in the fly loft, leaned over and stage-whispered to Cleo: “Ooooh. Friendship fracture. We love a subplot.”

Cleo didn’t look up. “You love chaos.”

“Same thing.”

Backstage, Day Two of The Tension:

Skizz dropped his bag louder than necessary on the floor beside the green room’s couch. Impulse was already there, trying to read through his Piper lines while nursing a juice pouch and minding his own business.

“Just so you know,” Skizz said casually, not looking at him, “I think the whole rat thing is a little weird. Like, what’s the message? Animal control through jazz? Not very family-friendly if you ask me.”

Impulse glanced up, tired. “Are you seriously mad at me for getting a part I didn’t ask for?”

Skizz paused. “I’m not mad. I’m just... passionate.”

Impulse snorted. “About rodents?”

“About being ignored!”

That one landed like a prop bucket to the face.

Impulse’s face fell. “Skizz, I didn’t ignore you—Xisuma gave me the part on the spot. I didn’t even know what was happening.”

Skizz opened his mouth to reply—but Xisuma walked in at that exact moment, holding his director’s binder like a sacred text. “Villagers and Duloc dancers onstage. Piper, you’re up.”

Skizz stood, jaw clenched. “Break a leg. No, seriously. I hope one of your fake rats trips you.”

Impulse groaned. “You know they’re taped to the floor.”

“Then I hope you slip on a jazz hand.”

Chapter Text

By the third week of rehearsals, everyone had noticed.

The ensemble usually worked as one big chaotic family, but Skizz and Impulse had started orbiting on opposite sides of the room. Where there used to be inside jokes and whispered commentary during warm-ups, there was now silence—or worse, snark.

“Your jazz hands look broken,” Skizz muttered one day during dance rehearsal.

Impulse didn’t miss a beat. “At least mine don’t look like I’m trying to swat a fly.”

Joel, watching from the fly loft, clapped like an excited seal. “Tension! Drama! Can we lower a chandelier on them yet, or is that the wrong musical?”

Cleo leaned out of the light booth, rolling her eyes. “You drop anything on them and you’re explaining it to Xisuma. I’m not saving you again.”

Onstage, the Duloc number was falling apart. Impulse had to lead a section of choreography as the Pied Piper, but Skizz—still bitter—kept deliberately delaying his steps half a beat, making the whole row stumble like dominoes.

“Skizz!” Xisuma barked from the front row. “Stop sabotaging the rhythm!”

Skizz plastered on an innocent grin. “Sorry! My villager’s just... interpretive.”

Impulse glared. “Your villager’s just petty.”

The whole ensemble winced.

Later, while they were supposed to be running lines together backstage, the tension boiled over. Impulse flipped his script shut. “Why are you acting like I stole the part from you? It’s not my fault Xisuma picked me.”

Skizz crossed his arms. “You could’ve at least told me! Instead, I find out when you’re called up in front of everyone, and I’m standing there like a chump.”

“I didn’t know!” Impulse snapped back. “What was I supposed to do, stop the whole rehearsal to check with you first? ‘Excuse me, Skizz, is it okay if I exist?’”

Skizz’s jaw tightened. “You didn’t even
want the role. And now you’re walking around like you’re hot stuff just because you get a solo.”

Impulse opened his mouth to argue, but at that exact moment, Scar trotted past in full Donkey costume, singing off-key and waving a half-eaten granola bar. “Love the energy, fellas! Keep it up!”

The absurdity would’ve made them laugh any other day. Not today.

By the end of rehearsal, they weren’t speaking at all.

---

**Meanwhile…**

Up in the booth, Cleo adjusted a spotlight and muttered to Etho, “You think they’ll kill each other before opening night?”

Etho, scribbling notes on his clipboard, didn’t look up. “If they do, at least I won’t have to keep re-taping their spike marks.”

Joel leaned over the rail of the fly loft with a grin. “Oh, they’re not gonna kill each other. They’re gonna kiss. Calling it now.”

Cleo scoffed. “Over my dead lightboard.”

But Etho just hummed quietly, and if you looked close enough, you might’ve seen the corner of his mouth twitch like he knew something the others didn’t.

Chapter Text

The dressing room smelled like hairspray, stage makeup, and nerves. Everywhere Skizz looked, people were in motion—fairy tale creatures adjusting wigs, background knights practicing their sword fights in the mirror, Scar already cracking donkey jokes at full volume. The whole cast buzzed like they were standing on a live wire.

But Skizz? He wasn’t buzzing. He was flat on his back across two folding chairs, staring at the ceiling tiles.

He had spent weeks bickering, avoiding, side-eyeing, and muttering under his breath. But now, with fifteen minutes to curtain, it all collapsed in his chest like a badly rigged backdrop. His stomach flipped, and not from stage fright.

“Oh crap,” he whispered, squeezing his eyes shut. “Oh crap, oh crap, oh crap.”

Impulse was across the room, already half in his Pied Piper getup, wrangling the stupid prop flute like it was his mortal enemy. His hair was slicked back, cheeks rouged just enough to stand out under stage lights, and he was laughing with Tango about some inside joke Skizz couldn’t hear.

And suddenly, Skizz’s brain just… clicked.

*I don’t hate him. I don’t even resent him anymore. I’m in love with him. Ohhhh crap.*

He sat bolt upright, almost toppling the chairs, which earned him a weird look from Jevin, who was gluing on his fairy wings in the corner.

“Everything cool, dude?” Jevin asked.

“Nope!” Skizz squeaked, already scrambling to his feet. “Everything is the opposite of cool. I have to go do something monumentally stupid, excuse me!”

He barreled out of the dressing room, heart in his throat, weaving through knights, dwarves, and one very confused Zedaph in a wolf suit.

Impulse was standing just offstage, script in hand, muttering lines under his breath one last time before curtain. He didn’t see Skizz until Skizz was right in front of him, breathing hard.

“Uh—hey?” Impulse said. “You good? Curtain in ten, man—”

“Shut up,” Skizz blurted. And before his courage fizzled, before he could second-guess, he grabbed Impulse by the front of his costume and kissed him.

It wasn’t long, and it wasn’t neat—Skizz’s nose smacked into Impulse’s cheek, and the flute nearly fell on the floor—but it was *real*. The kind of kiss that carried weeks of bottled-up feelings, late-night jokes, stupid fights, and all the energy of a swamp-themed freshman musical.

When they broke apart, Impulse blinked, stunned, then let out a little laugh that sounded half like relief. “Wow. Uh. Guess I don’t need my preshow pep talk anymore.”

Skizz grinned nervously. “Yeah, uh. Sorry about all the… you know. Hating you. Turns out it was just… me being in love with you. Surprise!”

Impulse shook his head, still smiling. “Figures you’d confess right before curtain.”

From the wings, Etho cleared his throat. “You two done, or do I need to hold the cue?”

They both jumped apart, faces red, but Impulse reached out and squeezed Skizz’s hand. Just once. Just enough.

And then the lights went down, the overture swelled, and *Shrek the Musical* began.

Somehow, everything ran perfectly. No missed cues, no forgotten lines, no sabotaged dance numbers. Skizz and Impulse moved in sync, smiling for real this time. The swamp had never looked better.

When the curtain fell and the audience roared, Skizz thought: Happily ever after. Or at least… happily for now.

Chapter Text

The cast party was held at Tango’s house—his parents had miraculously agreed, as long as nothing broke and no one called the cops. Predictably, both rules would be in jeopardy by the end of the night.

The whole ensemble piled in, still buzzing from opening weekend. Pizza boxes stacked on the counter, soda cans exploded from the fridge, and Joel had already commandeered the aux cord to blast the *Shrek* soundtrack—mostly just “All Star” on repeat.

Impulse and Skizz hadn’t strayed far from each other since the kiss backstage. It wasn’t official, whatever they were, but Skizz’s brain was still playing back the memory on loop. He wasn’t sure if Impulse was thinking about it too, but every time their shoulders brushed, he thought maybe, just maybe, he wasn’t imagining the spark.

The chaos really started when Cleo shouted, “Spin the bottle!” and slammed an empty Coke bottle onto the carpet. A circle formed instantly—actors never said no to a bit of drama.

Impulse sat cross-legged, Skizz next to him, trying to play it cool while his stomach did flips.

The first few spins were harmless—Pearl landed on Gem and dipped her like a soap opera star. Ren spun and ended up pecking Grian on the cheek, which made Scar wolf-whistle so loud Xisuma probably heard it across town.

Then, inevitably, the bottle landed on Impulse. His spin felt like slow motion. Everyone leaned in, watching as it clicked to a stop… pointing straight at Skizz.

A chorus of “ooooohhh”s rang out. Impulse’s face went pink, but he didn’t hesitate. He leaned in and kissed Skizz right there in the middle of the circle. It wasn’t long—just a quick press of lips—but it was enough to make Skizz’s brain short-circuit.

“Get a room,” Joel groaned, but his grin was so wide it ruined the complaint.

The night escalated from there. Someone suggested Seven Minutes in Heaven, and before Skizz could process, Cleo was shoving them both into the downstairs coat closet.

Impulse leaned against the wall, smirking. “Well… guess the bottle knows what it’s doing.”

Skizz laughed nervously, but then Impulse closed the gap between them, kissing him again—slower, deeper, more certain than the one in the circle. The closet wasn’t much bigger than a shoebox, but Skizz couldn’t care less. Seven minutes wasn’t nearly enough.

Meanwhile, in the living room, the chaos hadn’t stopped. The rest of the cast had switched to Cards Against Humanity, which, predictably, brought out the absolute worst in everyone. Grian kept playing the most cursed cards possible, Joel was crying from laughing too hard, and Cleo yelled at anyone who dared pick a card that wasn’t hers.

Scott, Jimmy, and Tango had claimed the couch, curled up in their own little bubble away from the noise. Jimmy was halfway through explaining why his card—“Shrek’s swamp after dark”—was objectively the funniest choice, when Tango leaned over and kissed the side of his head.

Scott joined in a moment later, dropping his hand of cards entirely just to pull Jimmy closer between them. The room around them blurred into background noise—just laughter, music, and the occasional shriek of “WHY IS THAT FUNNY?” from Cleo.

By the time Skizz and Impulse emerged from the closet, flushed and trying to look casual, nobody was fooled. The circle erupted into cheers and teasing, and even Xisuma—who had dropped by briefly to “make sure you theatre kids don’t burn the place down”—just shook his head with a fond smile.

The night blurred into a whirlwind of bad pizza, ridiculous cards, and tangled limbs on the couch as people started to fall asleep. Skizz thought he might burst from how full his chest felt—of laughter, of relief, of Impulse’s hand brushing against his under the blanket they’d stolen.

For the first time in weeks, he didn’t feel jealous, or angry, or confused. He just felt right.

And maybe, just maybe, he wasn’t the only one.

Chapter Text

The cast party had left Skizz’s voice hoarse and his cheeks sore from laughing too hard. Spin the Bottle, Seven Minutes in Heaven, Cards Against Humanity—it was the most *chaotic* theatre kid night possible. But when the laughter faded and rides home started being called, it ended up being just him and Impulse lingering at the door, both stalling, neither wanting the night to end.

Impulse nudged him with an elbow. “So… wanna crash at my place? My parents said it’s fine.”

Skizz froze for half a second, his brain screaming *sleepover, sleepover, sleepover,* before he forced out a casual shrug. “Yeah, sure, why not? Save me the awkward mom ride.”

---

Impulse’s room was surprisingly neat for a freshman boy—band posters on the wall, a desk littered with sheet music, and the faint smell of pizza rolls. Skizz flopped onto the bed like he owned the place, grinning.

“Wow, this is where the magic happens, huh?” Skizz teased, wagging his brows.

Impulse groaned and shoved him with a pillow. “Shut *up,* man. You’re impossible.”

That started a mini pillow fight, Impulse trying to be serious while Skizz just laughed, dodging swings until they collapsed on the bed in a heap. Both of them were out of breath, shoulders pressed together in the quiet.

For a while, they just stared at the ceiling, listening to the hum of the fan. Finally, Skizz broke the silence. “So… you ever think about how weird this is? Like, we started this show just being dumb ensemble dudes, and now… this.”

Impulse tilted his head toward him. “This… as in the show, or…?”

Skizz hesitated. His heart was pounding, but he wasn’t gonna chicken out—not tonight, not after the kiss before curtain, not after the way Impulse smiled during curtain call like the whole world was lighter. He shifted closer, their shoulders bumping.

“I mean this,” Skizz whispered, before leaning in and kissing him again.

This one wasn’t rushed like backstage. It was slow, careful, almost nervous. Impulse kissed him back, hand fumbling up to grip his shirt like he didn’t want to let go.

When they finally pulled apart, Impulse chuckled softly. “You know, for a guy who picked a fight with me over a featured role, you’re kinda great at this.”

“Yeah, well,” Skizz smirked, “guess I needed to get the angst out before I could figure out I liked you.”

They laughed, the tension dissolving into something warm. Impulse got up long enough to grab a blanket, tossing it over them as they both stretched out side by side on the bed. Skizz yawned, eyes drooping.

“Hey, Skizz?” Impulse murmured, already half-asleep.

“Yeah?”

“…Glad it was you.”

Skizz didn’t answer with words—he just squeezed Impulse’s hand under the blanket until he drifted off too.